Sundown

                  By

              R. A. Scarborough 

The reporter had been waiting patiently for the nurse to let him in after hours; it was the only way to see him. His interviewee was over a hundred years old and was rumored that he knew Jesse James and a few others during the 1800s. That and it was a very slow news day so he was sent to interview this guy. He walked into the room, and sitting up in bed was a thin, bald man, IV tubes and heart monitors were connected to him like a living power conductor. After a few minutes the patient coughed and peered up from bleary eyes, and with a free-floating fear. “Hi, I’m Bill, I’ll be interviewing you for the paper.” A slow nod and slight smile came across his face. “I’m Nate,” he whispered, “Nate Smith.” His voice got clearer as he focused on something in a corner. “I suppose I should begin by telling you I’m not really Nate Smith.” He wheezed, and began to speak again. The reporter began to wonder if this guy had lost his mind but he stayed anyway.

“My real name is Sam Mercer; I was a member of the Cactus Hill gang, in the year 1817, we robbed our way across California, Nevada, and Arizona.” He wheezed for a moment and continued, “We had gotten the attention of a U.S. Marshall; a man named Diablo, no one ever got away from him.” 

     A gang of four outlaws were out to make a name for them in the old west. They had banded together not just out of protection but also due to their contacts; the twins could get weapons, another was an ex-lawman and knew the routes his former compatriots would take. The only wildcard was the fourth man, always having something to prove, never above killing; it didn’t matter if you were law or not. He would get them all killed eventually, it was a matter of time. They were all average looking, the former lawman had an unmistakable English drawl which seemed out of place with the rest of them, and he was also older and less interested in using his gun. They rode through towns and left trails of terror and blood wherever they went, and eventually they were called the horsemen of death. In a town in east Texas it began as another crime wave; they went in, fired a few shots and rode to the bank. As they rode up the kid saw an old Indian standing there, he had watched them come into town and intentionally stood in the way. “Move it old man!” the kid demanded and pulled his gun, one shot and the Indian was down. The gang stepped over the body and robbed the bank and didn’t notice the body was missing as they left and rode away.