Kurt felt numb. He couldn't believe this was happening.

As Blaine Anderson had ridden away from Uncle Thaddeus and the train and any last chance of safety for Kurt, Kurt wedged in front of him in the saddle on a giant black horse, Kurt had hunched over, panicked and crying. He couldn't stop his tears and he tried to hide them, ashamed and terrified.

They had ridden some distance and stopped, only to be joined by more bandits. Scary men covered in dust and dirt and gunpowder, many with brims pulled down to hide their eyes or faded handkerchiefs covering their faces. Anderson had slid off the horse and reached up, gripping Kurt by the waist and pulling him down. Kurt avoided his eyes, heart in his throat.

Very quickly a man had come up and brought Anderson a duster that fell to his ankles, a hat, and two belts that slung low on his hips, each with a holster that was quickly filled with a loaded gun. Kurt gulped at the sight. Blaine Anderson was known to be a quick and deadly shot, one of the fastest gunslingers in the country.

All the men had quickly surrounded Anderson, patting his back and shaking his hand. Two men in particular held him fiercely, the one Anderson called "Wes," and a man with bright blue eyes and wavy brown hair, who had his arm in a sling.

Another bandit had suddenly gripped Kurt then, making him whimper in fear and pain at the tight grip on his wrists as the stranger began to bind his hands together with rough, scratching rope. Kurt winced but stayed still, not wanting to do anything to anger any of these men. He had no chance of escaping them all with his life.

It was then that Blaine Anderson had stepped up to them and said, "Leave him. You think I can't handle a gentle prince like this with his hands free?" He had squinted at the man tying Kurt's hands. "Who the hell are you?" His question was softened with a flash of white teeth against his dirt and whisker darkened face.

The one called Wes had come up. "Blaine, you been locked up and treated like shit for days. He may be a high-society brat but you can't trust those weasels. Tie up his hands just to make sure he ain't gonna get the slip on you. Unless you want him to ride with someone else."

The man tying Kurt's hands had finished a second knot with a particularly sharp tug and Kurt ducked his head to hide the pain on his face, biting his lip to keep from making any noise.

Anderson had sighed. "Fine. Let's get a move on," he raised his voice for everyone to hear, "I want to get settled down for the night as quick as we can."

"He wants someone bouncing on his cock as quick as he can," one man had shouted, and many of the men roared with laughter, "maybe the pretty little thing he brought with him from the train!"

Kurt had stiffened while Anderson muttered to Wes, "Who the fuck have you picked up to ride with since we went our separate ways?"

"Slim pickings when you're the Montgomery gang and not the Anderson gang," Wes had replied, voice tense, "let's get going." And so Anderson had climbed onto his horse again and pulled Kurt up in front of him once more. Kurt's trembling hands had gripped the front of the saddle, knuckles white, and he had tried to ignore Anderon's body pressed all along his back as the group of outlaws began to ride.

That had been some time ago. How much, Kurt didn't know. But the sun was beginning to set, and he could see the shape of a town in the distance. His stomach filled with a feeling of dread. What could he expect of these rough men who evaded the law, who shot up trains and robbed banks? He felt hopelessly provincial and stupid for thinking his novels were exciting and romantic. Was he to be starved, beaten…raped? Killed? His uncle had not seemed very upset when Anderson had taken Kurt. Would he even want him back? He had always acted as though Kurt was a burden, a child he did not and could not understand. But he wasn't so cold as to do nothing to ensure his safety and survival. Was he?

When they arrived in the little town, the riders quickly found a tavern and what looked to be a house of ill-repute, to Kurt's horror. They hooted and hollered, running into the buildings, picking up women and twirling them around, throwing them over their shoulders and carting them off to who knows where to do who knows what.

Anderson didn't rush inside, but took his time finding a place for his horse. He jumped down and reached up. This time Kurt needed his assistance to reach the ground, as his hands were still tied. But Anderson quickly undid the rope that bound Kurt's wrists and Kurt's lip trembled as he fought not to cry at the sting on his skin, which was an angry red where the rope had been.

"I got you a room," a blond man with a rabbit's foot sticking out of his vest pocket said, "Cooper's already laid up for the night. He's got to get his rest. But you can talk at breakfast."

Anderson frowned but nodded.

"I didn't know what to do about this one," the blond man said hesitantly, nodding at Kurt.

"It's fine. He can stay with me."

Kurt closed his eyes, pressing his lips together to keep from trembling.

"Blaine…you know who he is right?"

"I figured it out."

"Then maybe it's not a good idea. You hate-"

"It's fine," Anderson said again firmly, and the blond man fell silent. He glanced at Kurt again and then nodded, handing Anderson a slip of paper before walking away.

"Come on, then," Anderson said gruffly, grabbing Kurt's hand and leading him inside the tavern. Kurt kept his head down, trying to block out the whistles and catcalls and Anderson's responses to the men to shut their mouths as he was led up the stairs.

Anderson led him into a small room with a bed, a wooden chair and a small wooden desk with an oil lamp flickering on it and shut the door behind them, cutting off some of the loud noise from below.

Kurt hugged his middle tightly. He could hear banging and grunts and groans from the other rooms. He could hear a woman's voice shouting "Yes! Yes! Yes!" His cheeks flamed red because maybe he was naïve but he wasn't so ignorant that he didn't know what was going on in the other rooms. He looked at Anderson cautiously, who was shrugging out of his duster, leaving him in his black shirt rolled up to the elbows and brown suspenders holding up his dark grey trousers. Kurt eyed the guns slung low on his hips anxiously as Anderson turned around to face him.

Those golden eyes met his and Kurt's control slipped.

"What are you going to do to me?" He said quietly with a tremor in his voice. He took a step back without thinking and hugged his arms.

"You heard me before," Anderson said, crossing his arms over his chest, "as long as your uncle does what I say, I'll return you to him."

That wasn't comforting at all. So many things could happen before then. And Kurt still had the dreadful feeling that his uncle wasn't too concerned about getting him back. Kurt blinked back tears and shifted awkwardly, glancing at the bed. A tear slipped down his cheek.

"You got no right to play the victim," Anderson said, glaring at him, "not after what you've allowed Plankerman to do."

"I-I don't know what you mean," Kurt said, confused and scared at the dark look the outlaw was giving him.

Anderson strode toward him quickly and Kurt backed up on instinct, flinching and ducking his head as he waited to be hit. Never in his life had anyone struck him. His schoolfellows had taunted him at times, but never had their bullying become violent, and he was a well-behaved student that never received physical discipline from his teachers.

But Anderson just stopped in front of him. He didn't raise a hand. He looked at him, considering, with a frown on his face, and Kurt forced himself to meet his eyes nervously.

"Let's get to bed," he finally said, stepping away from Kurt and working to undo the belts on his hips.

Kurt pulled the open ends of his coat closed over his throat. He couldn't make his feet move. Even if he could, he didn't know where he would go. He didn't want to get on the bed. His hands shook.

The belts came off and the bandit looked at him again as he set his guns down on the table.