An Outlaw's Redemption

Chapter Four

Fall 1847

A rumble in his stomach awoke him on that late November day. Winter was fast approaching, and the wind chilled him to the bone. His thinning coat was far too faded to ever supply enough warmth to survive the winter; he knew if he did not find a place to lodge, he'd freeze to death. The rumble in his stomach reminded him a coat was not the only thing he was lacking. Shame Santa Claus did not exist; he knew just what he'd ask for this Christmas. Dodging that moment of self-pity, he stood and began walking. Perhaps he would be able to find some of the wild blackberries that still grew in the forest at this time of year in the hills of Tennessee. That would be quite a treat if the bears had not eaten them all yet.

These past months, Weston had learned to survive off the forest and river as much as possible. He had found some old string and tied it to a branch he'd picked up. He took a piece of barbed wire from a broken fence and made his own hook, too; it was not the fanciest fishpole, but it worked. He had been able to catch many meals with his makeshift pole. He had even managed to make a few snares which supplied him a rabbit or two. Somehow, Weston had managed to survive in the forest a few miles from town. Though he did wish he could have a good homecooked meal again, he knew staying in the forest was probably the best thing for him. The townsfolk had said he was a nuisance, and they had even sent for an orphanage to come get him.

As cold as he was, he refused to go there...he'd heard the stories and he knew the only people who would adopt him now, at his age, would be the one's needing a hired hand but couldn't afford to pay them — adopting an older boy to do the work for free was an easy solution to the problem. He might not mind the work, but he didn't want to be a slave...he wanted to be loved. While he and his mother had never had much, they had been happy, and their home had always been filled with love. He missed that.

After he found some berries and ate a small handful, he picked as many as he could carry in his handkerchief and started walking. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew if he just continued on, he'd eventually get somewhere. Maybe if he could find another town, far enough away from this one, he'd find a job.

Hours passed and the grumble of hunger began again. He tried to forget about it until he couldn't stand it anymore and ate some more of the berries. He tried to limit himself to only three. He didn't know when his next meal would come, and he had to make these last until then. Suddenly, he stopped.

Was that the neigh of a horse he'd heard?

He listened closely; there it was again. He journeyed in the direction the sound was coming from until he stumbled on a campsite. A small fire beckoned him forward, but he hesitated; his eyes searched for the one who made the fire. Finally, his eyes came to rest on a young man, couldn't be more than twenty-five, Weston figured. He wore a black hat with a sliver band around it which glistened as the setting sun grazed across it as he moved about gathering more wood for the fire.

On his waist, he wore a black leather gun belt — the holster was tied down to his right thigh — a classic move for a gunfighter or anyone planning to use a fast draw. Weston swallowed hard as he studied the line of bullets that sparkled back at him. His eyes drifted to the horse he'd heard. It was a beautiful white and black painted stallion.

Weston considered how far he could travel if he borrowed the horse...then decided that he'd be better off not upsetting the owner. He took a step and a branch crushed beneath the weight of his boot. Within half a second, the man he'd been watching had dropped his stack of branches, drawn his gun, and spun around to point it at Weston. His breath caught in his lungs as he realized just how closed he'd come to death.

The tautness in the man's eyes softened as he holstered his gun, "What are you doing all the way out here, kid?"

"I, uh—"