An Outlaw's Redemption

Chapter Eleven

Summer 1857

Weston shook his head, "You shouldn't sneak into other folks' belongings, Peter."

Peter crossed his arms over his chest, "And you are also not supposed to lie."

The kid had him there.

He didn't want to lie to him; in fact, he'd always wanted to tell him who he was. With a sigh, Weston sat on the bed and propped one boot up on the chest below, "Well, now you know. What are you going to do?"

Peter sat beside him and asked, "Are those stories about you really lies?"

Weston sighed and glanced at his feet, "Mostly. Some things are true. Like that robbery down in Colorado...I was there for that, but wrestling with an Indian Chef?" He glanced at him with a grin, "Well, I've never even met one to try."

Peter nodded, "Then let me tell your story."

Weston arched a brow and cocked his head down at the youngster, "Do what?"

Peter chuckled, "Look, I'm your biggest fan. Who better to tell your real story? I can include the sketches I've made and draw some more. All you have to do is tell me your stories, and I'll write them down."

Weston shook his head, "I don't think folks would be interested in my story, kid...they never have."

A smile tugged at the corner of Peter's mouth, "Well, they will. If it makes you feel better, we can keep it a secret for now. I'll write and save all your stories. Then one day, when I'm grown up, I'll publish them."

When Weston said nothing, Peter added, "You can write to me and let me know everything that happens to you. I'll be sure to tell the truth."

Weston inquired with a skeptical look, "Why is this so important to you, Peter?"

With a thoughtful look in his eyes, Peter said softly, "Well...kids like me need something to believe in. If the grownups aren't telling us the truth, then maybe one day when I'm grown, I can tell it so some other kid can have their hero, too...but then, it will be the truth."

He couldn't believe he was agreeing to it. Most children lose their interest in things; Peter most likely would, too, but he finally agreed. Peter got straight to work, having Weston tell him every detail of his life. He didn't know why he shared so much with the boy...he'd never told anyone how things began, not even Jimmy, but somehow this twelve-year-old boy had completely captured Weston's heart. Perhaps he saw a bit of himself in the lad; perhaps he saw what he wished might have been. But no amount of wishing was going to reverse time or give him a second chance.

Laying his moment of self-pity to the side, he continued answering every question the boy asked, regardless of its gruesomeness or not. He decided if the truth was ever to be told then it had to start with him; he had to tell it just as it happened. In the middle of a story, when it was well into the early morning hours, Weston glanced over at his friend, who now lay fast asleep, and smiled. Carefully he picked up Peter and carried him to his room before returning to his own.

He needed to get ready for the match. Today was the National Billiard Competition. He hurried down the stairs and met Jimmy. Together they escorted John Seereiter to the match. Thaddeus Skylar had made a few threats over the past few days; they were harmless for the most part, but the last threat had come in the form of a sniper's bullet. They had been lucky; the bullet hadn't even grazed the target. It had been a warning; telling them to stay out of the way.

Jimmy had eliminated that treat in short time.

Still, they were not taking any chances today. Even the Mayor was acting overly concerned. One by one the matches were completed and defeated...until all that remained were two players: Michael Phelan of New York and John Seereiter of Detroit. They neared the set table, shook hands, and the match began. It was a tedious match, something Weston was not too delighted to spend any more time watching, but finally only one ball remained.

Michael Phelan circled the billiard table, eyeing the position of the cue ball and his desired destination for the eight ball. Weston glanced around the room. Several men were beginning to sweat. Many withdrew handkerchiefs from their pockets, dabbing off the beads of perspiration soaking their brows. This was the final match. The final move. If Mr. Phelan made this corner pocket the game would be over and he would have defeated the local favorite, John Seereiter. Weston's eyes turned to Seereiter. He looked calm as he stood with his hands folded one on top of the other on the tip of his billiard cue. Although, his eyes told a different story entirely. Weston had seen that look enough to know it from a hundred miles away. John Seereiter was scared. Weston imaged he must be shaking inside, knowing that the $15,000 prize was slipping away.

Weston couldn't blame the man for being scared. Many of the men in the room had bet their life savings on him. Michael Phelan stood and then knelt again to eye the path for his final play as Weston's eyes shifted once more to Thaddeus Skylar. The man looked smug, like he'd already won and was counting his money. The Mayor on the other hand looked ill. The color had drained from his face, and he was a pale, ghostly white; his hands trembled over the handle of his cane. He too had placed a large amount on Mr. Seereiter. An amount, perhaps, he couldn't afford to lose.

As Mr. Phelan stroked his beard, hunched over and made his move; the very air grew still as all present in the room held their breaths. The white cue ball rolled smoothly across the green fabric of the billiard table, chipping the side of the 8 ball, and sending it down into the right corner pocket. Those who had bet on Mr. Phelan cheered with applause, while the remaining members of the room sank into despair.

The opponents shook hands in a display of sportsmanship and exchanged a few words. It only took five minutes for chaos to begin. When bookkeepers refused to pay what was due, a fist fight broke out. Thaddeus Skylar seemed pleased with the outcome as though an uproar was expected and encouraged. The sight made Weston sick to his stomach; Thaddeus Skylar's smug expression reminded him of Everett Clayton, the man who had ordered his mother's death.

It took little time for someone to fire a shot. Where it had come from was uncertain, but its destination was clear as a man yelled out, "Babyface Barlow!" It seemed that amongst the confusion and the desperation to remove John Seereiter from the building, the wanted poster fell out of Weston's coat pocket. A desperate man who had lost everything in his bet decided the reward on Barlow's head would just about set it right. Turning, Weston drew his gun just as another shot fired and a man fell.

Glancing at Jimmy, who had fired the second shot, Weston's brow creased, and Jimmy told him, "Go! I'll handle things here!"

While he was not one to run, he didn't fancy the idea of hanging around to get shot. Running out the door, he headed down the street and to Elizabeth Fletcher's home. As if knowing there had been trouble, Peter stood at the door of the home with Santana's reins in hand. He'd had him saddled and backed with supplies. Tears swelled in the boy's eyes.

"Here," he handed him the reins, "you'd better go before they come."

Weston glanced back and paused only a moment, but it was enough time to kneel down and give Peter a hug, "Thank you for everything, Peter. I'll write you. I promise...I won't forget."

Peter mustered a smile, "Good. I put my address in your saddle bag just in case."

Mounting Santana, Weston glanced once more at the boy who had become so dear to him in such a short time. Only now did he feel that he might understand the way Jimmy felt about him. He was beginning to care a great deal for the boy standing in front of him.

"Tell Jimmy I'm headed to Charleston. He'll know where to find me."

Peter gave him a nod and a smile as he rode off. Later in his life, Weston would hear of the winner of that match, Michael Phelan, again as the papers hailed him as the "Father of American Pool".