The two men and horses were beyond exhaustion, having traveled over 40 miles today. The latest assignment from Territorial Circuit Judge Orin Travis had taken them far east of the little town they called home, and they were pushing hard to get back.

The unlikely pair had now spent 11 days in each other's company, and both men's patience was worn thin….to say the least.

The shorter of the two men had already decided that he was going to resign his position as one of the "Magnificent Seven" as soon as he stepped foot back into that dusty little town. He had been hired three years ago to protect Four Corners, not go traipsing off halfway across the country to ensure delivery of someone else's gold.

Truth be told, the taller man was also annoyed at how the seven's responsibilities seemed to be shifting lately. Missions that originally focused only on the area within a day or two's ride of town now had the men traveling over 200 miles to escort a stagecoach into Indian Territory carrying gold that didn't help them or their little town.

"Mr. Larabee, the horses simply cannot go any further today," the younger, well-dressed man pointed out. They were miles from civilization, and it would mean big trouble if a horse came up lame.

"Yeah," the fair-haired man reluctantly agreed, "we'll camp up on the hill and let the horses water over by the stream."

The men stopped, unsaddled their mounts, and gathered the food and belongings they would need for the night. Chaucer and Pony immediately helped themselves to the fresh water and green grass nearby.

Chris Larabee and Ezra Standish plopped down on a felled log, drank some water, and had a meager supper. After being in each other's company for so long now, the men had run out of things to talk about. So, after eating, they each lay down, intending to catch up on some much-needed rest.

M7M7M7M7M7M7M7

Larabee was awoken a few hours later by the whinnying and snorting of the horses. Probably a snake or a mouse, his brain tried to reason, but his gut told him different. He lay awake listening. It was five minutes later that he heard someone talking softly. He could tell that the voice was from an Indian, probably a Comanche in these parts…..likely trying to steal their beloved horses.

"Hey!" Chris jumped up and yelled, hoping that the Comanche were young and easily scared away. He fired his Colt in the air to let them know he was armed. Ezra was wide awake now as well with his Remington pointed into the blackness. The men could not risk shooting in the direction of the intruders; they could very well hit their own horses.

Arrows began to fly, and Chris and Ezra ran further up the hill to take cover behind some trees. The natives did not pursue them; they simply took the horses and rode away.

"Shit!" Chris kicked the nearest tree and yelled. "What the hell are we gonna do without horses out here in the middle of fuckin' nowhere!?" Larabee sat on a rock and put his head in his hands.

Ezra didn't know what to say. All he could think was that now he wasn't even going to make it back to Four Corners to resign.

"We gotta get 'em back," Chris said quietly.

"Excuse me? Are you suggesting that we pursue a tribe of savages?" Ezra knew very well the reputation of the Comanche Indians. Their very own tracker, Vin Tanner, had lived with them for a time and often spoke of the ingenious and excruciatingly-painful forms of torture that they used on captives.

"Yeah, I suppose I am," Larabee sighed.

Standish huffed in frustration. "Let us go back to the nearest town, buy some horses, and get the hell out of this God-forsaken place."

"Have you forgotten that it is two days' ride to the nearest town, Ezra?"

"There is nothing wrong with my memory, Mr. Larabee. I believe that I witnessed a few homesteads between here and there that may be willing to rent us a wagon or take us to town...or possibly even sell us a horse for the right price."

"You can do what you want," Chris stood again and paced in the darkness, "I'm gonna get my horse back."

"Of course you will," Ezra then sat down on the log that Chris just vacated, "just before your scalp is removed and presented to you."

Chris sat back down next to Standish. He knew that everything the gambler said was true, but Larabee's mind had started formulating a plan anyway. "The Comanche rode east. We'll head that way first light and follow their tracks. If we find a homestead, we'll ask about buying horses or gettin' to town. If we find our horses…..well, I ain't gonna promise to walk away and leave 'em. Sound fair?"

"I suppose." Ezra leaned his head back on a nearby tree and closed his eyes. He knew it would be useless to try to go back to sleep tonight, so both men remained sitting until there was enough light to pack up the necessities and head on their way.

M7M7M7M7M7M7M7

No breakfast, no coffee, no words. The two men gathered their things and started walking. They had guns and gun belts, a knife, minimal food, bed rolls and a few toiletries. Their medical supplies, extra ammunition, and additional clothing and food stores had run away with the horses.

The men walked for two, painfully-quiet hours, squinting against the rising sun, when Larabee suddenly got the feeling that he and Ezra were no longer alone. They continued to follow the river, but the hill to the left had grown taller and rockier. Chris stopped, and his green eyes searched the surrounding area for signs of shadows or movement.

Ezra noticed that Larabee seemed ill at ease. "Did you hear something?" the southerner asked.

"No, just had a feelin' we were bein' watched."

Standish's own pale green eyes began to carefully take in the landscape. Just as he saw a flash of movement from the hill above, he heard his companion grunt in pain and felt a tug on his arm. Larabee was pulling him roughly amongst an outcropping of boulders, with an arrow sticking out of his left side. Arrows continued to bounce off of the rocks around them, and it seemed that the native or natives were getting closer.

"Can you see them?" Chris grunted out.

"I find myself hesitant to place my face in harm's way," Ezra answered, even though he was at that very moment trying to find a safe place to take a look. He finally found a narrow spot between two rocks that gave him a good view of the surrounding hillside, and there was no time for typical Ezra-speak once he saw what was happening. "Shit!"

"What?" Chris stood, knowing it was not going to be good news.

"Three of them, and they are just on the other side of these rocks."

Larabee and Standish crouched against the rocks to their right with guns in hand….and waited. Chris knew the adrenaline was helping to lessen the pain and keep him on his feet, but his side still felt like it was on fire.

Ezra stood, Remington in hand, with his back to the rock wall. Would the Comanche approach from in front of Larabee or behind himself? His heart was pounding and his hands were sweating. Standish had faced many opponents in numerous gun battles, but those were rules he understood. In a normal situation, if his opponent were the victor, the worst Ezra would face was death. The foe would come around the corner and shoot him. The Comanche were not known for inflicting a quick and/or painless death upon the white man when they got the upper hand in a fight.

What was taking so long? When Standish had last seen the tribesmen, they were less than 10 yards away. Just as Ezra started to say something to his companion, a Comanche in full face paint attacked Larabee. The southerner was trying to aim his weapon when someone grabbed him from behind.

Larabee punched and kicked at the brave for all he was worth, but he was the weaker opponent. The Comanche was young, strong, and hadn't been losing blood for the last 10 minutes. The brave threw the blond-haired man into the rocks and kicked him mercilessly in his wounded side, causing Chris to lose his gun. The injured peacekeeper curled in on himself and reached for the knife in his boot. When the young Comanche attacked again, Larabee struck out and stabbed him in the chest. The native collapsed, wide-eyed, to the ground. Chris got his wits back about him just in time to see the other two braves carrying an unconscious Ezra off into the hills.

M7M7M7M7M7M7M7

Chris slammed his back into the rocks and blinked against the tears of frustration that threatened to fall. What he wouldn't give for Vin or Buck….even JD to come riding up about now?

"All right, Larabee," he said out loud, "get a grip." He looked down at the arrow in his side and decided that was the first thing that was going to have to go. Although he was sweating and getting nauseous just thinking about it, Chris figured it would be easier to pull the arrow through the front than to push it out the back. So he reached around and broke the back end of the arrow off, placed his hands behind the tip sticking out the front side and started to pull.

"Jesus," he said as it quickly became apparent how difficult this was going to be. It felt like he was pulling his insides out right along with the arrow. Chris took a deep breath and tugged another couple of inches. The sweat poured out of his pores, and his body shook.

"They could be doin' worse things to Ezra right now," Larabee said as he gripped the arrow once again. He screamed as he pulled another few inches. It was slow-going, but he kept at it and inch by inch finally pulled the arrow shaft free from his body. Chris actually smiled when he held the arrow in his hand.

He stood slowly and walked towards the stream to wash the wound. The relief, blood loss, and reality of the situation seemed to hit him all at once. Larabee's body gave out and collapsed about 18 inches from the water's edge.

M7M7M7M7M7M7M7

Ezra woke up tied to a skinny tree in the middle of the Comanche camp. His head hurt, and he couldn't remember how he had gotten here until he saw his very own horse, Chaucer, eating happily on the edge of the camp. Damn Larabee for getting him into this mess…Larabee. Where the hell was Chris? Standish looked around, but there was no sign of his fellow peacekeeper. The last he had seen, the seven's leader was fighting a losing battle with another Comanche and was bleeding from an arrow wound to his side. Good Lord, was Chris dead?

The two braves who had carried Ezra to the camp were standing outside of one of three tipis or tents that had been set up. One looked at Standish and began gesturing wildly until both men walked over to where Ezra was seated. Standish had no idea what they were saying, but they did not sound happy. The taller of the two braves slapped the southerner hard across the cheek and made a motion of being stabbed in the chest. Ezra looked at the Comanche with questioning eyes. That only earned him another slap…this time busting his lip.

M7M7M7M7M7M7M7

Chris could hear the running water. He was unbelievably thirsty, but he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. He crawled towards the sound and finally when his face and body splashed into the cold stream, his eyes shot open. He fumbled around with limbs that seemed to weigh twice as much as they should and managed to mostly wash off the entrance and exit wound from the arrow. He cleaned off as much blood as he could from his clothing, splashed his face a couple more times and headed back up to look for his and Ezra's weapons.

How long had he been out, he wondered. It was nearly dark. Chris knew he needed to move faster, to hurry, but it was taking every bit of energy he had just to put one foot in front of the other. He hoped that the Comanche had not taken Ezra far, and that Ezra would still be alive when he got there. Where the hell were their guns?

M7M7M7M7M7M7M7

Standish could tell that the two Comanche were debating something. They kept pointing over the hill, and Ezra was beginning to suspect that Chris must have killed the third brave….since he had not reappeared since the attack. Maybe Larabee was still alive? Were these two thinking about going after him?

M7M7M7M7M7M7M7

Chris just happened to be looking up at the right time and saw the Comanche starting down the hill. The injured gunslinger quickly found a hiding place in the rocky embankment. He had used his shirt to tie up his wound and slow the bleeding, so hopefully he hadn't left much of a trail. Larabee now at least knew the general direction where they were likely keeping Ezra…..or his body.

M7M7M7M7M7M7M7

The scouting Comanche returned about an hour later with a deer for dinner but no Larabee. The two natives happily ate their meal in front of Standish, without offering the captive a single bite. This was even more annoying when it became apparent that it had been Standish's own gun and bullets that had shot the deer. The two Comanche had managed to pick up his and Chris' weapons sometime during the fight. That complicated things as far as a rescue….even if Larabee was still alive and physically-able to attempt such a thing.

The Comanche took turns sleeping in their tipi and watching their captive. The taller one was clearly the elder and meaner of the two. He would kick or spit at Standish as he walked past, and if he caught Ezra drifting off to sleep he would position himself right up against the white man's ear and scream a loud, Comanche cry. By morning, Ezra was stiff, sore, rattled, and utterly exhausted.

M7M7M7M7M7M7M7

Once night had fallen, Chris had been able to see and smell the smoke from the natives' campfire. Unfortunately, just as he had gotten in a position to try and attack the guard, the other Comanche had woken up for the day. Larabee cursed himself for being so slow, especially when he had to watch Mean Brave walk over to Standish first thing that morning and pull his hair. The brave placed a knife to Ezra's throat….allowing a thin trickle of blood to run down and soak into his coat. The Comanche was saying things that neither peacekeeper could understand, but the other brave found it very amusing.

After partaking in more of the deer meat for breakfast, the two braves sat around the fire for most of the morning. Ezra desperately needed to see to the call of nature, but he had no idea how to inform these gentlemen of that fact.

Chris had been sitting just over the hill, watching and waiting for a chance to rescue Ezra. He was growing steadily angrier at the situation…and at himself because he couldn't seem to keep his damn eyes open. The blood loss, unrelenting pain in his side, and lack of sleep and food were wearing heavily on the former gunman's body.

Ezra fought against exhaustion as well, but his bladder wasn't going to let him fall asleep anytime soon. "Pardon me, gentlemen."

The Comanche stopped their conversation and glared at Standish.

"Could you possibly untie me for just a moment? I have been stuck here for over 12 hours."

Bone tired or not, Chris was now on alert. He wasn't sure what Ezra was up to, but he knew this might be their only chance. If the braves did untie Standish, then he would have someone to help him fight….assuming Ezra wasn't hurt badly.

The two long-haired men approached the gambler, and Mean Brave said something.

Ezra didn't know how to answer, so he lifted his bound arms behind his back as far as he could and said again, "could you please untie me for just a moment?"

Shorter Brave walked to the edge of the forest at that very moment to see to his own call of nature, and Ezra motioned with his head, "need to go too."

Mean Brave shook his head like he finally understood. He pulled out a large hunting knife, and walked behind Ezra and cut the rope holding him to the spindly tree. Standish was pulled roughly to his feet and over to the edge of the camp. He was going to be allowed to see to the call of nature, but he was not going to be granted any privacy to do so.

Larabee was still biding his time, trying to decide when best to attack. He could see and hear the two Indians talking as they led the southerner back towards camp. They stopped abruptly, not far from the tree, and Mean Brave shoved the unsuspecting, white man to the ground. The two braves began screaming at each other and at Standish. Ezra tried to stand, but Mean Brave quickly pulled out his tomahawk and hit the southerner hard across his right temple. The impact made a sickening thump, and Standish immediately crumpled to the ground.

M7M7M7M7M7M7M7

Ezra drifted in and out of consciousness. When he awoke the first time, he found himself in one of the tipis. He looked down and discovered that he was unclothed with his privates covered only by a small buffalo skin. Other times when he would briefly regain consciousness, he could remember the two Comanche entering. They had stood over him and touched his exposed skin. What had they done to him? Had he been violated? His body hurt all over…from the unbelievable pain in his head all the way down to his legs. Had they tortured him with other objects? Lord, how could this be happening? He simply wanted to die.

The battered southerner forced himself to wake more fully when he heard both braves enter the tent, speaking in their native tongue. Ezra was horrified to see that they possessed large knives within their grip, and it appeared that Mean Brave was ordering Shorter Brave to do something. Standish nearly jumped out of his skin when the younger Comanche let out a blood-curdling scream. The native immediately proceeded to grab Ezra's thick, auburn hair, pulling the gambler to his knees.

Standish very quickly realized the man's intentions and began to cry out and struggle, but it was to no avail. He could feel his hair being cut and pulled from his head and could feel the blood running down the side of his face. Ezra was utterly shocked when he glanced at the doorway of the tipi and saw Chris Larabee's face…..smiling and laughing, as he passed out once again.