An Outlaw's Redemption

Chapter Seventeen

June 1865

The war had ended in May though the battles continued and for those that had stopped fighting work had been hard to find again...he'd returned to the southern states traveling through Arkansas as he headed toward the Colorado territory. In order to eat, he'd returned to his old ways. He'd even started his own gang, full of other men hard on their luck. The war had done one thing for them though — it taught them each a valuable set of skills. Now, they could create bombs, blow up trains, intercept telegraph lines, create diversions, handle liquid nitroglycerin, as well as a variety of other skills they now used to their advantage in their holdups. They did their homework well, always found places or individuals who were highly insured. Today's hit was a stagecoach bound for Fort Smith.

It was easy.

Only a clergyman, a gunsmith, and an aristocrat.

Each carrying a large amount of money with them and each insured. They blew out the bridge causing the coach to go the rarely taken southern route down into a narrow canyon ravine. The steep-sided valley provided a wonderful place for an ambush. It was also far enough from the main trail for shots or screams to not be heard. As the stagecoach bounced over the rough terrain, the men in Barlow's gang closed in. Weston told them not to kill anyone. That was a rule he made for those that rode with him. They only took what they needed, never more, and do not kill anyone unless they are trying to kill you.

Some of the men disagreed with this rule, but they obeyed it, nonetheless. Weston Barlow had always been fair to them, and he made sure they were well taken care of. While this life might not have been any of their choosing, it had paid off well.

They took possession of the coach fairly easy. The man riding shotgun didn't put up a fight, he threw down his gun as soon as he saw how many of them there were. One by one they made the passengers exit the coach.

"Ever'body put your hands where I can see 'em!" One of the masked men pulled a second pistol from his left holster. With a weapon in each hand, he took aim at the passengers, eyeing the male passengers who seemed to him as the most likely to interfere. The lady panicked and shouted, "Let me go! What could you possibly want that the strongbox doesn't have?!"

The man's left gun immediately shifted aim to her chest, "Best control yourself." His steely eyes narrowed above the black bandana he wore over his mouth and nose, "I ain't planning to shoot nobody, but plans can change real fast." The minister pulled the lady back by the elbow and stepped in front of her, shielding her from any harm. Satisfied, the outlaw turned his attention to the driver, "Toss down that strongbox!" As he did so, the man continued, "There's no reason to get all worked up, folks. As soon as we get what we came for, we'll be on our way."

One shot broke the lock of the strongbox. The Reverend pleaded with the men, "Please, sirs. Don't do this sin and break a commandment. Ride away now and we'll keep our peace."

Weston neared the group atop his new horse, Dimples. His presence seemed to issue an immediate authority. His broad shoulders complemented his tall stands in the staddle. He made no effort to conceal his face like the others had. There was no point to do so, nearly half of the country knew of Babyface Barlow by now.

The lady aristocrat sucked in a shaky breath as he neared her. She was both entranced by him and terrified by the rumors she'd heard. His dashing smile and the dip of his hat, however, put her at ease. His looks had always proved him an upper hand when it came to the ladies, and he'd learned a few tricks along the way. Some might consider it flirting, but he considered it an insurance policy.

He turned his attention to the Reverend and removed his hat. Wiping his brow with the cuff of his sleeve he said, "Well, Padre, it seems I've already broken that commandment a thousand times. Once more ain't going to make much of a difference to me."