| General Fiction posted September 1, 2024 |
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Dry Gulch's Most Wanted
The Heist!
by Begin Again
In the small dusty town of Dry Gulch, population 87, folks prided themselves on knowing everyone's business. It was a quiet place where nothing much happened until the day of the General Store Heist.
According to town legend, three bad hombres camped down by the river, huddled around a makeshift campfire. The flickering light cast long shadows on their faces, and the mournful whistle of a distant train echoed through the valley.
They talked and shared their stories while listening to the cicadas hum and ate baked beans from the can.
"Did y'all see that new wanted poster in the post office?" asked Jeb, the oldest of the trio.
Tommy, with his eyes fixed on the crackling flames, shrugged. "Yeah, I saw it. Five hundred dollars for that outlaw. Someday, one of us will probably have a bounty like that on our heads."
Billy grinned — his face half-lit by the fire showed two missing teeth. "Bet it'd make a fella feel real important. Like everyone's looking for you, wondering if they could get the draw on you or end up staring down the barrel of a gun."
Jeb tossed another stick into the fire, watching the sparks rise into the night sky. "Makes you wonder what it'd be like to live that way, though — always on the run."
Tommy leaned back on his elbows with his legs stretched out before him and nodded. "You'd have to do something big to get noticed. Something folks wouldn't forget."
Billy tossed his empty tin can into the fire and took a long swallow of water from his canteen. A mischievous glint twinkled in his eye. "You know, I was browsing in the general store this afternoon. My mouth was watering somethin' fierce at all the stuff just sittin' there on the counters. I couldn't help thinkin' how easy it would be to walk in there and clear the place out."
Jeb raised an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across his face. "You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"
Tommy frowned. "You're both crazy if you think we could pull that off." He tossed another stick on the fire. "But — it sure might put us on one of them wanted posters."
Billy's grin widened. "Ain't no harm in dreaming, right?"
But as the night wore on, that dream took root. The more they talked, the more the idea seemed not just possible but inevitable. By the time the fire had burned down to embers, they had a plan that would make them legends in Dry Gulch, even if it was only for a day.
The general store, a modest building with creaky wooden floors and shelves stocked with essentials, was the heart of the town. Old Mr. Jenkins, the store clerk, spent most of his days behind the counter greeting customers or sweeping the floors.
On this particular day, the sun was beating down relentlessly, keeping most of the townsfolk inside with a glass of iced tea and a paper fan. The bell above the door jingled, signaling the arrival of a customer. Three figures stepped inside, their faces covered with dusty red bandanas and their hats pulled low over their eyes. They moved purposefully, fanning out across the store as if they'd done this a hundred times before.
Mr. Jenkins squinted at the intruders, the crinkles around his eyes deepening. "Well, now," he drawled. "What can I do for you fellas?"
The tallest of the three stepped forward, his boots clomping heavily on the floorboards. He scowled, appearing like someone who meant business. His voice, muffled by the bandana, came out gruff. "Hands up, old man! This here's a stick-up." He waved his gun at the clerk.
Mr. Jenkins raised his hands, his expression shifting from surprise to mock terror. "Now, there ain't no need for violence, boys," he said, his voice quivering just enough to seem convincing. "What is it you want?"
"The goods!" barked the shortest of the trio, his voice high and fierce. "All of 'em! And don't try anything funny!"
With a slow nod, Mr. Jenkins moved to the shelves, his hands still in the air. He gathered the goods, carefully placing them into a burlap sack. "You boys — I mean, you fellas sure you want all this?" he asked, glancing back at them as he added more to the sack.
The middle one, who seemed to be the brains of the operation, nodded sharply. "Don't talk, just pack! Jeb's got a sweet tooth."
Mr. Jenkins stuffed the sack and handed it over with a trembling hand. The leader snatched it and peered inside, his eyes widening in satisfaction. "Let's go, boys!" he ordered.
The three bandits dashed out of the store in a flash, their boots clattering on the wooden porch. They charged down the street, the sack of loot swinging wildly between them.
Their escape came to an end as they reached the edge of town. Standing there, arms crossed, and one eyebrow raised, was the sheriff—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a badge pinned to his chest and a knowing look in his eye. The gang leader skidded to a halt, his face pale beneath the shadow of his hat.
"Well, well, what do we have here?" the sheriff drawled, stern but with a hint of amusement. He stepped forward, looking down at the boys — yes, boys — barely eight years old, their bandanas slipping down to reveal wide-eyed faces.
The leader gulped. "Uh — hi, Pa."
The boys shuffled their feet, looking sheepish as they clutched the sack filled with candy —jawbreakers, licorice, and gumdrops spilling out from the top.
"I reckon you boys had a grand old time, but playtime's over. Time to return what ain't yours," the sheriff said, taking the sack from them.
Billy's shoulders slumped. "Yes, sir," he muttered.
As the sheriff led them back to the store, Mr. Jenkins stood in the doorway, chuckling softly. "Mighty fine heist you pulled off there," he teased, ruffling the boys' hair as they returned the candy.
The sheriff nodded at Mr. Jenkins. "Thanks for humoring them, Sam."
"Anytime, Sheriff," Mr. Jenkins replied with a wink. "Always happy to help keep the peace."
As the boys trudged home, heads hanging low, they couldn't help but grin a little. After all, in the wild west of Dry Gulch, they had just pulled off the greatest candy heist the town had ever seen.
According to town legend, three bad hombres camped down by the river, huddled around a makeshift campfire. The flickering light cast long shadows on their faces, and the mournful whistle of a distant train echoed through the valley.
They talked and shared their stories while listening to the cicadas hum and ate baked beans from the can.
"Did y'all see that new wanted poster in the post office?" asked Jeb, the oldest of the trio.
Tommy, with his eyes fixed on the crackling flames, shrugged. "Yeah, I saw it. Five hundred dollars for that outlaw. Someday, one of us will probably have a bounty like that on our heads."
Billy grinned — his face half-lit by the fire showed two missing teeth. "Bet it'd make a fella feel real important. Like everyone's looking for you, wondering if they could get the draw on you or end up staring down the barrel of a gun."
Jeb tossed another stick into the fire, watching the sparks rise into the night sky. "Makes you wonder what it'd be like to live that way, though — always on the run."
Tommy leaned back on his elbows with his legs stretched out before him and nodded. "You'd have to do something big to get noticed. Something folks wouldn't forget."
Billy tossed his empty tin can into the fire and took a long swallow of water from his canteen. A mischievous glint twinkled in his eye. "You know, I was browsing in the general store this afternoon. My mouth was watering somethin' fierce at all the stuff just sittin' there on the counters. I couldn't help thinkin' how easy it would be to walk in there and clear the place out."
Jeb raised an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across his face. "You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"
Tommy frowned. "You're both crazy if you think we could pull that off." He tossed another stick on the fire. "But — it sure might put us on one of them wanted posters."
Billy's grin widened. "Ain't no harm in dreaming, right?"
But as the night wore on, that dream took root. The more they talked, the more the idea seemed not just possible but inevitable. By the time the fire had burned down to embers, they had a plan that would make them legends in Dry Gulch, even if it was only for a day.
The general store, a modest building with creaky wooden floors and shelves stocked with essentials, was the heart of the town. Old Mr. Jenkins, the store clerk, spent most of his days behind the counter greeting customers or sweeping the floors.
On this particular day, the sun was beating down relentlessly, keeping most of the townsfolk inside with a glass of iced tea and a paper fan. The bell above the door jingled, signaling the arrival of a customer. Three figures stepped inside, their faces covered with dusty red bandanas and their hats pulled low over their eyes. They moved purposefully, fanning out across the store as if they'd done this a hundred times before.
Mr. Jenkins squinted at the intruders, the crinkles around his eyes deepening. "Well, now," he drawled. "What can I do for you fellas?"
The tallest of the three stepped forward, his boots clomping heavily on the floorboards. He scowled, appearing like someone who meant business. His voice, muffled by the bandana, came out gruff. "Hands up, old man! This here's a stick-up." He waved his gun at the clerk.
Mr. Jenkins raised his hands, his expression shifting from surprise to mock terror. "Now, there ain't no need for violence, boys," he said, his voice quivering just enough to seem convincing. "What is it you want?"
"The goods!" barked the shortest of the trio, his voice high and fierce. "All of 'em! And don't try anything funny!"
With a slow nod, Mr. Jenkins moved to the shelves, his hands still in the air. He gathered the goods, carefully placing them into a burlap sack. "You boys — I mean, you fellas sure you want all this?" he asked, glancing back at them as he added more to the sack.
The middle one, who seemed to be the brains of the operation, nodded sharply. "Don't talk, just pack! Jeb's got a sweet tooth."
Mr. Jenkins stuffed the sack and handed it over with a trembling hand. The leader snatched it and peered inside, his eyes widening in satisfaction. "Let's go, boys!" he ordered.
The three bandits dashed out of the store in a flash, their boots clattering on the wooden porch. They charged down the street, the sack of loot swinging wildly between them.
Their escape came to an end as they reached the edge of town. Standing there, arms crossed, and one eyebrow raised, was the sheriff—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a badge pinned to his chest and a knowing look in his eye. The gang leader skidded to a halt, his face pale beneath the shadow of his hat.
"Well, well, what do we have here?" the sheriff drawled, stern but with a hint of amusement. He stepped forward, looking down at the boys — yes, boys — barely eight years old, their bandanas slipping down to reveal wide-eyed faces.
The leader gulped. "Uh — hi, Pa."
The boys shuffled their feet, looking sheepish as they clutched the sack filled with candy —jawbreakers, licorice, and gumdrops spilling out from the top.
"I reckon you boys had a grand old time, but playtime's over. Time to return what ain't yours," the sheriff said, taking the sack from them.
Billy's shoulders slumped. "Yes, sir," he muttered.
As the sheriff led them back to the store, Mr. Jenkins stood in the doorway, chuckling softly. "Mighty fine heist you pulled off there," he teased, ruffling the boys' hair as they returned the candy.
The sheriff nodded at Mr. Jenkins. "Thanks for humoring them, Sam."
"Anytime, Sheriff," Mr. Jenkins replied with a wink. "Always happy to help keep the peace."
As the boys trudged home, heads hanging low, they couldn't help but grin a little. After all, in the wild west of Dry Gulch, they had just pulled off the greatest candy heist the town had ever seen.
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