Every night in the gang was the same, unless it was the night after a party. The fire was turned down a bit, leaving only the embers to crackle in a small fire pit surrounded by rocks, casting a dim orange light on the logs around it, Pearson covering the food with old sheets and putting away the cooking utensils, Grimshaw watching carefully to make sure no one left bottles on the ground.

One of the gang grabbed a rifle and, leaving the rest to doze in peace, walked around the camp grounds, listening carefully for any noises around, to protect the others from a raid by the O'Driscolls or, even worse, the lawmen.

Today was one of those times. Javier, already accustomed to night duty, walked nearby, holding the gun close to his chest. The cool night breeze rustled the grass at his feet, causing him to take a deep breath and exhale long, almost enjoying the smell of the night, and the damp air, next to the lake on the Clemens Point. The chirping of crickets, the gentle ripple of the water and the faint rustling of leaves - almost a monotonous white noise, calmed the man to some extent.

Until he heard the sounds of familiar footsteps behind him, from the direction of one of the tents, and turned around.

"Sleepless night?" - a thick Mexican accent filled his speech, as a knowing smile almost formed on his chapped lips when he looked at you.