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Silas had only one thought on his mind: this was going to be his final heist. After this, he would retreat to his small, secluded homestead, hidden away from the clamor of the changing world. He yearned for the peace and solitude it offered, a sanctuary where he could live out his days far from the encroaching wave of modernity. Under the scorchin' midday sun, Silas stepped off his trusty steed, a mare as seasoned and steadfast as he was. He'd named her Cinnamon, her coat bringing to mind the warm hues of the spice. He hitched her to a post outside the Sundown Springs Bank, patting her flank with a promise of a good feed once they got back.
The sparse landscape around 'em didn't offer much for grazing, but he made sure Cinnamon never wanted for a meal. Sundown Springs had turned into a nest of varmints and scoundrels, a town where the law was about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. These were the men that Silas felt no guilt in robbin'. Not only were they crooks, but they were sell-outs, trading their gold for foreign gizmos and gadgets that didn't belong in the harsh wilderness of the west. They were muddying the waters of the frontier, trading in their horses and wagons for machines, and traditional defenses for the latest contraptions. Their reliance on these newfangled doohickeys had made 'em soft, and Silas planned on takin' advantage of that.
With a hand-rolled stogie clamped in his teeth, Silas started his approach, his faithful gun at the ready. His fingers danced over its worn grip, a familiar movement he'd performed more times than he could count. With a powerful kick, he sent the bank's doors a-flyin', his entrance announced by the loud crash of wood against wall. Letting off a few warning rounds into the ceiling, he quickly had the bank's patrons cowering like a bunch of scared rabbits. The bank, which should've been bustling with folks and guarded by sharp-eyed cowpokes, was as quiet as a church on a Tuesday. It was as if they'd put all their trust in their shiny new machines. A grave mistake, as Silas was about to show 'em. Grinning like a fox in a hen house, he moseyed on over to the counter, his piece never wavering from its aim at the trembling folks. He didn't even bother to look at the person behind the counter as he laid down his demand, his voice as cold as a winter's night.
"Now y'all listen here," he started, the stogie bobbing up and down as he spoke, "You're gonna clear out them vaults for me, or I swear I'll send every last one of ya to meet your Maker today. And I'll make sure you're the one left holding the bag."
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