Cowboys on a Bust

In the dim light of the early morning, Joe received the long-awaited message on his mobile phone: “He’s on the way.”

He slipped the device back into his pocket and leaned forward, resting his forehead on the steering wheel. But his moment of respite was short-lived as James chastised him for his nervous fidgeting.

“Will you stop it?” he grumbled.

The tapping from the passenger footwell ceased, and James couldn’t help but chuckle at the jittery demeanor of his friend.

“Calm down, Joe,” he reassured. “He might have gotten delayed on the road.”

“But at four in the morning?” Joe protested, his voice laced with anxiety.

“Things happen,” James reasoned, trying to ease the tension.

James announced, “He’s here,” as the tractor approached from behind.

The pair waited expectantly as the tractor, driven by their accomplice, charged toward the mini-market like a knight in a joust. However, the impact did no damage.

Undeterred, James instructed Joe to keep the engine running while he and their accomplice prepared to loop a chain around the ATM. James couldn’t help glancing at the store’s overhead camera, though he was sure it was off.

A passing 18-wheeler and a car slowed to navigate around the truck, but neither stopped to investigate. Jame’s accomplice turned the tractor around, and as he did, the building collapsed, burying the ATM beneath the rubble.

The same rubble cascaded onto the truck, forcing the man to jump from the seat. Nearby curtains twitched, indicating that they had drawn unwanted attention.

With the cash machine now buried, the group hastily piled into the waiting truck, but their escape became hindered when the engine sputtered, died, and then failed to start.

Joe moaned, ” I should have stuck with breaking horses for old man Barker.”

Just then, the truck fired up, and they started driving away.

“My balaclava! It’s on the tractor seat,” the accomplice declared. “I can’t leave it. They’ve got my DNA on record.”

Without hesitation, he darted from the truck and raced towards the wreckage.

“So much for being like Jesse James or Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” Joe sighed. “This was a stupid idea.”

“Quit your complaining,” James responded. “It’s too late for that.”

Minutes felt like hours as they waited anxiously for the accomplice’s return. Finally, he emerged triumphant, clutching the crucial piece of evidence.

“Good job,” James praised. “But next time, make sure you’re wearing it.”