Author---Winnie

Type-----old west

Rating---Strong T-language and violence

Character—Chris Larabee, the seven

Disclaimers---Oh, hell, guess you found me out cause they keep telling me they're not

mine. No copyright infringement intended and no profit was made from the writing of this story.

Comments---This story was written for Kathy's birthday. Sorry it's late, but it just didn't

want to end. Feedback always welcome.

GUARDIAN ANGEL!!

Chris Larabee smiled contentedly as he mounted Pony. Home was still a day's ride to the north, yet he could feel the pull of his friends already. Somehow, over the last two years he'd come to think of the town as home and the six men he rode with as family. The little piece of heaven he owned an hour's ride from town was something he'd grown fond of. Putting a little of himself into each new addition. He sighed contentedly as he rode out of the canyon and into the open expanse of desert. He breathed deeply of the strong scent of desert wildflowers and began the journey home.

The hot sun continued it's trek across the clear blue skies and Chris reached for his canteen. He pulled the lid from it and tilted upwards, closing his eyes to ward off the blinding rays emanating from the brilliant orb overhead. He pulled the canteen away from his mouth and swiped at the mixture of sweat and dust on his forehead. His hat hung low over his eyes as Pony slowly put one hoof in front of the other. He replaced the canteen in his saddle and patted the beautiful animal on the right side of his sweaty neck.

"It's a hot one, Boy," he said as they continued to make their way towards home. Chris had no idea how long they were riding when gunfire erupted from behind him. He glanced over his head as he spurred Pony forward. He counted four men riding directly towards him, clouds of dust spraying up from the thundering hooves of their steeds.

Chris turned his head and guided Pony forward, knowing the men following him were not of the friendly variety. A bullet whizzed by his ear and he pulled his Colt from the holster. He turned in the saddle, firing off a shot as he felt Pony stagger. His heart lurched as he thought they'd go down, but Pony righted himself and they continued their mad trek through the desert. The sporadic sound of gunfire continued to reach his ears and he felt something tug at the right sleeve of his duster. He knew it took a sizable piece of flesh with it, but couldn't take the time to see how bad he'd been hit.

He glanced over his shoulder once more, noting that the riders were spreading out and gaining distance. The three days ride with Pony was taking a toll on the animal and he knew the beautiful animal would run itself into the ground before giving into exhaustion. Chris Larabee knew he wasn't going to outrun these men, but he'd be damned if he gave in without a fight. They didn't seem to want him dead, evidenced by the men circling around him. Two seemed to be running parallel to him, a hundred feet back, but gaining ground rapidly. The other two were closing the distance behind him. He pointed his gun at the man on the right and fired a shot. He smiled as the man cried out and fell from the galloping horse. The smile was short lived as a shot was fired from behind and Chris bent his lean body into the ride. The sound of the wind in his ears was thunderous and his hat was whipped off his head, allowing the long strands of blond hair to blow haphazardly around his dusty face.

The man on the left continued to gain ground on him and he could hear the hoof beats of the two men behind him. He swung his gun to the left, but something landed over his shoulders and he was unceremoniously dropped to the ground, the air driven from his lungs. He didn't have time to check on Pony as he concentrated on getting free of the constricting rope. He tried pulling on it but the man holding it kept it taut. He struggled to his knees and tried to get to his feet, but was pulled back to the ground by the man sitting on a large Bay stallion.

"Don't gimme an excuse to put a slug in ya!" snarled a tall man hurrying towards the downed gunslinger.

Larabee didn't recognize the heavily whiskered face or the hatred filled dark eyes. The man's body was well muscled and in spite of the heat his upper body was covered in red flannel. Green eyes glared at the dark barrel of the pistol the man held in front of him. "Who the hell are you?" the blond growled angrily, the air finally returning to his heated lungs.

"Don't matter none who we are! What matters is we know who you are! You're a lowlife scum suckin' animal that kills women!" he hissed. "Yer gonna fin' out what we do ta animals like you!"

"I didn't kill..." his words were cut off as a second rope landed on his shoulders and tightened around his neck. Larabee gasped against the constriction, using his fingers to try and pry some breathing room. Sparkling lights flashed before his eyes as lack of oxygen brought on the darkness of unconsciousness. As if from a distance he felt his body lifted and dropped back to the ground on his stomach. Something was fastened to his wrist and tightened until it cut into his wrist. The pressure on his throat released slightly and he gulped the much-needed air into his starving lungs. He felt hands clasp his ankles and something was forced around them. The sound of chains told him he was tethered in a pair of iron manacles. He tried to speak, but the rope was tightened once more as he was dragged to his feet.

"Since yer horse took off ya'll 'ave some walkin' ta do! I aim ta git back ta my town 'fore dinner so ya'd best be ready to move fast, murderer." He spoke slowly, his face moving closer to Larabee's until the two men were nose to nose.

Chris could smell stale tobacco and whiskey on the man even as he wondered whom he'd supposedly murdered. "I didn't murder..." A fist came out of nowhere and rocked his head back. The force of the blow sent him spinning towards the ground, but the rope pulled tight around his neck forced him to stand his ground.

"Now you best jest shut up. Ya'll git yer chance ta plead yer case when the circuit judge arrives."

'Circuit judge, Orrin Travis,' he thought as he regained his balance and the rope was loosened once more. He sucked in a breath before a knotted piece of cloth was forced past his lips and into his already arid throat. The smell of the rag reminded him of the stench of outhouses and he forced himself to think of other things. 'Orrin will know I didn't murder anyone,' he thought as the man moved to his horse and mounted the tall animal. He watched as one of the men lifted the man he'd shot onto his horse and tied him down.

"Now ya make sure ya keep up, Mister, cause I don't aim ta stop until we reach town!' the leader of the group snapped angrily.

Larabee started forward, keeping pace with the horses as they started back the way they'd come. He glanced over his head, but saw no sign of Pony. He prayed the gelding would find it's way back to Four Corners, but had little hope of the others being able to find him. He didn't know how long they walked. His legs ached and the muscles in his calves cramped and throbbed as he forced one leg in front of the other. The hot sun continued to beat down and added more heat to the sand underfoot. He could feel the leather boots he wore melting with each step. They stopped twice and gave him small sips of water, but each time the dirty rag was shoved back in his mouth and the cloth quickly soaked up all moisture. He felt the sun burning the skin of his face and swore on the dark skinned man seated on the third horse. He'd smiled as he pulled Larabee's hat from his head saying he wouldn't need to worry about sunburn, as he'd be frying in hell before long.

The sun was slowly losing its heat as it sank below the horizon, but Chris knew this would do him no good. His clothes were soaked with sweat and the desert would quickly lose the heat of the day, leaving him to suffer the chill of the night. Walking, struggling to keep on his feet, his legs numb, his feet blistered beyond imagination, still his captors marched on. His eyes were closed and he stumbled before finally losing his footing. A muffled grunt was the only sound to escape the gag in his mouth.

The leader of the three men called a halt as he heard the prisoner's body hit the ground. He climbed off his horse and walked to the prone figure. "Git on yer feet ya bastard or I'll gut ya where yer lyin'!" he warned as he pulled a knife from his belt.

Larabee's temper often got him in trouble, but this time it saved his life. From the green fiery depths of his eyes and the blistering heat of his feet newfound strength was born of that anger. It was slow going with his arms cuffed behind his back, but he succeeded in getting his knees under him and then finally stood on his own two feet. Without looking at the hated man beside him he pointed his body in the direction they were headed and took one step after another.

A hand clamped down on the gunslinger's shoulder and he cried out as he was forced to his knees. "Don't get cocky with me, Mister. I'm on two minds ta kill ya where ya are, but I figure that'll make me jest as bad as you are. I aim ta let Judge Wilcox 'ave ya when 'e gets 'ere," the voice taunted.

'Wilcox died three years ago,' Larabee thought. He'd had his own run ins with the older man, yet was always treated fairly.

"Ain't got no idea 'ow long ya'll be spendin' in the jail, but the judge has been long overdue. There was two other fellas there waitin' trial, but we won't be keepin' ya there near's long as they were 'eld. Finally strung 'em up las' week. If'n the judge don't show up in two weeks we'll 'ave us a fine 'anging wit'out im," the hated voice promised as the torturous journey began again.

Larabee let his mind wander, as thirst became another thing he was forced to endure. The men made a show of lifting their canteens, but refused to give him anymore. He hated the rag in his mouth and tried to control breathing through his nose. Finally he saw a sparkle of light in the distance. 'Just keep putting one foot in front of the other! You can get them to send a telegram to Four Corners and get this mess straightened out,' he thought as he staggered along behind the big horse.

Chris breathed a sigh of relief as they pulled to a stop in front of a stone building with one door and a bar crossed window. He stood his ground, eyeing his captors in spite of his body's screams for rest. Once again the whiskered man stood before him, hatred seething in the dark eyes. The flames from the street were soon joined by torches as members of the small neglected town made their way to the center of the street.

"Looks like Sheriff Burke done caught him!" a female voice cried out.

"Where'd ya find 'im, Sheriff?" another called.

"Did ya fin' the missin' money an' jewellery he done stole off Eliza?"

Chris stood his ground as a group of poorly dressed people surrounded him on the street. Most seemed excited about seeing him; while others just stared with hate filled eyes.

"Ain't had a chance ta search 'im fer the money yet. Figured it'd be best if'n I did it back 'ere in front of the lot of ya."

"Search the murderin' son of a bitch, Sheriff," came a shout, that soon turned into a mantra among the towns people.

"I'm gonna," Burke moved to stand in front of his prisoner and smiled maliciously. "Harvey is gonna release your hands, Mister. Mike's gonna keep his gun trained on ya and I'd advise ya not to do anythin' stupid. Un'erstood?" He smiled as the sunburnt face bobbed once. "That's real good, Mister. Alright, Harvey, take off the cuffs," he ordered and the dark skinned man moved in to do as the sheriff ordered.

Chris felt his hands released and pulled them to the front. He slowly rubbed the numbed wrists until the sheriff struck him open handed across the face. The gunslinger seethed in spite of the exhaustion and thirst. His hatred fed green eyes met and held the man who was sheriff of this excuse for a town.

"Now I want yer 'ands placed on yer 'ead and I don't want ya ta move a muscle, Mister. I'm gonna see where yer hidin' that money and then I'm gonna put ya in a cell 'til Judge Wilcox gits 'ere. Keep yer gun on 'im, Mike."

"Sure thing, Sheriff."

Larabee held himself tense as grimy hands made their way over his lean body, stopping on the right pocket of his jeans. The upturned mouth of the sheriff told him he was in deeper trouble than he was before as the hand came out and showed a small cameo broach.

"I done tole ya we'd fin' the murderin thief!" Burke held the broach high above his head as he turned back to his prisoner. "So where's the rest of it?" he asked as he tore the gag from Larabee's mouth.

"You put that in there, you son of a bitch," the gunslinger rasped through the dryness of his throat and mouth. His head snapped back and hands grabbed him before he fell to the ground. He was held tightly as the sheriff stood directly in front of him. Before he could say another word the gag was replaced and he felt the duster being removed from his body.

"Git his boots off 'im. They ain't gonna do 'im much good in jail. Mike, keep yer gun on 'im. Ladies, ya' go on 'ome now cause there ain't no needa ya seein' this. Harvey, strip him down to his drawers and we'll see ta makin' 'im feel at 'ome in 'is cell."

Chris tried to fight the hands holding him but for each blow he delivered two impacted on his torso or head. The black shirt and jeans were peeled from his body and he was dragged towards the darkened jailhouse. He heard keys in the door and was soon dropped heavily to the dirt floor. He coughed against the gag as layers of dust billowed up around him. He dragged his aching body to the dirty mattress and dropped onto it as laughter and jeering reached his ears. He reached up and removed the gag and took in a deep gulp of the dust-coated air. Again he coughed, his eyes slid closed and he lost the fight to remain awake.

TBC