The bandits readied a boat. They placed the men with muskets on board—only three, with two more waiting behind to take a fallen man's place. It wasn't much, but usually enough to intimidate poor merchants. The rest of the gang waited along the riverbank in case the boat drifted too close to shore.
One bandit asked the leader, "What do we do with the boatman?"
"It's not our problem," the leader said. "Better if he dies. We're leaving Antioquía after this — even if he survives we'd have to kill him. Prepare to finish them both."
The men laughed. The poor boatman didn't know this heist would be his last.
"Silence. The boat will be here in ten minutes. They'll reach the point — be ready to fire." The leader nodded toward the opposite bank and pointed the muskets on the approaching boat.
Oscar watched without surprise. The boatman saw the bandits and jumped into the river, swimming for the shore.
"Boss! I brought him — help me!" the boatman cried as he reached land, where a bandit waited with a sword hidden behind his back.
"Thanks, friend. What's your—" the boatman began when the bandit smiled, seized the sword, and shoved it into the boatman's chest. "Sorry, I don't give my name to the dying." The gang laughed as the man slumped.
The boatman's eyes opened wide; he tried to speak, but the current carried him away.
Oscar didn't spare him a glance. He shouldered a musket and watched the boat. "So you kill your allies. What ruthless thieves," he muttered, counting: seven people visible in the boat and on the bank, but only three muskets. Low-class bandits, he thought. That eased him a little. The minutes crawled until he fired first.
Bang.
The bandit who had been aiming collapsed — a shot through the head. The other two on the boat startled. "Shoot!" one of them shouted. the one behind jumped for the muskets and fired.
Three bangs cracked. The boat took damage. A musket ball nearly reached Oscar, but he grabbed another musket and fired again — another bandit's head snapped back. Óscar saw the leader, sweating, ducking behind a crate. while cursing "Fuck — I knew those guys were elites. But shooting bandits in the head — is this a joke?".
The bandits on shore grew restless and grabbed their bows. Arrows whistled through the air — most missed, though a few thudded into the boat. Oscar realized he couldn't stay on the water or he'd be cut down, so he steered toward the bank.
As he neared the shore, several bandits drew their swords and rushed to intercept him. Oscar holstered his musket, drew two pistols, and waited until their footsteps were close. Then he rose and fired — two fell instantly, but the leader's shot struck Oscar's arm.
"Goddamn it — just healed and I get another wound," Oscar hissed. He drew his sword and met the next wave. They were raw amateurs — all aggression, no skill. He drove his blade into one's chest, the steel biting into bone and sticking there. The others rushed him; he threw two daggers, both hitting legs. They fell screaming.
The leader looked around — seven men dead, chaos everywhere. "Move! Get the hell out of here!" he shouted. He and the two survivors fled. The leader fired one last musket shot at Oscar's boat, splintering its hull beyond quick repair.
Oscar, furious, grabbed a knife and drove it into a wounded bandit on the shore, stabbing him again and again until he stopped moving. The remaining man — seeing his companion die so miserably and the leader flee — broke down.
"Don't kill me! Don't kill me! I'll tell you where the lair is — pesos, women, anything! Please!" the bandit cried, fear raw in his voice.
Oscar's expression didn't change. "Guide me," he said coldly. "Don't scream. If a beast comes, I'll leave you for it."The man nodded frantically and limped forward, blood dripping down his leg. Each time he slowed, Oscar kicked him forward.
Ten minutes later, they reached the camp. Oscar shot the bandit in the head and stepped inside the clearing.
"They already expected me,"murmured, "Tents are half-collapsed, gear scattered — the bandits had clearly been ready to flee" In a wooden cage he found three women: two young, one older. They clung to each other, sobbing. When they saw him, they froze, expecting another monster.
"Are you all right?" Oscar asked softly.
The older woman opened her eyes and stared at him. "Are you going to hurt us?"
"No. I just need someone to help me remove a bullet from my arm. After that you can go." He broke the cage.
Still wary, the women relaxed a little. "I can help," the old woman said. "My husband was a militiaman — he taught me a little. It's my first time, but I'll try."
"It'll do," Oscar replied. "Come."
In the largest tent, Oscar stripped off his shirt. The wound was ugly, the cloth soaked through with blood. The old woman took the bloodied knife he handed her and hesitated, then spotted two barrels — one filled with water, the other with alcohol. She nodded, cleaned the blade, and steadied her hands before beginning.
as she worked, Oscar watched the blood on the floor and said, "I already killed seven of the bandits. Three escaped. They damaged my boat, so I couldn't follow. Sorry I couldn't give you full revenge."
The young women sobbed. The older woman stepped closer. "My husband was a peddler after serving in the militia. He had connections — food and trade between Bogotá and Antioquía. He asked us to move there, and my sons-in-law came with us. I told him to hire escorts," she said bitterly. "He insisted it would be fine — three men, what harm could come? But the boatman betrayed us. He killed my son-in-law while we watched. By the time we realized what was happening, the bandits had surrounded us. They beat him…" Her voice broke, the memory choking her. "That bastard of a boatman worked for them. They gave him a handful of coins for the betrayal — he laughed and went back to Honda," she said,Oscar saw fury burning in her eyes.
She wiped her tears and continued, her tone softer now. "I tell you this so you'll understand — we know what kind of ruthless men those bandits are. Even if you couldn't kill them all, I'm grateful that at least seven of them are dead."
As the old woman cleaned the wound, the bullet fell free. Oscar heated the knife in the fire and pressed it to his arm. Then he asked, "What are your plans after this?"
"We don't know," she said with a bitter smile. "Our honor is ruined. No one will want us back with our men gone. We're useless." The two younger women sobbed harder.
Oscar considered and said, "There's a job you could do. Dangerous. Might cost you your lives."
The old woman looked at him, hesitated, then saw her daughters and answered, "We're already dead socially. If it keeps us alive, we'll do it." She said it as if she expected he was sending them to a brothel. Oscar knew how she felt, but he didn't correct her — he planned to train them as informants. Better they think one thing now; Bogotá would reveal the truth later Oscar trough.
"Let me rest this afternoon. I'll fix the boat, then we head to Honda. From there we go to Bogotá." He dismissed them and lay down. He slept for a few hours and woke to the smell of cooking. The women had prepared food they'd intended to abandon.
"Sorry," the old woman said, handing him a plate. "If we're leaving, we'd rather eat it now."
He ate, then went to the boat to repair it. The women followed. "Take the bandits' clothes, wash them, and wear them," he told them. "If the boatman sees you in your dresses in Honda he might recognize you."
He saw their fists clench at the name; he knew they wanted revenge and said, "I understand the desire for revenge, but if you try to kill him in Honda the royal guards will arrest you. Wait for the right chance. Kill him only when you're ready."
They were stunned — they hadn't expected someone to counsel patience. The old woman caught something but said nothing. When the boat was fixed, they set out toward Honda.