It certainly wasn't the most comfortable ride Slim had ever taken. He was handcuffed, with the handcuffs tied firmly to the saddle, his hat was back at the ranch, and he was pretty sure his horse was stepping extra hard on purpose, just to jar his sore ribs. Not to mention his unenviable role as guide to six criminals, each one of whom wanted him dead and was watching him like a hawk. Even if he wanted to try something, he couldn't.

But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it was that Andy wasn't riding with him.

It made sense. With Andy beside him, Slim may have tried to escape; without Andy, there wasn't a chance of it. Skeenan was too smart to let them anywhere near each other, and everyone knew it. But it didn't keep Slim from being disappointed.

He glanced over to Andy riding in front of Charlie, catching his eye as his little brother glanced back. He tried to give him a smile that would be reassuring, and Andy tried to smile back, but both the efforts were little more than futile. Charlie's hand pressed into Andy's shoulder, and the boy turned back to face the trail.

"I'd worry more about yourself if I was you, Sherman." Burt nudged his horse up alongside Slim's. "I got plans, and they ain't gonna be pretty."

Slim focused ahead, not doing Burt the courtesy of even glancing in his direction. He remembered the man from his time in Medicine Bow: Burt had been the lookout, lingering in the saloon and eavesdropping on conversations for the gang, and he'd only gone free through lack of solid proof. He was a bully and a criminal and a coward, but he had never been known for cleverness; any so-called plans he came up with would more than likely be glorified beatings. Which wasn't a pleasant prospect, but it would be better than dealing with Skeenan.

"You know Louisa left me? That's another thing you gotta account for, Sherman."

Slim couldn't help answering that. "Seems like I did her a favor, then."

Burt lunged to the side and grabbed the bridle of Slim's horse. The rest of the group slowed or stopped at the commotion, and Slim caught a glimpse of Andy's worried eyes before Burt's hand came up and slapped him across the face. The ropes tying him to the saddle were just about the only thing that kept Slim on the horse – and they were definitely the only thing that kept him from lunging back at his attacker.

Burt held up one finger in warning. "And you'll get more than that, you say anything disrespectful about Louisa."

"I got nothing but respect for Louisa," said Slim, knowing even as he spoke that this was the perfect time to keep his mouth shut. "You've got to admire a woman who can get away from a cattle-rustling thief and a coward."

Another slap to the face just brought a tight, angry grin to Slim's face. "Just keep right on hitting a man who can't hit back. You're proving my point for me."

"All right, that's enough," said Skeenan, which was probably a good thing, since Burt looked about two seconds away from putting a bullet in Slim's head whether they needed his guidance or not. "Let's break here, rest and water the horses."

Burt's knuckles whitened around the reins, and for a moment Slim was sure he was about to get shot. But Skeenan rode up and clapped Burt on the shoulder, giving Slim a dark look in the process. "He's all yours, Burt, just not yet. Wait 'til we're outta the country."

Burt nodded jerkily and loosened his grip on the bridle, but Slim didn't feel much better about his situation. And he hadn't missed the implication about his future.

But for now, at least, Mingo was untying the ropes that held Slim in the saddle and unlocking the handcuffs, and Slim was able to slide off the horse and stretch out the kinks and aches that always developed after too much time on a horse, along with a few extras that came with the new bruises. He glanced around and found Andy pressed against the horse he had been riding, Charlie's hand firmly on his shoulder. Slim raised an eyebrow, and Andy nodded, and he was at least reassured that his little brother was all right. For now.

He shifted his focus to the rest of the ragtag group. Burt, thank goodness, had moved off to the side, joining Ted and Pinky for a swig of whatever alcohol was in Pinky's canteen. Skeenan was leaning against a tree, watching everything with the focus of a hawk and the coldness of a cougar. Mingo was the only one actually taking care of the horses, leading a couple at a time over to the river to drink.

"Puts life back in a man's bones," said Burt, loudly enough to draw the attention in the clearing back to him. He met Slim's eyes, glanced at Andy, and chuckled. Slim felt his stomach hollow out.

"Here, kid." Burt sauntered over to where Andy was standing, still pressed against his horse. He shoved the canteen in Andy's direction, sloshing the liquid over his shirt. "Put some hair on your chest."

"No, thanks," said Andy carefully. Slim could feel every muscle in his body tighten, and it took all of his control not to start throwing punches. Andy wasn't in any real trouble. Yet.

"Aw, come on, kid," said Burt. "Gotta grow up sometime, right?" He nodded at Charlie, and almost before Slim could blink, Charlie was holding Andy's arms back while Burt shoved his brother's jaw up and started forcing the liquor down his throat.

Slim didn't even remember moving. One minute, two grown men were attacking his little brother; the next, Burt was lying in the dirt, smelling of whiskey and blood as Slim's fists beat at the bones in his face. And when another pair of hands tried to pull him off, Slim lunged at the interloper, throwing him to the ground and doling out a few more punches before turning his attention back to Burt.

He was dimly aware of a din going on around him, foggy sound drowned out by the blood pounding in his ears, and frantic movements on the edge of his sight, but all his focus was on the man under his fists.

Until he heard Andy's voice, breaking through the din and begging him to stop, and his fists, which had been swinging of their own accord, slowed and managed to stop. The roaring in his ears lessened, and with the sudden return to awareness came several strong arms, pulling him bodily off his victim.

Slim's brain cleared, and as he got a good look at Burt, he couldn't help wincing. The man was little more than a pulpy mass of blood. He had gone too far. But when he caught sight of Andy, tired, dirty, and wet with whiskey, it was hard to feel too badly.

Any lingering fogginess was erased entirely when Skeenan's fist cracked against his face. Slim shook his head, almost grateful for the pain that brought him fully back to his senses.

"You're gonna pay for that, Sherman," he growled, and as Slim looked from one furious face to the next, he had no trouble believing that completely.

XXX

It was dark in the cellar.

Sometimes it was a light dark, with just enough change in the shadows that Jess was able to make out the shapes of his surroundings, and sometimes it was so dark he couldn't see the back of his eyelids.

A friend of his had known a man who was buried alive. The man described it in terrifying, numbing detail, the sensation of opening your eyes to total blackness and realizing that the whole earth was pressing down on you. He'd clawed his way out through sheer desperation, then gone mad from the horror of it. And he was one of the lucky ones.

Jess was trying not to think about that.

He spent the first day trying to twist his way out of the ropes holding him firmly against the root cellar's support beam, with nothing to show for it but sore, bleeding wrists. He thought about breaking his thumb – a trick Dixie Howard had taught him, and one he'd always hoped he wouldn't have to use – but the ropes were wrapped so firmly around his hands that there was no way he could wriggle a pinky free, much less a thumb. And riding right along with the soreness and discomfort was the hunger gnawing at him, a hunger that just got worse every time he laid eyes on a bag of potatoes or Jonesy's cans of preserves.

He was also thirsty, but he tried not to think about that.

He tried shouting for help, but gave up on that pretty quickly. He couldn't keep up a steady stream of noise for the days it might take help to come…if help ever did come. And it was just going to make him more thirsty.

Jess wasn't sure how much time had passed when he finally stopped struggling and leaned back against the beam, breathing ragged, eyes closed, as if that would make a difference in the dark that had fully taken over the little hole in the ground. The stillness was almost worse, though, because it gave him time to think.

And the first thing he thought was that he was mad at Slim.

It wasn't rational, he knew, but he was tired of being mad at Skeenan, and being mad at Slim was a familiar, almost comforting feeling. Mad at Slim was something he'd been before, and something he'd be again, and something he'd get over.

He couldn't believe Slim hadn't told him about Skeenan. And the other five outlaws who all seemed to have a grudge against him. It would have been nice to have a heads-up that a gang of former rustlers might be riding by for some revenge. Of course, there were plenty of things Jess hadn't told Slim that might come back to bite them…but that was beside the point.

As he was moping about Slim's reticence, his head perked up, and it took an extra moment for his brain to figure out what his ears were telling him. There was a horse riding up.

Actually, all he really knew was that something sounded different, and he couldn't even be too certain about that, but it was enough ground to grow some hope in.

"Down here!" he shouted, ignoring the way the words ripped through his papery throat. "Hey! I'm down here!"

He fell silent as his words echoed through his grave, mocking him with their raspy desperation before fading into the bare walls, leaving behind nothing but silence.

"Hey!" he shouted again, trying not to think about what it meant if no one was really up there – or, worse, if someone was up there and they couldn't hear him. No one was going to look for Jess Harper in the root cellar, of all places. He was as good as buried.

"I'm down here!"

This time, the echo lingered, strengthened by all the breath his lungs could hold, but silence quickly regained its footing. And even in that silence, with ears straining through the quiet, he couldn't hear a thing.

A quiet voice reminded him that thirst did funny things to a man's mind, and mirages, even mirages that were nothing but sound, were common enough when you went too long without water. But if he stopped calling and there was someone up there…if he gave up just as Mort or Mose or anyone else passed by…he'd never be able to forgive himself. So he kept shouting. Even after so much time had gone by that anyone who might have been there would be long gone, he kept shouting. And he kept on shouting until his throat couldn't take it anymore, and his brain was pounding in his skull, and he dropped mercifully into sleep.

When he woke up, he had the distinct impression it was morning, though the only clue to that was the slightly lighter blackness of the dark cellar. His headache was still there, but lessened, and his throat had been slightly soothed by a night of sleep and a break from shouting. He wasn't all that hungry anymore, not like he'd been yesterday, but he couldn't forget about the thirst. It wasn't too bad, not like when he had been stranded in the desert with nothing to put in his mouth but a smooth pebble, but it was still bad. And getting worse. His mouth was dry, his face was dry, his arms were dry. Everything felt like paper plastered to muscle.

His wrists had scabbed over from his struggle with the ropes yesterday, and trying to work his way out of them today was far more painful because of it. But he kept trying. Because there was no way he was going to trust in a crazy man's word that he would be rescued, and there was no way he was letting Andy and Slim come home to find his body in the root cellar. Hopefully they'd be back soon. How long did it take to ride into town, anyway?

Jess froze at that thought. They weren't in town. They were prisoners. And he knew that. So how had he forgotten it?

He was getting worse.

He went back to working the rope, pulling and tugging and twisting, and he only stopped when his arms started shaking with the effort.

It was no use. At least for now, all he could do was sit and think. About the ground pressing him down into the earth, and whether any rescue was coming. About who might find him here, and when, and what exactly would be left to find. About Slim and Andy, and what Skeenan had done to them. Was still doing to them, probably. And he tried very, very hard to remember that Slim and Andy were both smart and more than capable, and Slim would die before letting anything happen to Andy.

Which, come to think of it, wasn't all that comforting.