"Give my love to Rose, please won't you mister? Take her all my money, tell her to buy some pretty clothes. Tell my boy that daddies so proud of him and don't forget to give my love to Rose." Johnny Cash 'Give my love to rose'

1874

The hot sun beat down on his back as he walked across the dry arid ground of north Texas in mid-august. Sweat trickled down his skin beneath his blue shirt and denims. If he ever saw that good for nothing son of a bitch that had stolen his horse, he'd shoot him in his sleep. Not that he should be surprised that he'd had his horse stolen. He had stolen his fair share of horses in his life and figured it was just the Almighty returning the favor.

He looked up at that bright yellow orb in the sky and cursed its very existence. Without shouting a warning at that hot ball of fire he pulled his .44 colt revolver and fired three quick shots straight into it. Of course, he accomplished nothing, other than giving himself a ringing in his ears and scaring up several crows who had been resting in the thin branches of a nearby tree.

He slipped three bullets from the bandolier across his chest and slid them into his revolver with a swift, practiced ease before dropping the gun back into its holster and swiping his shirt sleeve across his sweaty face.

Marston Jacobs, simply Marston to those who dared to ask and seemingly nameless on all of his wanted dead or alive posters, scowled as he searched his empty pockets for a cigarette which he knew he wouldn't find.

"Wring that man's scrawny neck is what I'll do." he grumbled as he dragged his boots along the dust covered road. He didn't care that he and Jeremiah had come from the same womb. He'd kill that bastard for taking his horse and leaving him out here to die. So what if Marston had owed him money, his brother should have known he'd pay him back. Stealing his horse had been completely unnecessary. At least Jeremiah had left him his saddlebags which were currently heavy as lead and laying over his shoulder.

Marston's tongue was dry as a powder keg and felt ten times the size it should be. He grabbed his canteen and twisted off the lid but not even a single solitary droplet rolled out and into his parched mouth. He sighed with defeat and slowly twisted the cap back on.

He topped over a small hill and his golden eyes narrowed as he crouched instantly. He pulled off his hat and ran his hand through his thick brown hair as he looked down at the covered wagon parked beside the glistening watering hole. There were several saddled horses tied to the back of the wagon and Marston saw one he really liked. A tall, broad-chested gray with what looked to Marston like his name written right across its forehead.

He slid his gray stetson back on his head as he surveyed the group of people standing beside the water. It was a family group was his guess. A grown man and woman probably a few years older than him. Two young boys who looked to be under ten and a young girl probably around fourteen or so. They were all decked out in their Sunday best too it looked like to him.

He frowned. Was it Sunday? Or was it Tuesday? Hell, he had no clue. Living the life he lived he rarely had time to worry about the day, week or even the year. He wasn't even sure how old he was. Somewhere between thirty and thirty-five was his best guess. He knew he wasn't any older than thirty-five because the orphanage had told him he'd been born sometime between 1839 and 1844. Apparently they weren't real big on keeping records.

He checked the family for any signs of weapons and saw none. Marston himself had his .44 revolver on his hip, an 1873 Winchester rifle on his back, a derringer pistol in his boot and a bowie knife and rope on his leg. There were even a few sticks of dynamite in his saddlebags. Always be ready for anything had been the first rule Duke had taught him when he'd joined his gang fifteen years ago. He'd only ridden with Duke for about three years, but the man's lessons had stayed with him.

He stood straight and started down the hill with loose, relaxed strides and a smile on his face. He wasn't worried about being recognized. Whoever had drawn his wanted posters had clearly been blind in one eye and unable to see out the other. Marston had eaten lunch in the company of dozens of bounty hunters since it had been issued and not a single one had ever recognized him.

He saw the alarm on the older mans face the moment his eyes fell on Marston. Marston couldn't blame him for being scared of the sight of him. Big black boots,  dirt coated demins, stained and blood covered shirt ripped and torn on the sleeves from the fight he'd been in the day before. His face was covered in a thick beard and he was heavily armed. If he was the man out here with his helpless family, he would be scared of him too.

"Hello folks." Marston said with a friendly smile. Marston saw the children quickly get behind their mother while the man stepped forward.

"Hello." he said cautiously.

"It's a hot one today isn't it?" Marston asked as he squatted down beside the water and splashed some of the cool liquid over his face. The man nodded as he motioned for his family to get in the wagon. Marston took his time to fill his canteen and take a long drink before turning back to the man who was making his way toward the wagon as well.

"Nice to meet you, sir. We'll be on our way now." he said nervously as his pace quickened. Marston clicked his tongue several times and shook his head. He pulled his revolver and rested his sights on the fancy mans chest.

"Stop right there, mister." he said, his voice still just as friendly and warm as it had been before. One thing no one would ever be able to call Marston was rude. Thief, murderer, gambler, conscience-free but never rude.

"Sir, we don't have anything to offer to you." the man said, his voice shaky. His wife was crying in the wagon seat while the children peeked around the wagons cream colored cloth cover, their eyes wide and shining with fear.

"I think you do. You see I find myself in need of a horse and I find you with a couple to spare."

"No, w..we...we need those horses. They are all we have. We're moving out here to set up a homestead."

"I think I need 'em a little worse than you do." Marston argued with a grin. "I'll take whatever money you have too."

"Just give him the horse," the man's wife hissed, her voice shaking.  

Marston tipped his hat to her before aiming the gun back at her husband. "Why thank you, ma'am." She sent him an angry look that would have probably made him feel guilty if he bothered with emotions like that.

"I'll give you the brown mare." the man finally relented and Marston used the barrel of his revolver to scratch his bearded chin.

"Now I kinda liked that Gray a little better."

"Fine!" the man exclaimed. "Take the Gray just please don't hurt my family." Marston's eyes widened innocently.

"Hurt your family? Why I would never dream of that." he lied. He stepped forward and the man nearly collapsed when Marston pressed his gun against his sweaty forehead and cocked it. Four voices screamed in unison from inside the wagon.

"Money. Now." Marston said sternly and then he shrugged. "Please."

Ten minutes later and Marston was sitting atop the gray with his pockets and saddlebags full of money and jewelry. This family was wealthy, or at least they had been. Now Marston was wealthy.

"Thank you folks kindly." he said as he tipped his hat.

"Please don't take all of our money.... We need some to feed our children." the man begged as he dropped to his knees and folded his hands. Marston raised a brow and shook his head.

"Them kids'll be just fine, I'm sure somebody'll feed em some soup or something." he replied. He set off away from them and looked back to see the young girl glaring at him from the back of the wagon.

"Ma'am," he said with a tip of his hat.

"You're evil," she hissed and he laughed heartily.

"You're cute., he replied and he rode off whistling a tune and feeling much better about his current situation.

Marston camped that night beside an outcropping of rocks and after eating some hardtack from his saddlebags the next morning he loaded up and headed northeast. He'd find Jeremiah and he'd pay brother dearest back for stealing his horse. Jeremiah was going to regret doing that.

The morning was still early. Light fog hung low in the air and the long grasses were weighed down by the heavy dew covering them and soaking the horses legs. Birds were singing and the sun was trying to burn through the layer of white clouds covering the blue sky. Marston was again whistling his favorite tune as he rode alongside the railroad tracks.

The peace of the morning was interrupted by the sound of a horse snorting up ahead. All of Marston's senses were instantly on high alert as he pulled up on the grays reins and brought the horse to a stop. He scanned to both sides and behind and determined that no one was around. He urged his horse forward and as he topped a small hill he saw the horse who had snorted.

It was a brown mare with white feet and she was standing over the body of a man. She had her head down, grazing on the long grasses and her reins were dragging in the dirt. That was a nice horse and would fetch a good price in town. Marston rode closer to the man and saw the blood covering the front of his shirt.

He jumped from his horse and covered the rest of the distance on foot. He stood over the old man lying on the ground. His eyes were closed, his face pale and drawn and his chest was rising and falling rapidly. Marston could hear the gurgling sound of blood gathering in the mans lungs as the same dark red substance flowed from the hole in his chest.

This man was on the dark side of dead, that was for sure. Nothing Marston could do was going to change that. Might as well take the horse and whatever supplies this man had before someone less deserving came along and took them for themselves.

He crouched down to search the dying mans pockets when the mans eyes flew open and pierced his face with a dark blue stare. Marston found himself unable to look away as the man's mouth worked up and down in an effort to speak. Marston supposed he knew he was dying and wanted someone to hear his last words. Since Marston didn't have anything better to do he assumed he could listen.

"What is it old man?" he asked as wispy strands of the mans thinning gray hair blew in the light breeze. The man coughed and blood trickled from his mouth and ran down his chin.

"I need... a favor." the man gasped weakly. His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper and Marston had to incline his head closer to the old mans lips to hear him. A favor? Why would Marston do this man a favor? Then again what harm could come from telling the man he'd do what he asked. This man was going to be dead in minutes and would never know that Marston didn't do as he wanted.

"What do you need fella?" he asked.

"I'm...on my home to.. Louisianna... I've been in prison in 'Frisco.. Paying for past crimes..." the man said as he took shallow rattling breaths. Marston nodded.

"I heard that's a rough prison." he replied simply. He wished the dying man would get to the favor and then get to dying so Marston could take his things and get on his way.

"Harper, Lousiana... I need you to go there." Marston pulled off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. Harper Lousianna was barely more than a pinpoint on any map and was about a weeks ride away. What could possibly be so important there?

"Why?" he asked.

"I need you to... take... my money to my wife and son... I was hoping to get... to know my... son" the man replied weakly. His eyes were growing more dull by the second and his breaths more random.

"Sure." Marston lied. The man reached out with a weak hand and grabbed a leather bag he'd had resting against his side. He lifted it and shoved it in Marston's chest.

"Here's all my money. I wish I had more...to offer.... They've been waiting... ten years for me..... Tell my boy that his daddy is proud of him...." The mans eyes began to slip closed and Marston couldn't believe his luck. This man was just handing over his money willingly.

"Sure, I'll tell them." Marston lied. He couldn't wipe the greedy, predatory smile from his face. He was about to stand when the mans cold hand gripped his arm and stopped him dead. He looked back down at his face and found the mans blue eyes focused intensely on his own.

"I'm...trusting.... You..." he gasped. "Thank...the Lord... for sending you...here..to me." Marston felt an odd ache in the pit of his stomach. He'd never once had anyone thank God for him before and he found it to be disturbing and unpleasant. It made his stomach hurt.

"Sure mister." Marston said dismissively as he tried to pull away but the mans grip on his arm was firm and stronger than Marston would have guessed possible by a man so old and near to death.

"My name is Langston.... Please... Give my love to Rose. Tell her... Tell her to find someone else... Tell her to buy herself... something.. With the.. Money." Marston jerked his hand away and stood straight.

"Sure, whatever you want." he lied as he wiped his hand on his pants. There was something about this man he didn't like. Something about the way his old eyes were boring into his own and seeming to see inside of him that made him uneasy. No wonder somebody had shot him and left him for dead. If he wasn't already dying, Marston would be tempted to do the same.

"You don't... understand.. I want you to give my love to Rose." Langston repeated and Marston nodded.

"Sure mister, I'll tell your damn woman that you love her." Marston repeated.

"No... Give... love... her..." Those were the last words the dying man uttered before his eyes slipped closed and his chest ceased to rise. Marston let out a sigh of relief. He looked at the leather bag in his hands and pulled on the string to open it. He looked inside and his eyes widened. There had to be nearly six-hundred dollars in this bag. Where the devil did an old prisoner who'd spent ten years behind bars get this much money?

He looted the dead mans pockets and smiled with victory when he found the tobacco and rolling papers, along with a box of matches. He found a paper inside as well. A release paper from the prison with Langston Howell written on the top and his name signed at the bottom.

Marston didn't think about why he was folding the paper and sticking it in his pocket and then he grabbed the brown mares reins and led her over to the gray. He used his rope to secure the mare to his grays saddle horn and was about to climb up in the grays saddle when he looked over his shoulder at the dead man lying on the road.

He was grumbling under his breath as he stomped back over and took the dead man by his arms. He drug him out of the burning rays of sun beginning to shine through the cloud cover. He didn't have a shovel and there weren't enough rocks laying around here to cover the man with. All he could do was leave him here in the shade by the road and hope that somebody found his body before it rotted or critters got a hold of it. Chances of that were good since this was a well traveled road.

Without looking at the man again, Marston walked back to the horses and climbed in the saddle. As he rode away the mans words kept clawing their way into his mind and replaying themselves.

Should Marston do as he had promised and take this money to Harper Louisianna and his wife and son that waited there? Surely the wife would be an old woman and the son a grown man. They didn't need this money if they'd been living for so long without Langston. Marston needed the money. He owed people and needed to refill his ammunition supplies.

'But the man thanked God for you' A small voice inside his head reminded him and Marston snorted.

"There ain't no such thing as God." he argued and then he wondered if maybe the summer sun was frying his brain. It wasn't right to hear voices and then argue with what they said... Maybe he was turning into an idiot.

'He trusted you.' The voice reminded him. Marston laughed. Wasn't his fault the man had trusted him and handed him all that money and it wasn't his fault the man had gotten himself shot before he made it home to his wife and son. Nope Marston didn't owe the man a thing and now he was six hundred dollars richer and had not just one horse but two. Things sure were looking better than they had just yesterday morning.