Two tanned and unshaven men accompanied each other around a smoldering campfire in an arid wasteland. To the east was nothing but cacti and lost dreams. Somewhere, a tumbleweed was brushing past an old ox skull. To the west was their next target. The “Infamous” Dirty Dave Piggins, as he liked to call himself, laid on his back, a flask resting at his side. One foot was drumming to the melody of some ragtime tune he heard in the last town’s saloon. The spur made a pleasant jingle with each tap.

They had camped on the outskirts of town for a week, taking turns going out and pillaging what meager food they could find from the surrounding farms. Only a couple of days were needed for preparation, but Dave had enjoyed the ambiance. The haunting whistle as the wind flowed through the canyons calmed him.

“So, let’s go over this one more time,” said Gregory, Dave’s lackey of the month. He sat rigidly, staring nervously into the dim flames, which reflected off his meticulously clean spectacles. His hair was always neatly combed and taken care of. Dave wished Greg would just keep his mouth shut. He didn’t need the constant questioning and doubts.

“Dammit, Greg,” Dave croaked before eating a spoonful of peyote from a jar he kept in his saddlebag, along with a box of .45 Long Colt bullets, a bag of rolling tobacco, and a can of beans he had been saving. His voice was hoarse from all the years of smoking and malnutrition. “I told ya more’n I can even count.”

“No, I know, I just don’t want anything to go wrong.”

“Step one. We’re goin’ inta town. We go inta the bank.”

Greg grunted in understanding.

“Step two. Wait, no, this is before step one. Yer gonna strap a bomb ta yer chest.”

“Why do I have to be the bomb guy? Can’t you do it?”

Questions, questions, questions. Maybe Dave should have kept his last crony. Bishop never asked questions. Sadly, it was not a possibility. Dave never had a partner for more than seven heists. This was lucky number seven for Greg.

“Why, cuz I’ll be the one restrainin’ everyone and whatnot,” Dave replied, “We don’t want any heroes. Ya ain’t got the eyes ta watch everyone. Big town, ya know. Big bank.”

“But, we’ve never used TNT before.”

“Like I said, big town. There’s bound ta be alotta lawmen. They’ll be less likely ta shoot ya if ya got a bomb.” Dave clapped a reassuring hand on Greg’s shoulder “Don’t worry, pal. We’re gonna be richer’n ya thought possible in just a few hours.”

Dave was being unusually friendly tonight. Greg thought Dave was just giddy at the prospect of making so much money. Dave rolled two cigarettes and offered one to Greg. Greg declined.

As the sun was setting, the two bandits saddled and mounted their horses. The bank would close in about half an hour. It would be emptiest right before closing, and the bankers would be opening the safe soon, putting away all the funds for the night.

Old Ugly Buffalo, population six hundred and fourteen plus one. Main street held a barber shop (which Greg had insisted on visiting during their first casing of the bank), a general store (which Dave had insisted on shoplifting some tobacco from), a saloon, jail, post/telegram office, hotel, and of course the bank. Two old men would sit on the stoop of the hotel and squeeze the asses of the whores who constantly went in and out. A blind Negro walked up and down the road, scrounging for change.

They rode into town. Greg frequently adjusted the dynamite tied around him, as it would constantly drop. Dave made them stop to make sure the explosives were firmly secured. As they drew closer to the bank, Dave began to hum Ride of the Valkyries, like he always did when he was planning bloodshed. They hopped off of their horses and tied them to a post. Greg went ahead. Dave untied Greg’s horse before following.

“Alright, everybody get on the floor!” Greg shouted, revealing the bombs underneath his duster. Several people screamed. Within a few moments, everyone was on the ground, save for one man who tried to reach for his gun before Dave fired with his trusty six-shooter, The Desperado. He didn’t know what the name meant, it just sounded bad. It looked even more bad. Nickel plated, with an ivory handle engraved with an image of an Indian chief in a ceremonial headdress. Dave found it fitting, since Natives were his favorite thing to shoot.

Greg made his way to the rear, hopping over the counter and vanishing into the vault, then returned two minutes later with several bags full of money.

“Alright, let’s get out of here” Greg said, handing a bag to Dave.

Dave let Greg run past him, so that his back was to Dave. Dave fired a bullet into Greg’s spine. Dave’s accomplice hit the ground, screaming in agony.

“Why?” Greg said

“Shut yer mouth,” Dave said, reaching into his pocket for a lighter, “Stay still.”

“Bastard”

The bandit grinned widely, revealing his rotten, blackened teeth. “Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”

Dave flicked his lighter, then put the flame to the fuse of the dynamite. Grabbing all the money bags, he began to jog outside of the bank. As he mounted his horse, he heard a loud boom from inside the bank. Satisfied, he rode away. Time to get outta Dodge, wherever that was. Greg needed a successor. Someone without ideas of his own. Maybe Dirty Dave would let the guy stick around this time. Who the hell was he kidding? That wouldn’t be dirty.