Give My Love to Rose(1st in Outlaw Series)

Give My Love to Rose

"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.