PART 9

Rosen threw back the rest of the whiskey in the small flask and tucked it inside his jacket. One more night sleeping on the ground and then he'd be riding back to Mexico. He hoped Bryce was willing to ride south because he sure as hell wasn't staying here any longer. He stood and stretched his stiff back. Just getting' too old for this, he reminded himself.

The gambler lay in a heap outside the ring of firelight. Rosen walked over and tested the state of his prisoner with an experimental nudge in the ribs. Ezra's body lifted and sagged without resistance. The bandage across his shoulder was clearly stained with fresh blood. Rosen leaned in close and saw the slight rise and fall of his chest. "Good," he thought, "Still alive."

Rosen barked at the men around the small fire. "Make sure he don't go nowhere, -tie him up or somethin'." Then he moved to the far side of the camp and threw down his bedroll. He stretched out on the blanket, pulled his hat over his eyes, and tried to picture the little Mexican villa where his senorita was waiting. "Should have brought more whiskey," he thought as he sank into sleep.

McClure stood over Ezra and nudged him with the toe of his boot. "He ain't goin' nowhere," He muttered. "And his hands are already tied. What the hell is the boss talkin' about?" Pete just grunted and continued to shovel beans into his mouth. He found the two younger outlaws amusing, it was one of the reasons he stayed.

Farley scrutinized the injured gambler. He wasn't even sure the man would live through the night. "Let's just tie his feet, and be done with it." Farley moved to where the horses stood grazing and searched for some rope. "It's too dark. I can't see a dern thing!" He ran his hands over the row of saddles and pile of gear until he felt the thick coil of a leather whip. He threw it and it sailed out of the darkness and fell at McClure's feet.

"There!" Farley yelled. "Tie him with that!"

McClure smiled and straightened the leather coil in his hands. It was a smooth yet substantial thing. The whip belonged to Bryce Rosen. He had seen the boy practicing with it several times. McClure pulled back his arm testing the weight of the thing as it fell over his shoulder. A fiendish smile appeared on his face as he suddenly jerked his arm forward the whip snapping across the exposed skin of the gambler's back, impressing Farley with his accuracy. Ezra was viciously yanked back to consciousness and frantically clawed at the ground trying to scramble away from the sudden torment. McClure chuckled and brought the lash down again with another swift blow. This time he swung too high and the end of the lash whipped up dirt alongside Ezra's face.

Farley whooped with laughter. "Better stick to your rifle, McClure! Ain't as easy to hit your target with that thing!"

"Oh, I can hit 'im all right!" McClure sneered and drew the lash back for another try. He raised his arm and jerked the whip again, this time etching a deep cut from shoulder to hip. Ezra's body arched in pain and he crashed to the ground. Frank grunted in satisfaction and prepared for another strike. But when he lifted his arm, he was pushed off balance, the whip yanked from his grasp. Rosen furiously coiled it in his hands.

"You idiots!" He stomped off toward the horses and threw the whip back onto the pile of gear. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Just clippin' his wings, boss!" McClure cheerily admitted. "You said make sure he don't go nowhere!" The outlaws moved in close to examine their prisoner. Ezra rested on his knees, his forehead resting on the knots of rope that trapped his wrists. Lines of blood coated his side. Farley squatted, grabbed a handful of damp hair, and twisted the gambler's face around. Ezra gasped, struggling for air. His body trembled violently but his limbs were slack.

"Looks like he's still among the livin'. No harm done," McClure said smiling at his boss.

Rosen just snorted, stood, and walked back to his bedroll. "You take first watch McClure. And then you Farley."

McClure's smile fell and he glared at Pete who chuckled by the fire.

M7M7M7M7

The full moon hung against the background of stars in the night sky as McClure circled the camp and then nudged Farley awake. Farley dragged himself from his bedroll. He pulled out his gun, positioned himself next to the prisoner, and watched McClure lay down in the spot he had just vacated.

"Hey! Git yer own bedroll, McClure!"

"Shut up. You ain't usin' it."

Farley was still too tired to argue, he hated sleeping on the ground. He watched as Pete snorted and rearranged himself on his bedroll. He leaned back against a boulder and took stock of the prisoner. The gambler was a mess. He lay on his side, his bound arms pulled tight to his chest. The bloody streaks left by the lash glistened in the moonlight, looking like claw marks. The whip had cut through the makeshift bandages and nothing covered the bullet wound. Farley leaned close and saw that Ezra's eyes were squeezed shut as sweat rolled off his back, tracing the path sliced by the lash.

"Think them lawmen will trade for your dead body?" Farley laughed quietly and leaned his head back against the rock. His contented snoring soon vibrated in his chest.

They'd probably prefer it, Ezra thought as he lay still and waited for the camp to quiet. He struggled to sit up. Chris and the others wouldn't trade for him, he was sure of it. He would die here at the hands of these two-bit thieves. He wondered if someone would write to his mother and inform her of… what? That his empty existence had ended? Lord, his fever and pain were making him maudlin. He sucked in another breath and confirmed his decision again: I will go back. He held fast to that one thought. He could smell death. The closer it infringed on his sensibilities the greater his determination.

The outlaw guarding him was sleeping, emitting a satisfying melody of sound. Ezra pushed himself to his knees and raised his head. His body screamed with a barbaric agony but he pressed on. He picked up the gun that lay at Farley's side. That was too easy. He wanted to leap on his horse and ride. For once in his life, he was sure of where he was going. Larabee can't stop me.

Ezra knew the outlaws planned on making the trade at dawn. He had to move quickly to get far enough away. His right leg throbbed and every step sent tendrils of pain up and down his leg. He feared he would be incapable of getting on his horse or wake the camp trying. He looked up into the starry night sky and figured out the direction he needed to go to get home. 'I'll be back for you, Chaucer,' he silently promised.

TBC