Monday, May 30, 1892
The Border Pass, New Mexico


"You're late."

Mark looked around, trying to find the source of the voice that echoed through the night. "Couldn't be helped; there were folks traveling down the main road so I had to take the long way around."

"At midnight?"

"They were headed to a farm outside of town for a shivaree."

"What a shame you had to miss it."

"Just get this over with."

"Get what over with?"

"Stop with the games! You know exactly what!"

"...You think I'm here to kill you, don't you?"

"What else would you drag me out here in the middle of the night for?"

The man laughed. "Justice."

"Justice?!" Mark demanded. "Justice was your brother being hung! Justice was you being sent to prison!"

"...I reckon you're right. We can't exactly call it justice when you've been allowed to roam free all these years. We'll call it… retribution."

"For what?! You and your brother are the ones that nearly killed me!"

"Might I remind you that you shot my brother?"

"Because he was holding me hostage and shooting at a U.S. Marshal!"

"Do you think that makes any difference to me?"

"It was just a scratch; I didn't kill him!"

"The bullet may not have, but your testimony did. Now dismount."

"Allen…"

"I said dismount!"

Mark followed the order and stepped down from BlueBoy.

"Over there, by the boulder. Turn around and put your hands up against it."

Mark complied and felt Joe Allen starting to search him for weapons a few moments later.

"Good. Now turn around and hold your hands out."

Mark hesitated; closing his eyes and remembering his pa before doing as the outlaw said. Allen bound the deputy's hands in front of him; tying the opposite end of the long rope to his saddle horn. Allen then proceeded to tie BlueBoy's reins to the pommel of his saddle and mount up; causing Mark to look at him in confusion.

"We'd make better time if you let me ride, you know!"

"And why would I let a scum like you ride? You're going to get everything that's coming to you for what you did to my brother!"

"The only thing I did was protect myself and tell the truth! Your brother got what he deserved!"

"Then so shall you!"

"Allen, you're out of your head!"

The outlaw suddenly kicked his horse; the tension in the rope yanking Mark forward as the man continued to ride.


As the sun began to rise, Mark was starting to have difficulty keeping pace with Allen's horse. Tripping over another rock, Mark fell to the hard ground; the rope continuing to pull him along. He struggled to his feet, the constant tug of the lariat making it difficult to maintain his balance.

It was just after six when they came to a river; Allen stopping to let the horses get a drink. Mark had just started towards the bank when a gunshot suddenly sounded.

"You get back over there," Allen snapped, gesturing with his gun.

Mark stared at the man for a long moment before shaking his head in disbelief and following the order. "What's your plan, Allen? Drag me all over the territory til I drop?"

"You'll find out soon enough."

"There's no point to all this! No matter what you do, it's not going to change what you and your brother have done! It won't bring your brother back!"

Allen suddenly turned and charged the young rancher; slamming him against a boulder. Mark's head snapped back and struck the rock, sending a wave of pain through his skull.

"No it won't! But at least I'll be able to sleep at night knowing he's been avenged!"

The outlaw suddenly threw a punch to his prisoner's abdomen and walked away as he sank to the ground. Mark slowly raised his bound hands to his head, trying to stifle the moan that threatened to escape his lips.

In time, Mark again felt tension in the rope and unsteadily rose to his feet. He took another step forward, praying for the strength to keep walking.


Tuesday, May 31, 1892
San Perres, Mexico


It was late in the afternoon when Mark saw a small village in the distance. He watched Allen, hoping for some indication that they were finally going to stop. Every muscle in his body ached; threatening to give way any moment.

At long last, Mark found himself being pulled through the village gate. Allen stopped the horses in front of a well and dismounted; unwrapping the rope that led to Mark's hands from his saddle horn.

"What are we doing here?" he hoarsely called.

Allen ignored the question as he approached his prisoner and pushed him forward. They headed towards what Mark assumed to be the town square; eyes following the two as they walked.

A man unexpectedly appeared in the doorway of a nearby building, hollering to Allen in Spanish as he approached them.

"¿Es él el indicado?" the man demanded; glaring at Mark.

"Él es el indicado."

The man suddenly drove his fist into Mark's mid-section, knocking him to the ground. The weakened victim looked up just in time to see the Mexican's boot coming towards him and raised his bound hands in an attempt to protect himself. As the pain from the blow radiated through his body, Mark attempted to stand; several kicks to his ribs sending back to the ground.

Allen's voice suddenly boomed; seemingly putting a stop to the man's assault. But as Mark again tried to push himself up, he felt a blunt object strike his back; forcing his arms to give out from underneath him.

Fighting to maintain consciousness, Mark lay on the stony ground, gasping for breath as the voices above him argued back and forth. In time, he felt two sets of hands suddenly grab his arms and yank him to his feet before dragging him inside a building. Mark was pushed into a chair; the rope around his wrists being replaced with iron shackles; a chain suddenly being clamped around his left leg.

"Allen, what are you doing?! What did you tell them?!"

The Mexican man backhanded Mark before spitting on him, staring at him in contempt. "¡Cerdo americano!"

Cerdo… Mark tried to remember what it meant; hoping it would give him insight as to what was happening. However, he soon realized it wouldn't be of any help. Cerdo meant pig. The man had called him an American pig.

In a matter of minutes, the building had filled with men, women, and children of all ages; all of whom were angrily staring at Mark.

The man Mark quickly realized was the village elder soon made his way to the front of the room, apparently telling everyone to quiet down as he gestured with his hands. He continued to address the crowd; occasionally gesturing to the only two white men in the room.

The man that had assaulted Mark in the village square was asked to the front of the room and said a few words before taking his seat again. The village elder then turned to Allen, giving him permission to speak.

Mark watched as the outlaw talked to the people, pointing to Mark as he changed his tone to one of anger and disdain. Several of the men suddenly began calling out from the crowd, but were quickly silenced by the elder. The old man turned to a young woman who sat in the back of the room and said a few words to her before turning towards the prisoner.

Mark watched as the woman slowly approached him, hesitancy in her eyes.

"Seguir adelante," the elder ordered, pointing to Mark.

The young woman let out a heavy sigh as she looked down at him. "...These men say you killed one of ours. The old man asks if this is true."

"No!" Mark desperately looked from the woman to the man. "I didn't kill anyone!"

A few words were exchanged between the elder and young woman before she turned back towards Mark. "He asks where you were April, the fifteenth."

Mark thought back; trying to remember. "I… I was home, I was working on my ranch! I wasn't anywhere near here!"

The young woman interpreted Mark's response and waited for the elder to ask his question.

"You own a weapon?"

"Of course I do, most men in my country do!"

"What kind of weapon?"

"A rifle, a Winchester rifle. But I didn't kill anyone!"

The woman relayed Mark's response and waited for the elder to nod before returning to her seat. The old man addressed the people again; several men suddenly angrily shouting as they stood from their chairs. One final order was given before several men suddenly rushed towards Mark. They unlocked the chain around his leg; dragging him out of the building.

"You can't do this!" Mark yelled. "I didn't kill anyone! He's lying to you! This man-" He suddenly stopped, remembering why he was there in the first place. This was what Allen meant by retribution.

As they reached the edge of the village, an iron cage came into view. One of the many men rushed ahead to open the door before the others threw their prisoner inside. He landed on the stone floor; unable to keep from groaning. Mark pushed himself to partially sit up and turned around as the iron door was slammed shut.

The men of the village spat towards the American; a few throwing rocks through the bars of the cage before walking away. Finally, Mark found himself alone with Allen.

"So this is it," he began, "This was your plan."

"It's not exactly what I had planned, but it will do. In fact, it may be even better than what I had in mind."

Mark hesitated before asking, "...What are they going to do with me?"

"You'll find out soon enough. Wish I could stick around to watch, but I have business to attend to in La Gregoria, and I'm running late as it is."

"Allen, you best pray I never get out of here. Because if I do, I will hunt you down and make you regret the day you were born!"

The man laughed, shaking his head. "So roars the wounded cub locked in a cage. Really, did you ever think you were any match for me? You'd have no more of a chance than you did four years ago."

"And yet you had to use my father to get me here. Why? Why not just have it out back in North Fork? Were you too scared to face me? Scared I might actually get the better you?"

Allen strode towards the cage, tightly wrapping his fists around the bars. "You get this straight: I'm scared of nothin'! You hear me? Nothin'! The problem with my brother- the reason he got himself caught was that he always had a backup plan! The way I see it, if you have to have a backup plan, you've failed! I got exactly what I wanted, the way I wanted it! And I'm going to relish in the thought of you spending the rest of your miserable existence rotting away in this box!"

Mark studied the man for a long time, keeping all expression from his face. "...If you're not afraid of anything, then why is there fear in your eyes?"

Allen suddenly took a step back; drawing his gun from its holster and pulling the hammer back. Mark gently closed his eyes, allowing the rest of his body to relax.

In time, Mark realized the outlaw had no intention of firing. He opened his eyes and looked around; nothing but desert wasteland surrounding him.


Wednesday, June 1, 1892
San Perres, Mexico


Just before sunrise that morning, Mark saw a small figure approaching him; eventually recognizing her as the woman who had spoken to him in English the day before. She hesitantly walked up to the cage, offering a bowl of rice and beans. Without hesitation, Mark accepted the meal; using his hands to scoop the food into his mouth.

"Not so fast! You…" she quieted, trying to remember the word. "Drown... um… you… you choke!" she declared. "...You will choke if you eat so quickly."

Mark nodded, taking in a deep breath and swallowing what food was in his mouth. "...Thank you."

"...I tried to come last night, but my grandfather said no."

"Your grandfather… was he the old man at the trial yesterday?" Mark asked, taking another bite.

"Tr… trial?" She looked at him in confusion.

"Before they brought me here, the man who was asking the questions."

"You mean the judgment?"

"Trial, judgement, whatever you want to call it."

She nodded. "My grandfather is the oldest man among us. Our people trust him to perform the judgements. ...I had not heard that word before. They call it a trial in your country?"

Mark again nodded. He started to take another bite; suddenly stopping and looking up at the young woman. "The man that was here yesterday, what did he tell you?"

She shifted her gaze away from Mark, hesitating before answering his question. "...One of the men in our town was killed by a white man. Señor Allen brought him in and told us he saw the man who killed him. He promised to bring that man back for judgement."

"And no one thought that just maybe Allen had done it?"

"...Why would he bring Alejandro back if he killed him?" she inquired, looking to Mark in confusion.

"Because he wanted to get me hung, that's why…"

As Mark continued to eat, the woman curiously watched him; eventually breaking the silence again. "You say you didn't kill him, but you are only a stranger. Why should we believe you?"

"Where was he killed? Near here?"

She nodded.

"There are half a dozen people who can attest to my whereabouts the day before and after he was killed. There wouldn't have been enough time for me to come here and go back home."

"...Attest?"

"It means they can tell you where I was at."

"But why would Señor Allen want you to be hanged if you did not kill Alejandro?"

Mark looked at the young woman for a long moment, finally deciding to spare her the details. "Years ago, I saw Allen's brother kill a man, and when it came time for his trial… his judgement, I told everyone what I had seen. Because of my testimony, Allen's brother was hung."

"...So he blames you that his brother is dead?"

Mark nodded.

"But if he had his judgement, and it was right, you can not be blamed for telling the truth?"

"That doesn't matter to Allen. He just wants to see me suffer the way his brother suffered."

"But you do not deserve punishment like him. His judgement was true and yours… yours was not. My grandfather… my grandfather was wrong!" The young woman suddenly stood and ran away.

"Wait! Where are you going?! Come back!"

Realizing it was no use, Mark sighed, looking back down at what was left of the rice and beans. He finished the last of the food and put the bowl aside before unbuttoning his shirt and examining his wounds. The deputy gently ran his hand over the discolored skin, sharply inhaling as he reached the worst of the injuries. 'Bruised,' he thought, 'But not broken.'

Mark relaxed as he sat back against the cage wall, looking out into the distance as the sun came over the horizon. His thoughts fell on his pa as he wondered what he was doing… what he would be doing when Clay brought him that letter. He wondered if his pa would ever forgive him and if he would ever come to know the truth.

Mark prayed he wouldn't.


Lucas stepped out onto the porch and took in a deep breath of fresh air. Looking around the yard, the rancher was struck by how quiet things seemed. After two days alone, he was looking forward to his son coming home.

Lucas grabbed his rifle from inside the door and made his way to the barn to do what was left of the morning chores. Just as he was finishing, a horse could be heard in the yard. Lucas completed his task and walked out the barn doors.

"Well it's about time you… oh, hello, Jeffrey."

"Morning, Mr. McCain. Mark around?"

"No, he isn't. Something I can do for you?"

"Oh, well Marshal Torrance said he would be here. I had errands to run out this way, so I thought I'd bring Mark's rifle by." Jeffrey pulled the Winchester from his scabbard and held it out for Lucas. "Don't know why he wanted me to look at it; it's in perfect condition."

Lucas slowly took the rifle, looking at Jeffrey in confusion. "...You mean Mark's not in town?"

"No, I haven't seen him since Sunday. We tried getting him to go with us for the shivaree, but he said he had other things to do."

"...Thanks."

"Have a good day, Mr. McCain."

Lucas watched as the young man rode away before looking down at his son's rifle. Questions he didn't have answers to began forming in the father's mind, causing seeds of worry to take root.

The man suddenly turned and hurried towards the barn; saddling Razor and riding for town. He dismounted in front of the jail, wasting no time in charging inside the office.

"Micah?"

"Lucas-boy, wasn't expecting you in town so soon. What-"

"Mark was in here Sunday night just before we left. What did he say to you?"

The marshal briefly thought back before answering. "Said he was getting worried about you and asked for a few days off. Why?"

"Because Mark told me he was coming back to town Sunday night to help you!"

"To help me?" Micah stood from his desk; his brow furrowing in confusion. "You sure you understood him right, Lucas-boy?"

"Of course I am! He said he had to come back and take care of marshal business; something about an escaped prisoner."

"...We haven't seen any warrants for an escapee since I made that last prisoner transfer."

"Then where is he?!"

"Your guess is as good as mine. I thought he was out at the ranch."

"Well he's not!"

"...Let's ask around. I'm sure someone's seen him."

Micah and Lucas split up and searched North Fork, talking to everyone they saw. Over an hour later, Lucas walked back inside the marshal's office to find Micah going through papers on his desk.

"Anything?"

"Afraid not. Everyone said the same thing… the last time they saw Mark was at the wedding." Micah gestured to the papers scattered across his desk. "I couldn't find anything here, and Amos said Mark hadn't received any wires."

"I just don't understand it; why would Mark lie to us?"

"...I wish I knew. Did you see him ride out Sunday night?"

"He took the main road headed this way, just like always."

The marshal stood, taking a shotgun from the rack. "Let's start there."


Much later that morning, Mark looked up as one of the village men approached the cage; an old scattergun in hand. He unlocked and opened the door, motioning for the prisoner to come out.

"¡Muévanse! ¡Tienes trabajo que hacer!"

Mark followed the apparent order and crawled out of the cage, using the bars to steady himself as he rose to his feet. The man grabbed him by the arm and roughly led him to a wagon before motioning for Mark to get inside. The shackles around his wrists were then adjusted; the chain being wrapped around the wagon railing before the metal cuffs were again secured in place.

They travelled for a good hour before the wagon stopped beside a river. The man unlocked the chains and allowed Mark to step down before putting them in place again.

"Toma esos cubos y llena estos barriles con agua."

Mark looked at the man in confusion. "I can't understand you. I don't speak Spanish!"

"¡Toma esos cubos y llena estos barriles con agua!" This time the man gestured as he spoke, indicating that he wanted Mark to take the buckets beside him and fill the barrels in the back of the wagon with water.

Mark nodded and began the task, quickly realizing how difficult his ribs were going to make things. It was well past noon when he had finished the job, but when they returned to town, Mark realized his work wasn't done. The man drove Mark around the village, ordering him with broad gestures to unload the barrels of water at various locations. Their final stop was a stable, and after he had unloaded the last barrel, the man ordered Mark inside.

The Mexican again gave his prisoner a set of instructions, only to be met with a blank stare. He emphatically repeated himself, again pointing as he spoke. "¡Limpia esos puestos, y alimenta a los animales! ¡Cerdo estúpido!"

Mark slowly nodded, fairly certain that he was supposed to clean the stalls and tend to the animals. He headed towards the shovel leaning in the corner of the livery, BlueBoy suddenly greeting him as he came into view. Mark turned to see that the guard was distracted and gave his horse some brief attention before tending to his tasks.

It was evening when Mark was finally returned to the small prison. He crawled back inside of the cage, hearing the heavy door being slammed shut behind him. As evening began to fall, Mark watched as the stars slowly began to shine. It reminded him of home; sitting out on the porch with his pa as they looked out into the night sky.

"...I brought you more to eat."

Mark suddenly turned around; sharply inhaling as he was reminded of his injuries.

"You are hurt?"

"My ribs," Mark answered; reaching through the bars for the bowl the young woman offered. "Thank you."

"...I tried to tell my grandfather the things you told me. He says Señor Allen would not lie to us. He says I should not believe what you say."

"Then why are you here?"

"...Because I see your eyes… I see there is truth in them." There were a few moments of silence before she asked, "...What is your name?"

"My name is Mark, Mark McCain. What's your name?"

"Rosaline Francisca García Ramírez de Juan." She quietly chuckled as Mark tried to hide the shock from his face. "You may call me Rosaline."

Mark swallowed the food in his mouth before replying. "...You speak English well. Where did you learn?"

"My mother was a white woman. She wanted me to learn your language and taught me before… before she and my father died."

"I'm sorry. My mother… she died when I was young."

"...And your father?"

"He's still alive. We work… we worked our cattle ranch together."

"...Mark, does your father know what happened to you?"

He shook his head. "It's better this way."

"How could such a thing be said? He must be worried about you!"

"Not yet… right now he thinks everything is fine."

"...I don't understand."

Mark let out a heavy sigh. As he continued to eat, he explained the events that had led to his current circumstances.

"And you went with him? You just let him take you?"

"Wouldn't you if it had been your father, or your mother?"

The young woman slowly nodded.

"This is why it's better that he doesn't know. It'd… it would hurt him too much to know the truth."

"...I am sorry this has happened. And I will try to make my grandfather understand that you are telling the truth. But you must know that my people are only doing what they think is right."

"...I know." Mark took in a deep breath before slowly letting it out. "...What are they going to do to me?" He suddenly saw apprehension seep into her eyes. "Please, I just want to know the truth."

"...They… they will keep you here until you are too weak to work."

"...And then?"

Rosaline looked to the horizon, swallowing before she answered in a whisper. "...Then they will leave you to die."