Jack awoke to the pale light of dawn filtering through the thin curtains of his room. The dreams of the night before still clung to him, like a lingering mist that refused to lift. He sat up, running a hand through his hair as he tried to shake off the unease that had settled over him. Today was the day he would see Sam again, face-to-face. The thought filled him with a mixture of dread and anticipation.
He dressed quickly, his movements practiced and efficient, a result of years of living on the road. He strapped on his gun belt, the familiar weight of the revolver against his hip providing a small measure of comfort. As he checked the chamber, spinning it to ensure it was fully loaded, he couldn't help but think back to the last time he had seen Sam.
It had been years—too many to count—but the memory was still fresh in his mind. They had parted ways after the war, each going their own direction, but the bond they had formed in the heat of battle had never truly been broken. Jack had thought about Sam often over the years, wondering what had become of him, but he had never expected their paths to cross again.
But here they were, drawn together by fate or circumstance, on the dusty streets of Red Creek.
Jack left the boarding house, nodding to the innkeeper as he passed through the small, dimly lit lobby. Outside, the town was beginning to stir, the early risers going about their morning routines. A few women were sweeping their front porches, while a man led a mule-drawn cart loaded with supplies down the main street. The air was cool, carrying the scent of fresh bread from the bakery down the road.
Jack made his way to the edge of town, where the trail leading to the old mining camp began. It was a path he had traveled before, long ago, and his feet seemed to find the way on their own. The camp was several miles out, nestled in the hills that rose to the north of Red Creek, a relic of the gold rush that had long since passed.
The trail wound through the hills, narrow and treacherous in places, but Jack knew the land well. He kept his pace steady, his eyes scanning the surrounding terrain for any signs of movement. This was bandit country, after all, and a man could never be too careful.
As he neared the camp, the landscape began to change. The hills grew steeper, the trees denser, and the path more rugged. The air was cooler here, carrying the scent of pine and earth. Jack could hear the distant sound of water, a small creek that ran through the valley below, a lifeline for the wildlife that called these hills home.
The camp itself was hidden from view until Jack was almost upon it. The old wooden shacks and rusted mining equipment were scattered haphazardly across the clearing, the remnants of a once-thriving operation. Now, it was a ghost town, abandoned and forgotten, the silence broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind.
Jack slowed his horse as he entered the clearing, his eyes scanning the area for any signs of life. He knew Sam would be here—he could feel it in his bones—but the question was, in what state would he find him? The letter had been cryptic, hinting at trouble, but Jack knew better than to take things at face value. Sam had always been a man of many layers, and he wasn't one to show his hand until the last possible moment.
A flicker of movement caught Jack's eye, and he turned to see a figure emerging from one of the shacks. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, with a familiar swagger in his step. As he drew closer, Jack could see the years etched into his face—lines of weariness and scars that told the story of a life lived on the edge.
"Jack," the man said, his voice rough and gravelly, as if it hadn't been used in a while. "It's been a long time."
"Sam," Jack replied, dismounting and leading his horse toward the man. "It has."
The two men stood there for a moment, sizing each other up, as if trying to reconcile the images in their minds with the reality before them. Sam had changed—grown older, grayer—but there was still a fire in his eyes, a spark of the man Jack had once known.
"Didn't think I'd ever see you again," Sam said, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Didn't think I'd be back," Jack replied, his tone guarded.
Sam nodded, as if he understood. "A lot's changed since you left. Hell, a lot's changed since I wrote that letter."
Jack studied Sam's face, searching for clues. There was something different about him, something that hadn't been there before. A hardness, a desperation, that hadn't been there when they'd last parted ways.
"So, what's this all about, Sam?" Jack asked, cutting to the chase. "Why now?"
Sam's expression darkened, and he looked away, as if gathering his thoughts. "I wouldn't have asked you to come if it wasn't serious," he said finally. "There's a job—one last job—and I need you on it."
Jack's heart sank. He had suspected as much, but hearing the words still felt like a punch to the gut. He had tried to leave this life behind, tried to put the war and the violence behind him. But here it was, pulling him back in.
"What kind of job?" Jack asked, his voice flat.
"A big one," Sam said, his eyes gleaming with something that could have been excitement or madness. "Biggest we've ever pulled. Enough to set us up for life."
Jack shook his head. "I'm not interested in getting rich, Sam. I've seen enough blood spilled over gold to last a lifetime."
Sam's gaze hardened, and for a moment, Jack saw a glimpse of the man he had once followed into battle without question. "This isn't just about money, Jack. It's about payback. About settling old scores."
Jack felt a chill run down his spine. He had heard that tone before, seen that look in Sam's eyes. It was the same look he had seen during the war, when Sam had been pushed to the brink, driven by a need for revenge that bordered on obsession.
"Who's the target?" Jack asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.
"Horace Fletcher," Sam said, the name dripping with venom. "He's the one who's been bleeding this town dry. Took everything from me. From us."
Jack knew the name. Horace Fletcher was a powerful man, a land baron with his fingers in every pot from Red Creek to the capital. He was ruthless, cunning, and untouchable—or so he liked to think.
"This is suicide, Sam," Jack said, his voice low. "You know that, right?"
Sam's eyes blazed with a fierce determination. "Maybe. But it's the only way. The only way to make things right."
Jack wanted to argue, to tell Sam to let it go, to walk away before it was too late. But he knew his words would fall on deaf ears. Sam was too far gone, too consumed by his need for vengeance to see reason.
"I'm not asking you to do this for me," Sam said, his voice softening. "I'm asking you to do it for yourself. For everything we lost. For everything they took from us."
Jack looked at Sam, seeing the weight of years and regrets in his eyes. He knew that if he walked away now, he would never see Sam again. This was a crossroads, a point of no return, and whichever path he chose would change the course of his life forever.
"Alright," Jack said finally, his voice resigned. "I'm in. But we do this my way. No more surprises."
Sam nodded, a look of relief washing over his face. "Agreed. We meet the others tomorrow. You'll see—they're good men. This will work, Jack. I promise you."
Jack didn't respond. He simply nodded, though doubt gnawed at him. The road ahead was fraught with danger, and he knew that nothing in this life ever went according to plan. But for now, he would follow Sam, one last time, into the heart of darkness.
As they made their way back to town, the shadows lengthened around them, and Jack couldn't shake the feeling that they were walking into a trap—one laid by fate itself.