Inmate 78 - Missing Scenes by Rita

"Go and get yourself fixed up as well, 78. I've got plans for you."

The Warden kept his cold gaze on Chris. The words were spoken in a low, menacing tone that was meant only for him to hear. Chris met the intense glare without flinching from the man he was truly beginning to hate.

He didn't know what the bastard had planned for him but he did know that he had done the right thing by coming to the aid of the helpless prisoner who was being beaten simply for being too sick and weak to work. Now he had no choice but to face the consequences of his actions.

He expected either to be put back to work immediately after the Doctor looked at the cut on his head and the bleeding stopped or to be punished severely for interfering. Inmate 46 was sleeping again and the Doctor said that he seemed no worse for the experience. Chris had held a wet cloth against his forehead until the bleeding stopped and shared a short conversation and a precious drink of whiskey with the prisoner who was allowed to use his medical skills in lieu of hard labor.

But instead of being sent back to the field where the others were digging into the hard ground and carrying rocks, he had been allowed to lie down as well. One of the guards had been sent to tell the Doctor that Chris could stay in the makeshift infirmary overnight. Nodding his understanding to the Warden's messenger but giving a sympathetic look at Chris, the old man had reluctantly retired to his small room at the rear of the building.

Chris found the beds here were a little better than the bunks in the inmates' sleeping quarters and the guard had only shackled one wrist to the iron bars behind him and left his ankles unfettered. His head still ached and he could feel his muscles tightening from the bruising blows of the Warden's wooden baton. In spite of his pain, weakness and hunger, he eventually slipped into a troubled sleep.

A callused hand clamping down tightly over his mouth awakened him. His eyes flew open but he couldn't see who was holding him down. The hand was removed just long enough for a thick strip of cloth to be forced into his mouth and then tied tightly behind his head.

A lantern had been lit and placed on a near-by table but the wick was turned so low that the room was mostly in shadows. He thought there were two men standing by the bunk but he couldn't be sure. The key grated in the lock of the shackle holding his left wrist and he was roughly jerked to his feet. His arms were twisted behind him and the other shackle was fastened tightly to his right arm, effectively stopping any resistance on his part.

One of the guards whispered a warning close to his ear; "The Warden wants to see you. The more you fight us the worse we'll make it on you. Understand?"

Chris's heart sank as he suddenly knew what was happening and why. After the hostile reactions of the other prisoners earlier in the day, the Warden must have realized that if he punished Chris openly he might have a riot on his hands. So he had pretended to back off, even sending Chris to the infirmary to be treated. Then he had waited until after dark when the prisoners were locked in for the night oblivious to anything outside their exhausted sleep.

When he didn't immediately respond, his arms were twisted and pulled further up his back. Forced to bend forward from the painful pressure and half-choking on the filthy gag in his mouth, he nodded his agreement to the men who held him. Satisfied that he would cooperate, they half-pushed, half-carried him out of the infirmary and across the length of the deserted yard to the structure in the corner of the fenced enclosure.

The only decent building in the work camp served as the Warden's office and living quarters combined. His weak aching muscles protested and he stumbled clumsily over the uneven ground as he was hurried along.

He was pushed up the steps, across the porch and through the door into the office area of the building. There was more light here emanating from several lamps and he blinked against the pain in his head and the disorientation of being awakened suddenly. He swayed slightly and the men tightened their grip on his bound arms and jerked him upright. They seemed to be waiting for further orders.

A door opened on the other side of the office and the Warden emerged from what must have been his bedroom. He still had on his boots, pants and immaculate white shirt but he'd discarded his coat, vest and silk tie. He was carrying a thick glass half-filled with an amber liquid and he must have been smoking a cigar.

The rich aroma of tobacco and whiskey was strong and Chris thought about what he would give for some liquor and a cheroot. Not to mention his gun and five minutes alone with the sadistic bastard who was looking him over in satisfaction at his condition.

Hell, he'd take the five minutes with or without his gun.

"Take the gag off. He can't be heard in here."

One of the men obeyed the order and untied the cloth. Chris spat it out before the man had a chance to pull it away from his mouth. The Warden's thin lips quirked at Chris's defiance. Even under these circumstances he was going to fight. Oh, yes, he was definitely going to enjoy this.

"Unlock the handcuffs. Remove his shirt."

Chris realized that now there were three guards instead of two. He still tried to fight them as soon as the shackles were removed but his efforts were useless. The filthy uniform shirt was ripped off and he was held immobile again for the Warden's inspection. He could almost feel the man's eyes rake over his body.

"Whatever you're going to do, just get it over with you son of a bitch!"

The Warden smiled at that and took another sip of the whiskey. He gestured to the guards and they pulled Chris to the side of the room where the large desk had been completely cleared of its usual stacks of journals and papers. He was bent forward over the top of the desk and his arms were pulled to the corners and tied with ropes to the legs on the opposite side.

The strain pulled the stitches over his ribs where he had been cut earlier and he felt the wound re-open and begin to bleed. When the men grabbed his ankles and tried to tie them as well, he kicked back viciously and was rewarded by a sharp gasp of pain from one of the guards. His small triumph was short lived, however, as another guard took over and kicked his legs apart again. The man stood to the side out of range and was able to secure first one ankle, then the other to the front legs of the desk as well.

The Warden addressed the guards; "You can go now. I'll send for you when I want you."

Chris turned his head to the side with his cheek pressed against the cool, smooth wood of the desktop. His view of the room was limited. He heard the door to the outside open and shut and the heavy boots of the guards shuffling across the porch. Then there was no sound except his own ragged breathing. With his heart pounding, he waited for whatever was coming next. He heard the Warden's voice from behind him as his jailer tugged at the ropes around his ankles, checking them to be certain his men had secured him well.

"Inmate 78, you defied me. You questioned my authority in front of the prisoners here and in front of my own men. You struck a prison official. Did you think you would get away with that?"

Chris remained silent. He figured that no matter what he said to this man it would do no good and would probably only make his situation worse. He heard the Warden walk deliberately to the other side of the room then return. This time he moved into Chris's line of sight.

He was holding something in his right hand but Chris couldn't make out what it was for a moment. Then he remembered the first time he had seen the Warden after his initial attempt to escape. The man had been sitting on the porch of the office building enjoying a shave from one of the prisoners. The razor strop he was now clutching had been hanging on the back of the chair. Chris closed his eyes as he realized what his punishment was going to be.

He heard the Warden move closer to the desk. Swallowing hard, he reluctantly opened his eyes to see the man turn slightly to the side and measure the distance to his target. He had doubled the leather strop and was holding the looped ends tightly as he waited. When he was certain that Chris was watching him, he raised his arm and aimed the first blow across Chris's shoulders.

Chris clenched his jaw, shocked at the intensity of the stinging pain from the roughened leather and the force the man exerted. The second blow caught him just below his shoulder blades. He gasped as the third stroke bit into the tender flesh across the small of his back where the baton had already left a darkening bruise.

After that, he couldn't identify where the individual blows landed. The pain continued to spread across his back and shoulders. Occasionally the forceful strokes fell even lower, across his buttocks. In spite of the steel of his determination, he couldn't stay silent. Fists clenched, he jerked futilely against the ropes each time he was struck. He knew he was crying out with each lash and he was ashamed that he couldn't stop himself. He prayed that he would pass out and at last, his prayers were answered.

Chris didn't have any idea how long he had been unconscious. The beating had stopped. He was still in the Warden's office, still spread-eagled across the desk. His body was on fire and he couldn't move at all. The intense pain was making him sick as well. He became aware of someone standing beside him. A hand brushed the damp hair away from his face. A cool, wet cloth was pressed against his cheek then his forehead. His eyes fluttered open. "Vin?"

Then his vision cleared a bit and the figure beside him came into focus. It was the Warden. He was smiling down at him in obvious pleasure at his agony. But Chris saw something else in the man's eyes. The evil gleam of anticipation. He shuddered in reaction.

"You..." Chris could barely speak through the pain and nausea.

"We're not finished just yet, Inmate 78. I wanted you awake for the next part."

The next part? Chris wondered what the hell else could the man do to him. He'd beaten him senseless. The second beating in less than a day. How could there be anything worse? The Warden moved out of his line of vision again and Chris had almost given in to the dizziness and closed his eyes when he felt hands on him.

His eyes flew open again as the hands moved around and under his waist, pulling him back against the ropes that tore against his raw wrists, bringing fresh waves of pain from the movement as his pants were unbuttoned. He had thought that his strength was completely gone but as he understood what the Warden's intent was, he bucked against the sharp edge of the desk in a futile attempt to stop him. His weak efforts were useless. The buttons gave and the britches were pulled down. He could feel the cooler air hit his skin and he shivered from the cold - and the fear.

The Warden began to run his hands over Chris's buttocks, lightly smoothing over the bruises that had already begun to darken the pale skin. He moved down to feel the muscles in his legs and Chris heard him laugh softly when he detected the trembling from the strain of his position. He moved back into Chris's view once again and this time he traced the taut muscles of his arms stretched above his head. Then he touched the bound man's cheek again in a sick semblance of a caress. Chris jerked his head as far away from that cold hand as he could.

"Don't touch me."

"You're in no position to give orders to anyone, Inmate 78. Especially to me. You're mine. I own you. You should realize that by now. I can do anything with you that I want."

Chris closed his eyes as if he could shut out the cold fear that had seized him in its icy grip. The man moved behind him again and he heard the Warden as he unfastened his own clothes and pushed them aside. Then he felt the man lean over him; heedless of the pain he was causing Chris as he pressed against the welts across his back and shoulders.

"You'll remember this for a long time, 78."

The words were whispered fiercely into his ear and then the weight was withdrawn temporarily and Chris could hear the Warden using one hand to stroke himself as he used the other to fondle Chris's buttocks. He heard the bastard's breathing become faster and louder as his excitement increased.

It didn't take the man long to become hard and he placed both hands on Chris's hips, moving to part him so that he could gain entrance to his helpless body. Chris tried to fight, to move, to do anything, but his weak efforts were useless. The ropes were too tight. He was exhausted, half-starved... helpless. Chris realized that he was truly beaten. Then he did something he thought he would never do. He began to beg.

"Don't do this. Please. Just... don't - do - it."

His voice broke with the strain and he realized that his pleas were having the opposite effect of what he had intended. He felt the Warden's erection become even harder as he pushed against Chris's tight opening. To his surprise and relief, the man drew away. But it was a temporary reprieve as he soon began to force himself into Chris again. He had only paused long enough to rub some kind of lubrication on his cock. Applying it between Chris's buttocks as well, he renewed his efforts and with the addition of the slick fluid slowly forced his way into Chris's body.

Chris didn't know how long the attack continued. The white-hot pain and, even worse, the horrible humiliation seemed to last forever. In reality, it couldn't have been longer than ten minutes or so from the time his pants were jerked down until the Warden began to thrust even quicker and harder into him, then sobbed out his release.

He withdrew from Chris a few moments later and Chris was aware that the attack had ceased but the agony from the rape only lessened slightly. He could feel moisture between his legs. He heard the man moving around and what sounded like water being poured into a basin. A few moments later he hissed again in renewed pain as he felt a wet cloth being pressed against the bruised and torn skin between his buttocks and then further down the inside of his thighs.

A second cloth was applied after the first and from the stinging it might have been some kind of antiseptic. After he was cleaned the cloth was removed and his pants were pulled back up over his hips. The Warden held his limp body up slightly and closed the buttons on his uniform pants.

The man must have also cleaned himself and adjusted his own clothing. When he moved into Chris's view he was dressed and had even tucked the white shirt neatly back into the waistband of his pants. The events of the last few hours would have seemed like a nightmare except for the agony of his back and shoulders and the fire from where he had been cruelly penetrated.

"You will be taken back to the infirmary. I'll allow the Doctor to see to your back and side. You can remain there for a short time then you will be required to begin working again. The Doctor knows to say nothing to anyone about this. I would advise you to do the same. I hope I do not have to repeat this disciplinary action."

The last words were spoken as the Warden bent down so that he could see Chris's face. He wanted to judge the amount of pain and humiliation the arrogant gunslinger had endured at his hands. He thought he had broken this man completely. He wasn't prepared for the husky whisper Chris managed to rasp out.

"You - are - a - dead - man."

The matter of fact statement took him aback momentarily. He suddenly remembered what this prisoner had said to him and to the sheriff when they explained the simple procedure for being released. All he had to do was contact a family member or a friend and produce five hundred dollars.

The Warden paused when he recalled both the words and the chilling tone of the earlier remark spoken to him and Quince in this very room, "If I get out, I'm comin' back. And I'll take you both down." Then he realized this man was helpless to carry out any threats he made. His bravado returned and he smiled smugly down at his victim.

Chris heard the Warden's heavy steps as he crossed the room and opened the door. Two of the guards must have been waiting nearby. They followed the Warden back into his office and listened to his instructions. Chris could hear them talking but he was beginning to drift in and out of consciousness and he couldn't understand what they were saying.

He felt one of the men use a knife to saw through the ropes holding his ankles and wrists to the desk. It took both of the men to get him to his feet but he couldn't stand without help. They lifted him between them and he was carried back across the open yard to the infirmary. Pushing him face down on one of the beds, they fastened a shackle from one wrist to the iron rail. A thin blanket was thrown over him, the lantern was extinguished and he was left alone in the dark.

He was completely miserable with the pain of the vicious beating and the shame he felt from the brutal attack that had followed. His numbed mind kept repeating one thought over and over. No one could ever know what had happened. No one. Not even Vin. Especially Vin.

For several months he had slowly begun to realize what the quiet younger man meant to him. He knew he should have been shocked and even felt guilt about what he wanted for the two of them. He had almost accepted his feelings; especially when they were alone and he sensed that Vin felt the same way about him. He had come to realize that it was only a matter of time before one of them approached the other.

The attraction had deepened with their time together. And now--if he managed to get out of here alive would his feelings change? What would Vin's reaction be if he knew? Had the Warden robbed him of more than even he realized? Finally he slipped into a state of half-sleep, half unconsciousness. He was unaware of the gradual lightening of the sky. It was almost morning.

Chris Larabee hesitated a long, anxious moment in the doorway of the infirmary before stepping forward to face the varied populace of the work camp. Stomach churning uneasily at the prospect but outwardly calm, he drew on what little strength he had left. It had been two days, well, two days and three nights counting the horror of that first night that he had rested fitfully within its relative sanctuary.

With a gut-wrenching effort that was as much mental as physical, he descended from the narrow porch of the building into the activity of the open yard. He shuffled forward clumsily; his ankles shackled again, and joined the ragged line of men forming to pick up their tools. The prisoners were preparing to begin the tasks of digging into the earth and hauling the dirt and rocks from one point to another today just as they had yesterday and as they would tomorrow.

In obedience to the Warden's warning and at Chris's quiet request that no one else know the truth about the extent of the second cruel beating, the Doctor had apparently explained his absence from the work gangs as a necessary recovery period from his head wound.

The old man had cleaned and treated the welts, bruises and abrasions that marked Chris's back, shoulders and buttocks as best he could with what he had to work with. All he could do for his torn wrists was to use some of the small supply of cheap whiskey to wash out the strands of hemp adhering to the ragged tears, then wrap them tightly with strips of cloth he had boiled and let cool.

Chris did not tell the old man what else he had endured. He had not bled any more and the piercing pain where he had been penetrated had lessened--first to a dull ache, then to soreness that he could stand. Now he would have to be very careful and bide his time until Vin and the others found him or he made his own way out of this hellhole.

As he reached the rack of tools and bent to pick up a shovel, the big colored guard, Mr. Phillips, spoke to him, "You take it easy out there, 78."

He nodded in surprise and was puzzled further when two of the other prisoners smiled at him as he limped painfully through the gate. Did they think he had done something extraordinary by stepping in to protect a helpless man from a sadistic bully?

As he managed to move a little further outside the main gate towards the work area, he glimpsed the three brothers he had fought waiting directly in his path. He groaned inwardly knowing that he was in bad shape; he could barely walk with the constant pain from the beatings.

There was no way he would be able to hold his own with them again. But instead of threats or an immediate attack, the prisoner who had instigated the earlier confrontation only asked one hesitant question.

"How's Inmate 46 doin'?"

Chris paused for a moment in surprise at the genuine concern in the rough man's voice.

"Doc says he's better."

Then, as the three men turned to go, Chris added, "You were right. I shoulda winged your cousin. I was a different man then."

The oldest of the Lawless brothers looked at Chris for a long moment and an understanding formed between the two. "We all were."

Chris fidgeted nervously, not knowing if there was anything else he should say. Then he nodded and made his way past his fellow prisoners.

He was a very different man now than the gunfighter for hire who had finished a particularly lucrative job and gone to Dodge City to celebrate. So much had happened to change him.

It had all started with one look across a dusty street in what Chris had assumed to be just one more in a series of towns to either fight or get drunk in. Maybe both. A glance into the eyes of a man who had become first a comrade in arms, then a friend, and now . .. now what would he and Vin be to each other? If Vin ever found out that he was damaged goods...

He shook his head in an attempt to put the disturbing thought of facing Vin out of his mind for now. First he had to get out of here. And before that he had to just make it through today.

The morning wasn't as bad as he had feared it would be. He found himself always surrounded by an ever-changing group of prisoners who kept themselves between him and the view of the guards. This allowed him to work at a slower pace and he was given the lighter tasks. Moving awkwardly and in pain, he managed to make only a slight contribution to the mound of debris.

Chris was deeply touched by what these men were doing for him. All the prisoners, the wrongfully incarcerated along with the ones who truly belonged in prison participated in his protection. He didn't think they knew what had happened to him other than what the Warden had done in full view of them all, but his intervention on the behalf of the sick man had given him a sort of special status.

There was the usual brief break for what passed as a meal. He swallowed some of the stale bread and what he could manage to get down from the unappetizing mess on the tin plate. Mostly he drank as much water as he could. Then, all too soon, they were ordered back to work.

As the afternoon wore on the temperature dropped and a light drizzle began to fall. The low clouds turned the gray of his surroundings even duller and more depressing in its sameness. It was just enough rain to slowly soak the men and chill them thoroughly before the end of the day was called. Exhausted, they all picked up their tools and began filing back to the barracks.

As Chris concentrated on just getting one foot in front of the other and not slipping in the muddy yard, he heard the Warden's hated voice call loudly to him.

"Inmate 78! Get over here."

The man was standing to the side of the line of prisoners with Phillips and another guard escorting him. Chris had noticed that he wisely never walked through the area alone.

Chris hesitated to obey the harsh command and the Warden gestured to him with a gloved hand to come to where he was waiting. Seeing no option but to obey, he walked nearer and rested his weight on the shovel he was still holding.

The Warden looked him over with some curiosity as to how he had managed through a long day of hard labor. He would have liked to keep this one around for some further private amusement, but after speaking with Sheriff Quince he knew that wasn't possible. The man who was wanted in Texas for murder, Vin Tanner, and five other pistoleros were waiting around Jericho and hadn't been deterred by the stone walls of silence they had encountered. He would have to get rid of this one. Now.

"You have a talent for making trouble. I don't like that."

Chris eyed the man warily. He had the feeling this was going to get bad again. Very quickly. He swallowed his pride and replied with caution.

"I'll work on it, sir."

Chris turned to go; hoping that he could avoid whatever the man was planning.

"You just spit on my shoes, Inmate 78."

"I didn't spit on your shoes, sir."

The Warden's voice hardened with anger. He had wanted, no he needed, a reaction from this prisoner to the baiting.

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"No... sir."

Good. The Warden almost smiled at Chris's hesitation before adding what he had informed him was the "proper appellation" when he was addressed.

"Clean it up, Inmate 78."

"I didn't spit on your shoes." There wasn't even a hint of respect in Chris's voice now. He realized that it didn't matter what he said or how he said it.

"Two days in The Hole... or clean my boots, boy!"

Phillips, the guard who had spoken kindly to Chris earlier in the day, stepped forward at this outrageous order.

"Sir, if you put him in The Hole again he's gonna die."

The Warden couldn't believe he was being defied by one of his best men. His anger was now apparent as he verbally attacked the tall guard.

"Back away, Mr. Phillips."

Chris's carefully reined in temper flared at the heated exchange and he gave in to it with no thought to the consequences.

"Clean 'em yourself, you fat cow!"

Another guard had positioned himself a bit behind and to the side of Chris as the Warden and Phillips exchanged words. At Chris's defiant statement, he slammed his wooden baton into the back of Chris's knees. Chris went down immediately with a harsh cry of pain. He managed to support himself and keep from falling completely into the mud by grasping the shovel he still held.

The Warden now had exactly what he wanted. Open defiance to him by a prisoner in front of witnesses. His voice chilled Chris with one sentence more than the cold rain had all afternoon.

"Eight days in The Hole. Take him away, Mr. Phillips."

"I will not, sir."

The Warden glanced at the man he treated as a sort of assistant in astonishment, then gestured to two other guards. Chris was pulled roughly to his feet and dragged away towards the pit where he had begun his stay in this cursed place. He didn't hear the Warden telling Phillips that he was finished and to be out of his sight before morning.

There were mutterings by some of the prisoners as the guards shoved them aside. Chris was half-led and half-dragged to the iron bars. None of the men tried to help him, however, as the guards made a point of brandishing their rifles as they advanced toward The Hole.

The grating was lifted and Chris was pushed roughly in. Replacing the cover and locking it securely the guards walked away. He retreated to a corner and wrapped his arms around himself, trying to fend off the weakness, the pain and the numbing wet cold. He was alone again with only his thoughts and the overpowering smell of the damp earth swirling around him like a freshly dug grave.

As the sporadic gunfire died down to one final shot of warning over the heads of the guards, Ezra and J.D. corralled the now passive and weaponless men in one section of the yard. They would be easy to watch now, even for two of them.

The guards had ceased to resist their attackers quickly when a few of their number were slightly wounded. After all, the pay at the work camp wasn't that much more than herding cattle. It surely wasn't worth getting shot or dying for.

Josiah was instantly at Nathan's side and saw that the bullet in his shoulder was still embedded in the flesh, although not very deeply. Grabbing a bandanna from his pocket, he folded it and pressed the thick cloth against the wound to stop the flow of blood. Nathan gasped in pain and confusion, disconcerted to be on the receiving end of this treatment but he held still, trusting Josiah to take care of him.

After a quick glance ascertaining their comrades had the situation under control, Buck and Vin began to search the camp. Both men were frantic to locate Chris.

Buck had found Chris first. He didn't even know it was Chris until he heard his name called softly by the apparition advancing awkwardly from the mist. Buck stood in shock as Chris's knees gave way and he collapsed. Buck holstered his gun and ran to Chris's aid, instantly lifting his friend out of the cold mud. He shook his head in disbelief. Was this light burden covered with filth and a sodden prison uniform really Chris Larabee?

Chris had been weaving wearily away from what appeared to be bars laid over a hole in the ground. There were two bodies lying sprawled near the grated opening. Those two weren't going anywhere. They would keep. It was only Chris that mattered now.

Buck clutched Chris tightly in his arms, still taken aback by his condition and wondering what in hell had happened here. The thin form moved closer to Buck and with a chill of horror he realized that if he and the others had arrived even a day later...

Vin appeared out of the mist and rain just as Buck slid his arms around Chris, lifting him up, as he would have a child.

Vin had been working his way methodically over the fenced-in area and had circled around almost to where he had started. He holstered his mare's leg as well when he saw that Buck was carrying someone cradled in his arms. And that someone was Chris Larabee.

"Get Nathan."

"Nathan's hit. He's with Josiah and a man who says he's a real doc. They're gettin' him inside."

With Buck carrying Chris easily, Vin pointed out the lighted windows of the small building where Josiah had moved Nathan.

Buck noticed a larger structure that appeared to be in much better repair. There was even smoke swirling from a chimney, curling up through the mist to disappear into the waning night. Smoke meant a fire and a fire meant warmth. Warmth for Chris and a means to heat water to get him cleaned up and comfortable, maybe even get some hot food for him.

He pointed this out to Vin and veered his steps in that direction. Chris moved restlessly as he realized Buck's destination was the Warden's office.

"No."

It wasn't much more than a whisper, but Vin felt the tone of his best friend's voice more than he understood the word.

Buck, naturally, began to argue, "But, Chris..."

"NO!"

The strength of the protest startled both men and when Chris even began to struggle weakly against Buck's hold on him, Buck abruptly veered his steps back to the smaller infirmary building.

It was only when Vin pushed the wet hair away from Chris's face and spoke to him as softly as he would have to a skittish horse that the injured man relaxed again.

"Easy there, cowboy. I ain't gonna let nothin' else happen to you. Nothin'. Not ever again."

"I know... "

The slurred whisper faded as Chris slumped even deeper into Buck's arms. Vin was with him now. He could rest. Sleep. Everything would be all right. Just as long as nobody knew. Just as long as Vin didn't find out.

When Vin thrust the infirmary door open on it's rusting hinges, allowing Buck to enter with Chris in his arms, they were met with a scene from Hell. The oil lamps sputtered in the wave of cooler air they allowed to penetrate the area. Beneath the dancing shadows Josiah was holding Nathan as still as possible on a narrow bunk at the front of the room. A tall man wearing a prison uniform was attempting to remove the bullet from Nathan's bleeding shoulder. Nathan was gasping with pain and Josiah had a pale but determined look on his face to see this through. With a triumphant last effort, the doctor held the bullet up at the end of his forceps and Nathan collapsed onto the blankets in relief.

"Got it. Now we need to make sure the wound is clean and close it up."

Josiah glanced at the grim little procession as Buck wound his way through the beds and past the small tables and their pitifully sparse store of supplies. He knew that with both Buck and Vin attending their leader, Chris was in good hands.

Buck laid Chris down gently on the bunk farthest away from where Nathan was being treated. He had the uneasy feeling that Chris was going to need privacy - more than he usually did if that were possible.

Vin knelt at Chris's side instantly. He'd grabbed a couple of thin blankets from the empty bunks they'd passed and he threw them at the foot of the bed. He began unbuttoning Chris's soaking shirt with fingers made clumsy by cold and concern. Vin knew he should begin drying and warming the injured man.

With Josiah and the doctor taking care of Nathan and Vin helping Chris, Buck spoke softly to tell the men he was going to check on J.D. and Ezra. He wanted to let them know he'd be back after he made certain the others were all right.

Buck paused with his hand on the doorknob and glanced back to the bunk against the wall. Maybe he should stay with Chris... but no, Chris didn't need him right now. The doctor was here when - or if - he was needed. Vin was at Chris's side, as it seemed he always was.

"As if he always will be." Buck shook his head at the twinge of whatever emotion seeing the two of them together brought to him. It was a shameful feeling and he refused to give it a name, to acknowledge its heavy presence in his chest. He turned the knob and went back into the chill night.

Vin was finally able to get the uniform shirt unbuttoned and off Chris's shaking shoulders. When the shirt and his own sleeve came away smeared with blood, he paused a moment before leaning Chris farther forward against his chest so he could determine where his friend was injured.

"Son of a bitch!"

Vin's low but fervent exclamation of anger drew both Josiah's and the doctor's attention.

"What the hell happened to him?"

Leaving Josiah with Nathan, the Doctor moved to assist Vin if he were needed.

"The Warden beat him. Your friend stood up to the bastard."

The tall man gestured to another prisoner asleep on a bunk near the door. Vin was startled at the sight of the patient. He hadn't even noticed the still form.

"He kept the Warden from killin' that one. Didn't even know him. Reckon when the Warden saw he couldn't break your friend, he figgered to just kill him."

Vin was shaken by the cruelty of the casual remark. Buck had said Chris was probably holed up in a whorehouse. Vin had assumed he just wanted to be away from everyone and was in a saloon somewhere, drunker than hell. If Mrs. Travis hadn't kept insisting that something was wrong and started sending telegrams...

He clamped down on his guilt-filled thoughts firmly. "Not now, Tanner!" He could flay himself later; Chris needed help.

Vin discarded the wet shirt. He laid Chris back onto the bunk and pulled off his boots. As he began to unbutton the flimsy uniform pants, he saw the neat row of stitches on Chris's side.

"You patch him up?"

"Yep. He got in a dogfight with three of the meanest scum this place has to offer."

Vin gave the aged physician a tiny hint of the dry humor that Chris appreciated so much.

"Sounds like Chris."

"That his name?"

"You sewed him up. Looks like you tried to bandage him after that bastard beat him. And you don't even know his name?"

"Ain't no names here. Just numbers."

Seeing that he was neither needed nor particularly wanted at this bedside, he returned to his initial concern. He'd removed the bullet from the black man's shoulder, cleaned and closed the injury. He'd help the big man get him comfortable. Then he could sit down. God, he'd really like a drink. A real drink.

Vin paused again in his efforts to peel the wet pants away from Chris so he could get him warm. The old man's words echoed with a feeling of hopelessness. Numbers. No names. Numbers. Not Larabee. Not Tanner. Nothing to hold onto.

Shaking his head slightly, he resumed the task at hand. Get Chris taken care of. He's hurt. Wet and cold. Half-starved. Been beat like a dog. Hell, looks like he's been whipped.

Chris stirred uneasily as Vin removed the last of the wet rags that covered him. The doctor had given him what would pass as a large towel. He began to use the cloth to remove the dampness from Chris's battered skin and gently rub some warmth back into him.

As Chris's eyes fluttered open, Vin finished tucking him into the second blanket and settled him back onto the bed. He laid Chris's head down on the thin pillow and felt his forehead for any sign of a fever.

"Vin?"

"Right here, pard."

"Buck?"

"He'll be right back. Checkin' on Ezra and J.D. And some purdy unhappy guards."

Chris closed his eyes again. Was this real? Was Vin really beside him? Was the nightmare over? Then his eyes flew open again as the thought slammed into him: Or was the nightmare only beginning? Did Vin know? Did he? DID HE???

"Easy, Chris. Easy now."

Vin was looking at him. It was a look of concern, puzzlement and maybe even anger. But nothing else was there. He knew the man too well to believe that he was hiding anything from him. Chris tore his eyes away as he realized that if he knew Vin that well, how well did Vin know him?

"Chris."

"Yeah, Vin."

"The man that did this... to you. Is he one of the men layin' by that pit?"

"Yeah."

"Wish ya hadn't done that already, pard. It would have been better my way."

Chris gave Vin a questioning look. What was his friend talking about? What way?

"Your way?"

Vin kept adjusting the folds of the blankets around Chris as tightly as he could against the cool air in the small room. He spoke softly as he worked.

"It was quite a while back. In the desert. I was hid in a little draw in some rocks with mesquite pulled over me. Above a Commanchero camp. Figgered to steal back the horses they'd stole from the tribe I was livin' with. Hadn't counted on 'em decidin' it'd be right entertainin' to execute one of their own fer thieving' off of 'em."

Chris's eyes grew wide as Vin described the method the renegades had used to ensure the unlucky man's death would be tortured and slow. By the time Vin finished, Chris was beginning to regret the relatively swift and easy way he had dispatched the Warden and Quince.

It was with the ghost of his former sardonic grin that he acknowledged Vin's efforts to make him comfortable. Physically. And mentally.

"Remind me not to get you riled up."

Vin nodded a bit absently. Now that he'd gotten Chris warm, he needed to see about his injuries. He had an uneasy feeling that Chris was going to fight him over the next part.

There was some emotion sliding around Chris's face and behind those unreadable eyes. Vin didn't know what had happened here. The tracker's instincts that had been honed by years on the trail, hunting buffalo and hunting bounties, were now prodding at him to hunt out the truth.

He settled back on the spindly stool he had pulled up beside the bunk. This was going to be another long night.

Dawn was slow and uncertain breaking over the work camp and it's restless inhabitants. Heavy clouds hung low in the leaden sky and added to the oppressive atmosphere and the tension that shrouded the men within the fenced enclosure.

Vin Tanner sprawled on his chair beside the bed where Chris Larabee lay. Vin had stayed at Chris's side watching over him through the long night, only moving to stretch his tired, cramped muscles occasionally and make sure he remained alert if Chris needed him.

Chris had slept a few minutes at a time, only to jerk awake startled and unsure of where he was. Each time he woke or even stirred restlessly, Vin spoke softly to him. Sometimes he laid a comforting hand on his arm or shoulder. Each time Chris quieted at the low words and the gentle touch, turning toward the reassuring voice.

Vin knew that with the coming of day there were decisions to be made. As the night had passed, Chris slept more quietly and for longer periods than before and Vin was about to wake Josiah from his post at Nathan's bedside. He was just preparing to ask him to watch both the men while he checked with the others when Buck appeared in the doorway as though he sensed he was needed.

Vin rose and stretched slowly, attempting to ease the ache in his muscles and gather his thoughts simultaneously. Josiah stirred in the chair he had been dozing in. At the sound of the door quietly closing, he stood as well to join Vin and Buck.

The men conferred in hushed voices and both Vin and Josiah were relieved to discover that Ezra had stepped in and ascertained which of the guards had been aligned with the Warden and Sheriff Quince. Most of the men in the employ of the work camp had merely been following orders. Only a few hard cases, hand-picked by the Warden, were aware of the kidnapping and extortion.

J. D. and Buck had alternated standing watch all night while Josiah and Vin had remained with their wounded comrades, but there had been no trouble.

Buck recounted what Ezra had learned of the conditions at the camp and the brutal treatment the Warden and the Sheriff had perpetuated on not only the legitimate prisoners but innocent men as well.

Daniel Phillips had been pointed out as the most responsible and prepared guard in the camp who could take responsibility. His shock at the duplicity of the Warden was genuine and Ezra trusted the man immediately.

Phillips had helped Ezra search the office building, scanning the paperwork and ledgers to find the documents separating the names of the prisoners legally incarcerated from the men who were unfortunate victims.

Accepting the temporary authority a bit reluctantly, Phillips was already making arrangements to release the men who were there unjustly and to hold the guards who had been involved in the extortion operation with the two dead men.

The cold, stiff bodies of the Warden and Quince had been unceremoniously laid in the back of the same enclosed wagon that had transported Chris to the camp after his trial. They would be sent into Jericho for burial.

With the army on the way in response to the wire from Phillips the night before, none of the members of The Larabee Gang, as J. D. continued to call them, wanted to remain within the prison any longer than necessary. But with Chris and Nathan hurt, they needed to plan for the possibilities.

An agreement was reached. Buck, J. D. and Ezra would make preparations to leave if Nathan felt that he and Chris were able to ride without further injury to either man. Vin and Josiah would stay with Chris and Nathan until the horses were saddled and ready.

Buck had brought a parcel to Vin from the Warden's office where Ezra had discovered the personal belongings of some of the prisoners. He had wrapped Chris's pants, shirt and vest in clean towels. Vin took the bundle gratefully. Chris would need to resume his life, even if only a piece at a time.

And Vin knew what Chris's answer would be when he was asked if he was able to ride. He was right.

"...or we can leave this mornin'. Nathan says he's able to travel, so long as we take it slow. But it's your call."

Clothed temporarily in a loose fitting but clean pair of pants and a faded shirt borrowed from one of the guards, Chris was sitting on the edge of the same bed where he had spent a troubled night. Buck had just finished filling him in on the rest of the events after he'd collapsed and the information Ezra had gathered.

Buck had been watching Chris carefully as his friend determinedly attempted to swallow a few bites of the fried eggs and bread Buck had brought for him. In spite of his gaunt appearance, Chris didn't seem to be particularly hungry and had been much more interested in the steaming pot of coffee Buck had balanced across the compound in one hand with the plate and two cups in the other.

Chris's shrunken stomach wouldn't allow him to consume much food at one sitting, but he felt thirsty all the time.

He lifted the tin cup again and regarded Buck briefly over the rim before he appreciatively sipped the strong brew.

"I can ride."

Buck nodded and left to finish the preparations to travel and to inform the others of Chris's expected decision. There was no need in arguing with Chris. And this time Buck agreed with his stubborn friend. Even though he was still hurt bad and pitifully weak, Buck sensed that Chris needed to be out of this hellish place as soon as possible.

Vin returned from his own hurried meal a few minutes after Buck strode across the enclosure towards J.D. and Ezra. Josiah had remained in the kitchen area of the camp with Nathan, helping him to eat and reassuring him that they could probably be on their way home later in the day.

Vin busied himself rigging up a couple of blankets thrown over a length of rope that he strung across the corner of the room. Once the small area had been curtained off, Vin brought Chris two buckets of water; one hot and one cold and a couple of clean towels.

Pulling the curtains together, Vin quietly withdrew to the porch outside the infirmary door, leaving Chris alone to clean up a bit. After giving him what he'd judged to be enough time to finish, Vin walked back through the deserted infirmary and pushed the blanket aside to see if Chris needed any help getting dressed.

Vin started to speak, to ask Chris if he needed anything, but he couldn't utter a word. He stood speechless at the sight of Chris's injuries in the clear, cold light of morning.

Chris had retrieved his pants and was bent from his waist, gingerly pulling them up as Vin stepped into the enclosed area. Chris was unaware of the quiet man's presence and moved with obvious stiffness and pain from the cuts and bruises that marked his back and shoulders.

It wasn't the welts from the beating that had caught Vin's attention. Bad as they were, he'd seen the marks left by a whipping before.

There were two unusual bruises on Chris's sides that had caught his eye. The contusions stood out darkly against the pale skin, just above where his legs joined the curve of his buttocks. Dark, painful bruising that had been caused by applying a great deal of force.

Vin Tanner had learned to read signs on a trail when he was tracking game. When he began bounty hunting, he learned to read the expression on a wanted man's face that gave away the man's intent before he knew it himself.

He realized that the darkened areas were the impression left by the hands of a strong man. The man would have had to have been grasping Chris from behind with his thumbs pressing deeply into Chris's buttocks.

The knowledge of what else had happened to Chris hit Vin with sickening force. He felt dizzy with shock as he realized that Chris had endured something much worse than the brutal beating they all knew about. That sick bastard must have taken him while he was helpless, tied up and half dead from being beaten.

Chris picked up his shirt from the bed and began to stiffly force first one arm, then the other through the sleeves. With the garment shrugged painfully over his shoulders, he turned as he began to work the buttons closed.

Vin was still standing with the makeshift curtain pushed partly aside. He was frozen in horror at what he surmised had happened to Chris. Before he could compose his features, Chris looked straight at him and saw the knowledge of the loathsome act the Warden had perpetrated on him reflected on Vin's face.

Long moments passed in dead silence. Neither man moved though the desire to take some kind of action was overwhelming for both of them.

One emotion after another raced across Chris's taut face like shadows thrown on the wintery ground from storm clouds moving across the sun. Vin saw and recognized each thought as Chris relived his fear, pain and the final humiliation of being taken against his will.

Chris Larabee lowered his eyes in shame... and defeat.

Time stood still. Chris Larabee had read those words in more than one novel, hurriedly skimming past the statement to get to the next part of the story. In his opinion the authors used the trite expression merely to delay progress or prolong anticipation. He had always turned the pages impatiently, anxious to continue with the narrative.

Chris fully understood the phrase now. Time seemed to have halted its inevitable progress temporarily for the two men posed in the awkward tableaux. Vin remained as still as a statue half way through the entrance to the small enclosure, one hand holding back the temporary barrier. Chris stood directly opposite him beside the bunk, his shirt only half-buttoned and loose outside his pants.

Chris's elegant hands were stilled, his blonde head bowed, his green eyes intently studying the uneven planks of the crudely constructed floor. He couldn't stay like this forever, but right now he couldn't bring himself to move.

The realization that Vin was aware of the violent act he had fallen victim to made his stomach tighten to a hard knot, then clench in spasms of nausea. Chris remained motionless under the assault-his body and his mind had betrayed him once. He would not allow it to happen again.

Chris's aching head was filled with a dizzying flurry of questions Vin's knowledge raised. Did any of the other men suspect? Would Vin feel compelled to talk to Nathan about his injuries or to Josiah concerning the damage to his spirit? Now that Vin was aware of what had happened, would he still claim Chris as his friend?

Chris's thoughts were fixed on the enormity of the events of the last two weeks. He'd been taken by another man - taken forcibly - raped! And Chris had sensed that his relationship with Vin was evolving into a more complex one.

Vin read the hopelessness in Chris's downcast posture. He had been on his own since he was very young, leading a hard life in a hard land, but he had never met anyone as tough, honorable and proud as this man he had accepted as leader-and friend. Now Chris's whole attitude had changed from cocky self-confidence to total defeat. His descent into despair was breaking Vin's heart.

Drawing in a shaky breath, Vin stepped forward and broke the spell. He raised both hands hesitantly, then placed them firmly on Chris's shoulders. There was no acknowledgment from Chris.

Vin moved his right hand to gently lift Chris's chin, turning his face towards him. The knowledge of the atrocity Chris had endured was erased. Vin's expression now showed concern, confusion and anger. But there was no revulsion or disgust for Chris to read there. Instead, Chris was startled to see tears brimming in Vin's eyes.

Chris tried to move away from Vin, to retreat. He was still suffused with shame. But Vin Tanner was having none of it. He held onto Chris firmly, willing the reassuring warmth of his feelings to flow into the devastated man. Gaining Chris's full focus, he slowly shook his head from side to side, his eyes never leaving Chris.

Chris read the silent communication from Vin as he always had from the moment they met, and he understood the significance of each deliberate movement Vin made.

No. Don't shut me out...

No. Don't give up...

No. Don't let that bastard win...

Chris knew the actual words would come later. They might talk in the evening over the glowing embers of a dying campfire. Maybe they would speak about these events while they were out riding, away from town and the curious, prying eyes there.

Vin swallowed hard, finally regaining enough control to speak. His usually soft voice was now rough with emotion and unshed tears.

"Chris, I cain't tell you that nothin's changed. Hell, everything's changed! Except me."

With those words, Vin released Chris's chin but he kept his other hand on his shoulder. This time Chris didn't lower his eyes. Head held high, he returned Vin's intense gaze, tentatively placing his left hand on Vin's shoulder in return.

The bond between the volatile hired gun and the quiet tracker had been tested more than once-and had withstood the challenge, but never like this.

A tiny spark of hope had been kindled in Chris with Vin's honest, caring words and the comfort he felt from Vin's touch. Chris took a deep breath and nodded his head. He released Vin and returned to the task of getting dressed. Chris knew that it would take a long time to recover from this trauma. He realized that physical and emotional scars might remain. But now he knew that he wouldn't be alone.

The last button was fastened and the less-than-pristine white shirt tucked into the black pants. Vin handed Chris his gunbelt and he strapped the rig on with a sense of regaining a bit of what he had lost during his imprisonment. Chris retrieved his hat from the small table and turned back to Vin, signaling that he was ready to join Buck and the others who had been patiently waiting for them outside.

"Let's do this."

Vin led the way from the porch of the infirmary to the middle of the prison yard. The inmates had gathered to hear Mr. Phillips' explanation of the gunfight and the death of the Warden and Sheriff Quince. Phillips then asked Josiah to call out the names of the men who were to be released.

Josiah's deep baritone rang through the resulting silence like the voice of judgment, literally separating the two sections of the work camp. After he read the last name, Josiah handed the ledger back to Daniel Phillips, Acting Warden.

"You're free to go." Josiah nodded to the small group of prisoners whose names he had called.

"None of us knew about the ransoms." Phillips' tone was still unbelieving that the Warden and Sheriff Quince had maintained this shameful travesty literally under his nose.

The tall guard turned to Chris as he extended his hand. The gesture meant the world to him-he'd known that this particular inmate was more than he'd been told.

"You're in charge now. It's up to you to change things."

"You can be sure of it." Daniel Phillips did not give his word lightly, and his sincere tone prompted a slight smile of approval from Chris.

Chris turned as Vin stepped to his side and handed him the reins. Vin knew that no matter how badly Chris was hurting he wouldn't accept assistance so Vin didn't even try to help him mount the black gelding they'd recovered from the work camp's corral. By the time he'd gracefully swung up onto Peso, Chris was as settled for the journey as he was going to get.

"Boys, let's get the hell out of here."

The guard on the tower called out for the prisoners to stay back from the gate as The Larabee Gang moved forward.

Chris made a final gesture to the Lawless brothers as he rode past them. He touched his hat in a silent acknowledgment of their earlier conflict and the partial lifting of the burden of at least one death he was responsible for. The three men nodded in return.

Seven riders passed through the gate and turned onto the dusty road, heading east toward home.

THE END