Chapter 3
Julian sat shivering in the musty, dark cellar. When the outlaws had first thrust her and the small man into their current prison, she instinctively went for the corner, the only dry spot in the place. Unfortunately, she found that she was not alone there. The rats had found the dry spot also. She had settled her bruised body, tucking her thick skirts around her in an attempt to keep herself warm. The smell that permeated every inch of the suffocating darkness was unbearable. Choking against her dirty sleeve, she began to relive the past horrendous hours.
The other man in the coach had died two days ago, only hours after they'd been thrown in their makeshift prison. She could still feel the older man's head on her lap, his limp pasty hand clutched desperately to hers as his life slipped away. Julian, had to sit helplessly by as the man bled to death from a gunshot wound to the stomach. All her expensive education back east could do nothing to save the man. She sat idly, telling him it would all "Be okay", but it wasn't. He was dead, and before long, she might be too. To her deepest chagrin, Julian couldn't even remember his name. And now, Julian found herself completely alone in this dark prison.
She pulled herself into an even tighter ball by the far wall, her light-starved eyes glued to the small slit of gold that was the door. After what could have been mere moments or days, the door was suddenly thrown open. The blackness became blinding, and she flung a protective arm across her undilated eyes. Later, she would berate herself for not taking advantage of that situation and bolting for the door. But, things are always easier in retrospect.
Voices, harsh and unsympathetic, barked out garbled commands but in her half-conscious state, Julian couldn't understand what was going on. As she struggled to stand up, she stumbled when she heard the sound of a muffled thud, followed shortly by that of a groan followed quickly by the sound of the iron door slamming. The light, as suddenly as it came, was ripped from her world.
Now it was dark again, but perhaps she was no longer alone.
In the town's only saloon, the barkeeper set a fresh whiskey bottle and glass before Chris Larabee. Larabee had not left his spot at the back table that was surrounded by deep shadows since he received the first missive from his sister. He violently sloshed whiskey into the glass and slammed it down his parched throat. There was nothing that he could do to calm his stampeding thoughts. First the group was set up and ambushed by some bunch of no good outlaws. Then the cattle rustlers mysteriously stop raiding the morning after the gun battle, only to have one of them show up the next day with a sling on his right arm. Add to that he had to worry about the fact that his baby sister was somewhere out there. Possibly in the hands of the same monsters who attacked them. . .
A young boy who worked part-time at the telegraph office hesitantly crept up to the table and stood in front of him, breaking into Chris's thoughts.
"Mr. Larabee?" the boy asked in a whisper, even though he knew very well who Chris was.
Focussing on the kid, Chris answered with a brief nod.
"This came for you." And without so much as a good-bye, the boy threw the letter on the scarred tabletop and ran out the bat doors. Chris stared at the envelope for a few minutes before picking it up and turning it over in his hands. He saw that it was addressed to "The Seven" in a nearly indistinguishable penmanship. 'Or "The Six",' Chris mentally corrected, 'depending on what day of the week it is.' He ran a long finger under the wax seal, popping the envelope open and withdrew the folded paper. The words on the paper raced together, startling the gunslinger with their meaning. The message scared the life out of him, forcing him out of his self-imposed exile. He had to get the others together and let them know what happened!
Ezra awoke in a red haze of pain. Shifting restlessly in an effort to gain a more comfortable position, he bit back a cry of pain trying to force its way out. He struggled to ascertain where he was but the pain and lack of light prevented that discovery. Forcing himself to lie still and take inventory of his situation, he found that the pain was radiating from two main spots. His head and his ribs. He felt like he'd been run over by a train. He moved to his left side, immediately regretting this action. No, make that two trains. Simultaneously.
He squinted in the darkness, trying to make out any shape that he might use to gain a clue as to where he was. The last thing that Ezra could remember was riding out with the others very early after some rustlers. Then there was some sort of gun battle and one of the outlaws had come up behind him. Clasping his eyes shut in an effort to ward off a fresh wave of pain, he found that he was unable to make sense of the situation. Why was he here? Whoever ambushed them had no reason to take Ezra anywhere. If anything, he should have been shot and left to bleed to death.
Ezra's cloudy eyes flew open as he heard the slight sound of scuffling over in the far end of the room.
"Who's there?" Ezra winced at the sound; the rasp barely sounding like his normally strong vibrant voice.
Slowly, a slight figure entered his limited view. Squinting, he could barely make out that it was a woman. Her long tangled hair had fallen down around her body, gently swaying as she slowly made her way to his side. He thought that he heard a small moan of pain escape her as she knelt down beside him.
"Hello." she said quietly. "Who are you?"
"Ezra Standish, at your service. Limited service, I might say considering the accommodations that we find ourselves enjoying," Ezra replied, attempting to gain some foothold of normalcy in such a strange setting. "I believe that I have previously inquired as to your identity as well?"
The woman rested a gentle hand on his shoulder before answering in her feminine gravel, "My name is Julian. Julian Larabee." Ezra's mind reeled at the sound of the familiar surname. Didn't he vaguely remember Chris saying something about having to hire a chaperone to escort some young girl out here? He wasn't sure due to the pain that clouded his memory. Before surrendering to the oblivion that beckoned to him, another thought entered his mind.
"How long have I been here?"
"Two days." she answered. "You're hurt. You need to rest." Ezra locked gazes with the young woman , the white orbs his last memory before he passed back out.