The Shield One-Shots Book 3

King's Of The West/Ambrollins

 The sun slowly sank low on the horizon, painting the sky in a vibrant mix of pinks and purples. The evening chorus of birdsong filled the air, while the crickets chirped their greeting as night approached, and the nocturnal animals began to stir from their slumber. The horses pulling the carriage whinnied softly in unison, hooves clomping rhythmically on the dry, dusty trail as the driver kept his gaze trained ahead, his senses on high alert. The Wild West wasn't just a nickname, it was very real. Bandits were well known to frequent these trails, providing plenty of trouble for the townsfolk - particularly the rich - and the lawmen trying to stop them. Suddenly, just as they rounded a bend in the trail, the horses were stopped by a lone horse standing unmoving in their path blocking their way.

 Confused, the driver panicked - he thought this could be a setup by bandits and decided not to stop. He quickly tried to urge the horses forward, he pulled their reins tightly in an effort to move them onward, but they refused. The horses snorted and reared up as if sensing the danger that he couldn't yet see. Realizing what the horses were trying to tell him, he tried to turn the carriage around but it was too late - when he looked up, he found that they were completely surrounded by men on horseback. He could see the red bandanas covering their faces, and he knew instinctively that these were no ordinary bandits; these were none other than Ambrose Gang, the most feared and vicious of all Western outlaws. There was no escape, the driver quickly went to reach for his gun but a rifle barrel came to rest coldly against his temple and he froze in fear.

 "Drop the gun, partner, nice and slow and step down from the carriage now." The man holding the rifle on him ordered.

 The driver's hands were shaking as he slowly obeyed the man in the black hat, who had his rifle aimed at him. He didn't move or speak as the man in the black hat guarding him ordered the others to search the coach. The others broke into the carriage, and the driver watched them drag out the terrified rich older couple, dressed in their finery and jewels. The bandits ransacked the carriage for valuables while the three hostages stood silently. When the carriage had been looted completely of all valuables, the leader pulled down his bandana, revealing a smirk on his face, and chuckled deeply as he spoke, his rifle still aimed at them.

 "Today's your lucky day, partners, I want you to remember this day for the rest of your lives. This was the day that the Ambrose Gang let you live."

 "T-the Ambrose Gang?" The older man repeated in shock. "You're... you're Dean Ambrose."

 "That's right and once you three give us all your valuables you're free to go." Dean announced smiling.

 "Why?" The woman asked nervously.

 "Like I said, it's your lucky day." Dean repeated. "Now, hand over the goods before I change my damn mind."

 Not needing to be told twice, the travellers quickly collected their valuables and piled them into the bags. Dean smiled and tipped his hat to them before hopping onto his brown-speckled steed. His gang followed suit, and with reins clenched tight in their hands, they galloped away, leaving the travellers alive and unharmed as promised. Just before Dean left, he unhooked the two horses from the carriage and grabbed their reins. He then tipped his hat to the travellers one last time before taking off.

 The horses thundered through wooded terrain until they reached an old, ramshackle house hidden deep in the forest. The bandits dismounted their horses and put them and the stolen horses into their stables. Going into the house, the men then proceeded to light oil lamps scattered around the house before carrying the bags of stolen goods to a wooden table in the center of the room.

 Dean removed his dusty hat and bandana, revealing a short head of slightly curly brown hair. His blue eyes scanned the room, taking in the treasure trove of items his boys were going through. Next, he undid the buttons of his duster coat with practiced precision and hung it on the rickety old wooden rocking chair nearby. Dean then moved to an old armchair, filled a glass with whiskey from an unlabeled bottle, and sat down to watch his men work. He had earned his reputation as the leader of the most feared, dangerous, and wanted gangs in the Wild West.