Love was just sad that he couldn’t just sit and enjoy the spectacle of the fight, Red and Curly’s attempts to tackle the Englishman were hilariously pathetic, and the limey was proving to be quite the rough and tumble man. It’s a pity that he hadn’t shown this much gumption when they were about their daily business of relieving decent society of their valuables.

But he was a busy man, he had things to do: get out of the stream, find his bullets, make sure they were dry, refill the five empty chambers in his gun, click it shut. He still had time to sit himself down on the ground and witness the lithe Jay deposit the rotund Curly into a bush, which was about the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

The battling Briton didn’t look too amused though.

"Stop fighting for him. This is between me and Tom....let him fight his own fights!" He tried to make them understand.”

“Fighting?!” Tom shook his head in mock amazement at the term “That was fighting? Why, I took it fer a circus act, the way you were tossing those boys around. Pretty nice performance, too, Ringling Brothers and Barnum ‘n’ Bailey are sure gonna be fighting over you fellers.” He laughed as he raised the Tranter at Jay and pulled back the cocking trigger.

“Now will you please, kindly put up your hands, Mr Ryker?”

Struggling against the tight rope, Jay kept yelling. "Fight me, you coward!"

Tom sighed wearily. “Oh, all right.” He rolled his eyes and threw his gun down. He figured it wouldn’t fire anyway. “Just let me take m’ jacket off, ‘n’ do this proper, he offered “Marquis of Queensbury rules. You should know them, being an Englishman.”

It was something of a bizarre situation with the ponderous weight of Curly keeping the roped Jay from getting too close to Love, and the latter took his time: slipping off his jacket and deftly removing the evil looking knuckle dusters from the pocket and secretly slipped them onto his left hand, for in line with his sinister nature, the man was a southpaw.

“Right, you know the rules?” he asked blithely, and before Jay could reply, threw a metal capped left hook towards the Englishman’s head, swiftly followed by a well-aimed, pointy toed kick to the testicles.

“Don’t you think that’s enough, Tom?”

The qualities that had made Red such an effective marksman when he’d served under Braxton Bragg in the Army of the Mississippi came to the fore now. He didn’t shoot often, but when he did, he always picked the right place, the right time, and the right ammunition.

Tom reeled. “Who the f**k asked you?!” but Red carried on steadfastly in his quiet way.

“Well, you said yerself, we need the Englsihman for the big job in Kalispell, come Spring” and then, to show he wasn’t completely taking Ryker’s side, even if he really was, he admonished him a little, too. “And Ryker, you threw yer punch and made yer feelin’s clear. No need fer more. All this fightin between us, it ain’t practical and it ain’t followin’ the code.”

The code of behavior between the members of an outlaw band was sort of unwritten, and really never spoken of, Red was embarrassed to have to do so now. But when that ethereal, unmentioned code broke down, like it was breaking down now, it usually spelled the demise of the gang, no matter how successful, and some of the members usually ended up killing each other or getting caught.

In one notable case, it ended with all of the members killing each other in a crazy standoff, but the melancholy tale of the Bruce–Partington gang is not ours.

“Well I ain’t ridin’ around with this skunk ready to take a pot shot at me whenever I look at him cross-eyed!” complained the eponymous leader of the Thomas Gage Love Gang.

“Well, you said yerself, Tom, that after this job we should split up for a couple of months and regroup around Christmas.”

“Tenth of December” corrected Tom, perhaps to show he was still in charge, although he did seem strangely inclined to listen to the veteran outlaw’s advice , rather than to carry on crushing Jay’s skull with the brass knuckles.

“Well, let’s split the money and do that now. And if any of us doesn’t turn up at the meeting place, well, no hard feelings.” He nodded at his own advice, while the slavish Curly looked to Tom as to how to proceed.

It was bizarre that the ruthless killer Love seemed willing to listen to this idea more than the furious looking Englishman.

“What do you say, English?” asked Red, evenly.

"Your secret rules are worth a damn if the boss doesn't smaren up."

He answered Red but kept glaring at his target.

Tom didn’t deign to answer this but sat down on the ground and started to take his boots off, they were full of water and would take a heap of drying out.

“They ain’t secret so much as most fellers just sorta pick em up without bein’ told.” explained Red gently. For someone who had just wantonly shot dead two Sheriff's deputies, he was a mine of sound advice and calm instruction. He would have made a good leader except for one very basic factor: he had absolutely no wish to be.

"Well, let’s just jaw on this peaceable like.” he continued, while Tom, now bootless, removed his soaking wet trousers. “Now, English, what exactly do you object to in the …” he was sure there was a better word for this but as a rather uneducated sort of a man, he had to do with what he had at hand “… the dooins of ol’ Tom there.”

"By killing innocent people he's putting a big fat reward on all of our mugs. He wants a name , a nice big headline...Thomas Love, the ruthless outlaw is in town....and he's getting it but at the cost of our freedom. They'll be after us for this."

He finally spelled it out why he was so angry.

“Thomas Gage Love” corrected the pantless leader as he looked around for some dry kindling to try and start a good fire to dry their things out while they divided the loot from the bank. He stood up from the stooping of his twig hunting. “It looks finer in print that way.” he smiled with a slightly distant look, imagining the headlines. He’d had two headlines in a local newspaper so far:

A month before Jay had joined the gang, the Helena Independent had shouted out: “Mail Coach Robbed! Two Killed! Thomas G. Louve named as Perpetrator!”

This was followed, a week later by “Notorious Road Agent and Murderer Thomas Gage Love writes Helena Independent: Corrects Spelling mistakes!”

Not too auspicious a start, admittedly, but he was pretty sure that this latest outrage would do the trick. Oh, but that whining limey was still complaining and a-fussing.

Finally he adressed the man himself after spitting on the ground. "That job isn't going to happen unless you get smart. They'll have the cavalry waiting for us."

Red was worried for a second, the idea of the gang fighting off a detachment of the U.S. Cavalry was just the sort of thing to appeal to the publicity mad outlaw’s fancy, but Tom sighed and threw down the little bundle of twigs he’d gathered. Standing in his long johns and stocking feet, he put his left hand on his heart and held up the two fingers of his right hand.

“Very well.” He rolled his eyes “I Thomas Gage Love, notorious highwayman, bank robber, mail coach robber, murderer and general violator of the Laws of the United States of America and especially of the Territories of Montana and Dakota, do solemnly swear, in the sight of God Almighty, who created us all, that I shall cease, desist and stop all killing of innocent folks, up until and including our proposed Kalispell bank job. This here, er…”

“Promise?” suggested Red.

“Oath!” improved Curly.

“This here oath to be reviewed, upon completion of said job.” He finished. This was quite a concession, seeing as he’d only really become an outlaw for the killing and the fame. He shrugged at Jay: “You happy now? Well, if so, can one of you dryer fellers find a Lucifer to git this fire lit?”

Red was relieved that the tension seemed to ease thanks to his great interference. So he nodded. "I will...after you shake hands!"

Jay shot him and angry glare. That was really too much. "You're pushing it, Red." He warned him. The guy could be glad that the outlaws hadn't settled their differences with their guns.

Tom smirked at Red’s proposal and at Jay’s short fuse igniting again. Boy, that feller’d gotten out of bed the wrong side this mornin’. “Oh that don’t matter” he called to Red as he made himself a little stand out of a branch to spread his clothes on beside the spluttering smokey fire that, with the help of a match from Curly, was starting to grow into life. “A gentleman’s word is his bond, eh English?”

When Tom was a little boy and had gone to school in his sailor outfit and straw hat, he had often noticed that two boys who fell to fighting each other, oft times became firm friends afterwards. This was just an observation, of course, not first-hand experience. Little Tom had started many fights in the playground, but actually taken part in none of them; he much preferred standing on the side-lines, snickering at two boys beating hell out each other, just because of a few vile words that he himself had poured into the ear of one or other of the combatants.

Well, that was maybe, but it didn’t look like Jay suddenly wanted to be bosom pals with him, so he trudged over and grabbed the loot bags and hefted them over to the now crackling camp fire.

“Come on boys, let’s see what we got.” Unlike most gangs, Tom didn’t take a bigger share than the rest, he wasn't in it for the money. On the other hand, if there was some trinket that he took a liking to, it was best not to lay a claim to it.