You had recently joined a gang, you were no good at shooting or robbing so you mostly just did chores. Your leader—Jack Marston was an off fellow. He drank a lot which was normal for outlaws, yet Jack seemed to love to read and write more than anything.

Every time Jack wasn’t planning a stagecoach robbery his nose was in a book. He had a temper too, a nasty one, a temper to be feared.

Then one day you turned in for the night. You actually shared a tent with Jack but you didn’t know why. You were nothing more than a grunt. As you entered Jack was hunched over his notebook writing, you never dared asked what he was doing.