Jonathan didn't fear any one of them, but as a whole, they were deadlier than anything and anyone else in the area, and he respected their power. He dared never to cross them. The bandits sought to take whatever they wanted, and their only other goal—exact revenge. Every person who had ever crossed them had been hunted and killed, and still the bandits roamed the roads.
A high-pitched whistle jerked Jonathan alert. Butch flicked his head, and everyone sat up straighter. A single man on a Conestoga wagon rolled their way, pulled by four draft horses.
The bandits broke formation to surround the unsuspecting farmer, and within moments, the victim, mouth gaped and eyes wide, slowed his horses to a stop.
"What is all this?" he asked, head craning around in alarm. He reached down by his hidden feet, and the bandit to his left, Ruddy, spoke up. "Not so fast there. Hands where we can see 'em."
A pair of trembling hands raised toward the clear sky. The farmer was wise in his surrender. Butch lacked, among many things, respect for human life and patience for weakness. Brawley and Nash climbed up the back of the wagon.
"Woohoo! Boss, we are lucky today!" Brawley shouted.
Fingers maneuvered his horse next to the men and opened his saddle bags. Fruits and vegetables were tossed in the air. Some landed in Fingers's bags, some he caught, but many fell onto the ground.
The bandits were swimming in money, so it only made sense they'd have the best weapons, which meant no flintlocks. Butch's preference was for a pair of revolvers, being the best in accuracy, and his second favorite was a rifle for the distance. Right now, Butch only gripped one pistol while keeping a sharp eye on everyone's movements.
Jonathan held his twelve-gauge butted against his shoulder. His job—backup. Butch had never asked him to do any of the thieving directly, and this time was no exception. Jonathan wondered about their trust, but he was content to be involved as little as possible. Jonathan wasn't the thieving type, and the irony wasn't lost on him.
Ruddy climbed up the wagon and searched the farmer for more pickings.
"Hey, stop. What are you doing?" the farmer pleaded.
Ruddy lifted a sack and tossed it to Butch, whose quick eye caught it. He opened it, and a crooked smile crossed his lips.
"Nice haul, fellas. We've got five dollars a-piece here."
"Aye, boss. That's sam-tooten good," Nash said, poking his head out the back of the wagon. "Boss, catch."
Nash threw a fruit to Butch. He inspected the pilfered offering and bit down on what Jonathan saw was a ripe onion. There's something about a man whose taste buds were so broken that a raw onion was more savory than an apple.
Five dollars Jonathan would earn from this—a week's worth of wages had he maintained a paying job, rather than the farm. Oh, his parents would never have entertained the idea of Jonathan doing anything but farming. It was what his parents did and their parents before them. Jonathan didn't mind his path being laid out for him. It was all he knew—besides running with the bandits. And after his half-a-year experience, he'd rather be on the farm—hard labor or not.
But he no longer had that choice now.
The victim shook in his trousers with Jonathan's firearm trained on his chest. Ruddy ransacked the poor man's person, while Nash and Brawley cleared out more than they could carry from the farmer's stash, leaving food crushed on the ground.
"That's it for this mark," Ruddy said with a big grin on his face and tipped his hat to the frightened farmer. Ruddy jumped down and mounted his horse. The two men in the back left the wagon, laughing and slapping palms together.
A gunshot cracked in Jonathan's ears. He blinked. And blinked again. Mouths moved, but he heard nothing except for deafening rings screaming down his ear canals. The ringing faded and horses stomped and neighed with agitation. Bandits craned their necks in confusion.
The farmer slumped over, and a pistol fell from his hand.
With a frown etched on his forehead, Butch blew the thin trail of smoke from his Colt and holstered it in his saddle bag. "Keep your eye on the mark, Johnny. Next time it'll be your head."
Jonathan nodded, a response stuck in his throat. If Butch hadn't been paying attention, Jonathan could've had his head blown off. The leader's threat was loud and clear, but pointless. If Jonathan did miss the next threat, then it didn't matter if Butch shot him.
Distraction was deadly around the bandits.
"Money's up," Butch said. His four men mounted and formed a circle around Butch. Jonathan joined them.
The leader dished out their earnings. Jonathan pocketed his share, and Fingers tossed him an apple. Jonathan turned it over in his hand while he glanced back at the smashed food and corpse left behind. On the farm, whatever food was left over after the season ended was stored for winter consumption and any excess was sold to continue operations in the spring. With the draught for the last several growing seasons, having enough to survive the winter was a constant worry. Seeing the waste pummeled on the ground turned Jonathan's stomach.
"It ain't been poisoned. What's the delay? Teeth fall out?" Nash teased.
"Just inspecting it for blood," Jonathan said, only half serious.
"Well that don' make sense. Fingers's bags been filled before the farmer lost his head."
Jonathan nodded at the slip over Nash's head and reluctantly bit off a hunk of red flesh.
"Butch, mind if I call it a day?" Jonathan asked. "The farm needs tending to."
"Your exception is going to end. You'll join us all in or be out for good. Fix your affairs." Butch narrowed his eyes and sucked through his teeth. "Dismissed."
Jonathan nodded and kicked his horse into a trot southbound toward Astor. Someday soon he'd have to run with them full time to prove his loyalty. He'd have no choice, but no one ever left the bandits and lived. Jonathan heard about the things they did when the sun departed the sky, and he wanted no part of those shenanigans.