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The train rattled along the tracks, swaying gently side to side as it coasted over the rolling hills and sparsely populated plains. Minho stared out the window and counted each lonely cloud dotting the big sky, but they were few and far between. Absent-mindedly, he thumbed at the cover of his brass pocket watch, flicking it open and closed with a soothing click. It didn't work anymore, not since it caught a stray bullet and saved his life, but it had become Minho's lucky charm—He wouldn't do a job like this without it. He allowed himself one glance behind him and locked eyes for a moment with his brother. He touched his thumb to the brim of his hat and returned the slightest nod.

The door separating this car from the one behind slid open, and wind whooshed in from the outside as a man bearing a rifle stepped in. Minho made sure to turn his face away, staring at a point in the mountains they'd soon disappear into. It was strange enough to see one Korean in Montana, but two seated separately in one train car would raise unneeded suspicion. He waited for the heavy booted footfalls of the guard to pass and felt the woman next to him tense up.

Her elbow brushed against Minho's arm, and he shied away at the touch, nervous she might feel what was strapped against his chest. 

The door closed as the guard moved onto the next car, and she let out a small exhale. "Pardon me," she said with an apologetic smile. Minho didn't turn to her. Facing the window, he lifted his hand to the bandana loosely slung around his neck and tugged it up over his nose, obscuring his face.

"I didn't mean to," she said, fretting. "It's just that guns make me quite nervous. You hear all these stories these days about outlaws and bandits leaving people for dead on the side of the road. My pa's friend's cousin heard about a stagecoach that was robbed just this Tuesday. He thought the train might be safer, so he—"

Minho tuned out her nervous rambling, straining to hear the signal.

"—only in the stories, I think. I reckon it's much too difficult to rob a train like this, 'specially with the guard—"

One click of the tongue. Minho's hand went inside his coat, his fingers wrapping around the pearl-inlaid handle of his revolver.

"—can't be too far to Missoula. I've never been north of Lolo. Where are you—"

Another click.

"Please move," said Minho sternly, staring towards the front of the car. He wouldn't look at the woman. Eyes were too easy to remember.

"I—I'm not quite certain you're allowed to move on these things, mister. I apologize if my chatter disturbed you. I'll keep my peace for the rest of—"

He interrupted with another order, "Move now."

A third click. His brother's voice called out steadily from the back.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is a robbery. Please remain in your seats and collect your valuables: Cash, jewelry, watches and the like. All of them go in this bag here. Are you going?"

The last bit was for Minho, who was trying to shift into the aisle, but was unable to due to the hysteric woman clinging to his arm and shrieking.

"Quiet her before that guard hears and comes back," his brother demanded.

Minho grimaced as he brought the handle of his pistol crashing down onto her temple. She crumbled in the seat, unconscious, a light trickle of blood emerging from where pressure had split the skin.

He frowned. He didn't like blood.

Wiping those red streaks off on his jacket, Minho stepped over the woman into the aisle. He kept his gaze straight ahead, unwilling to look in the eyes of any of the frightened passengers cowered on either side of him, and headed to the back of the car near his brother.

"I'll be fine," his brother said in their native language as he passed, clapping an arm on his shoulder.

"They're going to kill us!" an older woman wailed. "They're going to—"

"Quiet!" hollered Minseok, cutting her off. "Go. Now. We don't have much time. I'll see you in those mountains, alright? Now go."

Minho wanted to stay rooted to that spot, wanted to force his brother to promise him that he truly would be okay, but he knew Minseok would only say the same thing he always did, with that same sad smile.

You know I can't do that.

Instead, he slid open the door and stepped into the next compartment. He had to trust that Frank would dispatch that other guard without a fuss, and that Pete and Russell would be ready with the horses. He had to trust that what Kibum overheard about what was in the safe this train was hauling was true. He had to trust Aloysius' judgment that the payoff was worth the risk, even though they'd lost a dozen members of their gang last week to the bullet or the law.

This car was of no interest, filled with assorted crates, barrels, and other goods to be transported. Minho stuck to the shadows just in case, wary of any guards. There wasn't one here, but through the smudged pane of the window on the next door, he could make out the silhouette of a man smoking in the small space outside. A rifle was slung over his shoulder, but Minho would ensure he wouldn't have a chance to use it.

He took a deep breath and holstered his pistol. Then, he threw open the door, grabbed the man by his belt and collar, and threw him over the side of the rail. He prayed that whatever guards left at this end of the train didn't spot their compatriot tumbling in the dirt. With any luck, the fall knocked him unconscious. At the very least, the train wasn't going fast enough for that premature disembarkment to kill him. To the chagrin of some of his compatriots, Minho preferred to keep his conscience as clean as he could. He stayed outside, one hand on his hat that threatened to blow off in the wind and the other on his pistol, and spied into the next carriage until he was sure he hadn't spooked any other guards into investigating.

He proceeded cautiously. This car was similar to the last, with the exception of a sturdy black safe bolted into the floor. Minho frowned at the name of