The broken rogue - healed by innocence

Fortune, Texas 1891 I am River Crow, rogue wolf and renegade bandit. For as long as I can remember, the name has swirled like a gray mist at the edge of my memories. Hauntingly familiar, but elusive. I can't comprehend its significance or understand why it hovers just beyond my grasp. It is the name I chose to use the night I died. It suits my purposes well. It doesn't hint at my beloved heritage, family, or roots. No one associates the name with me. Only my family knows what I look like. As far as the world is concerned, the naive, trusting pup I once was is long dead. The man who has risen up from the depths of hell to take my place instills terror within those who dare to whisper my name. Some believe I am Diablo, others think I am a phantom. How close they all are to touching the truth. My charred soul makes me hollow throughout, merely a shell of what I once was. Standing in the bank, surrounded by a shroud of darkness, I acknowledge once again that only fools wallow in a past that cannot be changed. I have chosen my path, fully understanding its consequences. Given the choice, I would choose to follow that road again. Calmness settles over me as I press my ear against the cool metal door of the bank vault. In the dim light cast by the low flame in my lantern, I concentrate on the task at hand. My first order of business upon entering the bank was to hang blankets over the windows so no light escaped into the night. The covering also prevents the soft glow of the street's gaslights from silhouetting any activities within the building. I find modernized towns to be a thoroughly aggravating nuisance. I rub my thumb across my fingertips before flexing my fingers repeatedly. Taking a deep breath and holding it, I very slowly turn the dial with practiced ease, listening intently for the audible click. I still as the first set of tumblers falls into place. I rotate the dial in the opposite direction. The tumblers immediately drop, and I freeze. They think they can trick me. Obviously, they don't have a clue as to exactly how accomplished I am. I turn the dial until I hear the final clink. Smiling with satisfaction, I unfold my lean body, crank down the handle, and swing open the door to the vault. I step aside, a gallant wave of my hand serving as an invitation to those who've stolen into the bank with me. "Hombres." "I don't know how you do that," Joaquín whispers reverently as he peers cautiously into the dark cavern. "I am a man of many talents," I assure my brother with a slap on his broad back. Slightly older, Joaquín does not possess my relentless resolve for revenge. Lingering within death's shadow, he had not witnessed everything that I did that fateful night. It is one thing to hear of all that had happened. It is another to have the images emblazoned on his memory, to hear forever the anguished cries and unacknowledged pleas for mercy, to always see the glistening blood. Too damned much blood. "Get the money." "How much do we take?" Thiago asks with his typical reckless eagerness. At eighteen, he is the youngest of the group. He worships the scent of retribution only because he cannot forget the rancid odor of defeat. "Two thousand two hundred ninety-nine dollars and thirty-seven cents," I tell them. Joaquín groans. "Can't we just make it an even twenty-three hundred?" "No. That is not how much Slade put in the bank," I explain as I do each time we visit a vault. "Why do you think he chose this particular bank?" Tomás asks. Older than Thiago, not as old as Joaquín, he is always solemn, always inquisitive. "It is far from his ranch." I shrug, feigning disinterest. No reason to worry my brothers with the truth. The farther we are from home, the more likely Slade's henchmen can capture us. I am surprised that we have had only one man skulking in the shadows like the vermin he is to subdue outside the building. Slade tends to surround himself with minions similar to himself, rabid animals who take with no thought of giving. The other men he has hired are no doubt sleeping the night away in the hotel, their failure to protect the money to be reckoned with come dawn. "The bastard is trying to find a safe haven for his money, but as long as I live, no such place exists." I jerk my head toward the vault. "Andale." My jangling spurs disturbingly loud, I stride confidently across the bank, the only other sound being the muffled hush as my brothers quickly fill their burlap sacks. When I reach the bank president's desk, I pull the stopper off the inkwell. I retrieve a piece of paper from a nearby stack and dip a pen into the black ink. I hastily scribble a message similar to the dozen I have left in other banks. $2299.37 has been withdrawn from the account of Jedidiah Slade, compliments of... With a flourish, I scrawl my signature. River Crow. I pluck a Crow's feather from the leather band encircling my black Stetson and position it directly below my name. My calling card. Arrogant, I know, but it ensures no one else pays the price I owe for my crimes.