An Outlaw's Redemption

Untitled Part 24

Present Day - March 1867

Clay Cooper shoved his boot under the sod of the prairie and scooped it up with a kick; dust flew as flakes of the discarded soil rained back down from which it had come. Stuffing his large hands into his pockets, Clay glanced around the campsite at his companions. Weston Barlow hadn't been seen in nearly four months. Without Barlow, the remaining members of the gang were starting to get edgy. Not to mention the fact that they were anxiously awaiting their cuts from the sixty-four thousand dollars they'd stolen from the Hope Springs Bank.

As second in command, Clay was expected to have the answers when Barlow was not present. But he didn't have one solitary answer to this. Barlow had never run out on them. He still didn't believe he had, but as the others had begun to say, they had never stolen this much money before. Although he reminded them, Barlow had been shot.

Could that bullet actually have finished off Barlow? He wondered to himself. He'd seen him shot a handful of times, even removed a bullet or two from Barlow himself, but that didn't mean he was coming back this time. He knew he'd been bleeding pretty bad when they'd gotten separated in the storm; Barlow had been in a bad way the last time he'd seen him.

The likelihood of someone finding him and removing that bullet was slim to none...not in that storm at least. Chances were, he was dead, the body had long been discovered by the posse, and the money returned to the bank.

But Clay couldn't tell that to the men. They had their hearts set on that money. His stomach began to grumble, reminding him of the days since his last meal. What funds they had were long gone now and their emotions had run thin. There were only two choices now, the way Clay Cooper saw it; they could cut their losses and move on without Barlow, or they could go back and find the answers to their questions.

He kicked the dirt again and turned to the men. "Alright," he said with a gruff voice, "Barlow ain't here, but I am. I don't know if or when he's coming back...that means we're left with only a couple of choices for where we go from here. I figure we'd best make up our minds here and now what we're going to do."

So, he told them what he knew; then he told them what he didn't know. After he gave them their choices the men talked amongst themselves and finally one said, "Seems like the sensible thing would be to move on so we don't starve...but we don't make our living being sensible." A few of the men chuckled as their friend continued, "Way I see it Barlow never did us no harm, and he's got each of us out of our own share of scraps, so we'd better return the favor."

"The rest of you agree with Walter here?" Clay asked as he let his gaze pass back and forth between the men.

They nodded.

Well, that is it then, Clay recounted with his mind, we're going back for Barlow.

* * * *

   James Cole reread the telegram that had been delivered to him in the Silverton Hotel. He was accustomed to being summoned by men who had use of his guns, but he had never once been retained by a woman.

In fact, he had just finished a job for Charles Baker. Nine years ago, up in Eureka, Colorado, Charles Baker and a group of prospectors found traces of placer gold in the San Juan Mountains. They'd been forced out by the Ute Tribe, but Mr. Baker wasn't one to be turned away. Jimmy had been able to negotiate with the tribesmen and convinced them to sign another treaty allowing the miners to stay. In exchange for the Indian Reservation giving up four million acres, they would receive $25,000 per year to compensate them for their trouble.

That little job had brought Jimmy a fair sum, too; and no blood had been shed. That's the way he liked it, clean and easy. No muss, no fuss. This telegram, however, made Jimmy confused. It didn't say what the job was, but it did offer an intriguing amount of money.