Tom had long since composed his own funeral epithet, and had oft times imagined the glorious headlines in the far West newspapers that would report on his death and how “The Noted Road Agent, Bank Robber, Arsonist and Train Wrecker, Thomas Gage Love” has gone down in a “Hail of Shotgun Fire”. He reckoned that when they buried him, he would be so full of lead that they could sharpen his head and use it as a pencil.

This self-indulgent fantasy did not include the possibility of being shot in the back while fleeing. He pulled up his grey and dismounted the beautiful white colored animal with a quiet “Whooh, snowflake.” as she bucked against the excitement all around her. “Let’s get these fellers!” he barked at Red and Curly. Red was the important one, he was actually a good shot and toted a long Whitworth rifle along side his saddle, of the type that had scored a fair good few long distance kills during the war. It was thanks to a Whitworth that Union General Sedgwick, popping up his head over a trench at Spotsylvania, had been able to utter his famous last words: “They couldn’t hit an elephant at this dist...”

“Try not to hit the horses” Tom commanded as the other two dismounted, tied up their own animals, including Curly’s fast weakening mount, and took what cover they could as English and the pursuing two man posse approached at a fast gallop.

This was where Tom Love's basic selfishness paid off. He had let Curly and Red fire off their ammunition while he kept his powder dry, just in case the posse broke through and he had to defend himself. If he hadn't already got the gun in his hand, he would have been a dead man, but he span now in a sort of blind instinctive panic, and pulling back both triggers of the Tranter at once let off, in rapid succession, three of his remaining four bullets in the general direction of the man's voice.

God looked after Thomas Gage Love that day: His reasons we will never know, in this or any other life.

Wiping the sweat from his eyes, Love trudged over to the man, who was lying in the dust writhing and screaming in pain from the stomach wound that Tom had luckily got in. As Ryker rejoined them, he let up a call.

"Hey, English, come over here and finish this jessie off, I'm out of bullets" he lied. But Jay didn't move fast enough for the 'noted highwayman'.

"Come on, will ya, he's crying and carrying on like a little girl. This yowling's startin' to get my goat."

The man continued to combine screams of agony, with vain pleading for his life as Tom stood over him with a look of mild annoyance on his face.

"Doesn't look deadly to me. If you want to finish him off do it yourself."

Tom looked at Jay’s proffered gun. Instead of taking it, he just grinned a sardonic smile. “You disappoint me, Mr. Ryker, you disappoint me something powerful. And it sure breaks my heart every time you do.” With that, he turned, raised his own gun and fired his remaining bullet into the injured man’s head at a close enough range for it to enter his forehead, pass through the cranium, and exit out the back of the skull in such a way that it made the man’s head jerk up in a way that tickled the executioner.

“He he, look at that, right between the eyes!” Tom laughed, as he holstered his now empty revolver.

Curly and Red had arrived in the meantime. Red's eyes narrowed at Jay as he hissed something that Jay couldn't hear.

Tom ignored this and turned his attention to Curly now. “Mr. Howard, will you please shoot your horse, that poor thing is suffering something awful.” Love couldn’t bear to see animals in distress.

Love was deep in thought about horses, more than anything. It was unfortunate that his plan to kill the pursuing posse and take their horses had proven fruitless. True to form, Red had dispatched the first two men neatly with his Whitworth, but the horses had run off back to Whitefish like a couple of homing pigeons. No way they were chasing them critters, the town was two hot for them now, and it would only be with some reluctance that the gang would hit the town two months later, on the day of the infamous 12th December Storm, in search of food and ready cash.

The Englishman stormed up to the mounted leader of the band, on foot, and looked to be in something of a passion.

"You killed two men today without reason, you murderous bast@rd."

Tom looked a little blank and shrugged “Only ‘cause you was too chicken to do it.”

Next thing Jay grabbed Thomas, yanked him off his horse and punched him in the nose.

The combination of the fall from the horse and the smashing blow to his face sent Tom’s thin consumptive figure flying and he blacked out but landing in the adjacent creek woke him up again pretty quickly. He looked a sorry figure sitting up in the water, blood streaming from his nose. Lifting a wan hand and touching his nose, he let out a pained shout. “Ow!”

He looked up at the furious Jay, standing at the thin stream’s edge. “What d’ya do that for?!” he asked, although, technically, Ryker had explained his reasons.

Red and Curly had managed to dismount – always tricky when you were piggybacking on the same horse. Curly looked bemused by it all and Red had his revolver out in case there was more trouble between the two of them. Still, if one of them had killed the other, at least there would be enough horses to go around.

Holding onto his nose to stop the bleeding, Tom used his other hand in the swift flowing water to help himself up onto his feet, steadying himself on the uneven bed of the creek. He looked down at his soaking wet trousers “Hey, Red, I look like that there feller in the bank!” he observed before looking at Jay and advising him “If you’re coming in here to try and hit me some more, I’d take yer boots off. We’re gonna have a devil of a time drying out these doin’s in this weather.”

"I'm not gettin' my boots wet for ya!" He shouted. "You either sit in there and freeze or face me like a man out here." To the two behind him, who he didn't even look at, he said. "Put that gun away."

Tom Love bent forward and rested his hands on his knees for a second and then straightened up laughing gently to himself.

“They won’t put their guns away, English.” He shook his head, the feller just didn’t get it. “You said it yourself, I’m a disgrace as a leader. I’M A DISGRACE!” he shouted, spreading his arms wide to the heavens, his shout echoing in the trees.

“But I’m a leader.”

He started to trudge toward the bank.

"Red's a better shot; Curly's got the ... the gravitas. I'm just a clerk in a dry goods store who had to leave Boston because he strangled some low down filthy whore who tried to put her dirty, diseased hands on him. Boy, did I just say that out loud? Well, anyways. I'm almost as bad a shot as you, English. Not much account on a horse, run like a jackrabbit when the shooting starts; oh, I'm ... I'm just full o' holes."

He was almost there.

"But, still and all, when I took to this game I discovered one strange and immutable fact... I am a leader."

He snapped out a command. “Red, cover him; Curly, tie him up for now.” He started to scrabble up onto dry land gingerly touching his nose to see if it was still bleeding. “Just about broke my God damned nose!” he muttered as he grabbed for a tree branch that wilted down to the water’s edge.

“’Face me like a man’! idiot’s been reading too many dime novels.”