The heist was nearly wrapped up. Inside the final train car, Colin crouched low, stuffing handfuls of bills and coin into a weathered leather bag, eyes never lingering too long on the loot. His sharp gaze swept across the terrain beyond the windows, ever watchful for the glint of a badge or the silhouette of a rifle.

“Alright boys, let’s get outta here,” he barked, voice low but firm.

A whistle pierced the night air. From the darkness, Whiskey came charging—his loyal American Thoroughbred, her black-brown coat streaked with dust and moonlight. As she kept pace with the train, Colin made his move, sprinting and vaulting cleanly onto her back. He swung the heavy sack over his shoulder and rode off into the wild, his men close behind, the sound of thundering hooves fading into the vast frontier.

⸻

Hours later, under the shadow of Cumberland Falls, the gang had set up camp. The crash of the waterfall echoed through the canyon, mingling with the raucous laughter, clinking bottles, and the off-key strum of a guitar. Colin sat with his boots up and whiskey in hand, the glow of firelight dancing across his face. The job had gone smooth, the payout was heavy, and for now, life was good.

After a while, he stepped away from the fire, needing a moment of quiet. He wandered toward the edge of the trees, unbuckling his belt with a tired sigh. But as he glanced toward the falls, something caught his eye—a flash of movement in the water.

He froze. A second later, something—or someone—tumbled over the edge, vanishing beneath the crashing foam.

“What the hell…?” he muttered.

Then a head broke the surface, flailing in the current.

“Oh fuck—” Colin hissed, zipping up fast. He tossed the whiskey bottle aside and sprinted toward the water. With one final glance, he dove in, plunging into the icy river without a second thought.