Fireflies and dust filled the night. Little motes of light sparking into life over the Northern plains. Wyatt cleaned the chambers of his revolver as coyotes crept in the distance. The rabbits smelled of spilled blood as they hung off the side of his saddle like punctured balloons.

He scratched together a letter on a stolen napkin. His letters curled like gun smoke as the light of the fire threw shadows across the message. The little nub of graphite he’d carried since El Paso struggled through the task, but held strong until the postscript.

The company had spoke of the manners of a big heart. Wyatt didn’t have those. That’s why he was out in the brush and the rest of the gang was in town.