The Legend of the Outlaw Five

They rode in like a pack of wolves, they came in with the night; they used darkness as their cover, they'd be gone before the light. Hooves kicked dust in silent struts as their steeds did trot them in, the horrors of the outlaw five were still yet to begin.

The first, he was a villain, his eyes were hard and cold. His dismal glare could raise your hair, and burn into your soul. He led them like a phantom that would lead his brood to hell, his eternal ghost would sooner roast than see the others well.

The second was a bandit, his eyes were set ablaze, a devil's deal had forged his will, a worthy man of praise. His eyes they searched the shadows, in this darkness that they rode, if he had fear none would hear, nor would it ever show.

The third was born within a storm, or so the story goes; his testaments, his tragedies forever left unknown. Gripped tightly were the leather reigns, he led his horse through town; latter knowledge of his poise left many his renown.

The fourth was dressed a gentleman, the finest dressed of five, a six shot gun sat at each his hips to keep this man alive. His face was stern and weary, his eyes were set in deep, the chances of surviving this grew increasingly more steep.

The last was bred from evil, the blackest of five souls. He'd kill all his comrades if it would bring about his goals. In the darkness twelve rounds loaded, six bullets stocked each away, and he raised his guns that gleamed like suns, for his team he would betray.

And they continued in while the sun was down, and they made their presence known, darkened thieves on mighty steeds...

...but the last one left alone.