It was a perfect plan. The vault would be open and not a single guard in sight, as was so common in the small towns that had sprung up, fully formed, seemingly overnight, from the midwestern plains. It wasn’t about the money; he had been born into a wealthy family, and with skill belying his twenty-eight years had massaged his personal fortune to almost eight times his inheritance. No, it wasn’t about the money at all: it was the thrill of the experience.
As he’d expected, there was a crowd at the courthouse. He didn’t much care about the sentence–anything less than death by hanging would incite the townspeople to lynch the bastard anyway. The time was coming fast for both of them.
He stepped into the dirt street and sauntered, casually, casually, toward the clapboard facade of the bank, as the door to the courthouse opened. The murmur of the mob faded to nothing as the judge stepped behind the makeshift podium, then rose again as the sheriff and his deputies led the convicted man from the building. His eyes were already dead as he surveyed the crowd, finally resting his gaze on the lone man making his way toward the bank next door. No one paid either of them any mind as the judge cleared his throat and began, I sentence this man….
From the far side of the crowd a man’s voice screamed. You murdered my wife and daughters, you sonuvabitch! My darlings! My….
The hollow report of the shotgun blast severed the rest of the words. He watched the chained man stagger and fall to the ground, then glanced down at the grotesque liquid warmth that stained his own chest as he tumbled forward.
