Chapter Five

They were ushered back into their place of captivity by gunpoint. Her gunpoint. Beryl Monroe had stood at a comfortable distance, not close enough to observe their every whisper, but not so far that one of her bullets couldn't have struck in accuracy if they dared to disobey her command. They wouldn't, not yet anyway, but plans could always change. As it were, there was no way of telling what the woman had in store for them next.

The brick walls swallowed them up, the windowless room turning black as each man blinked away the sudden change from the outdoor brightness as they found their seats on the ground, the adjustment made complete when the glow from the lantern took effect. Seeming to appear out of nowhere, the white-haired woman was back with her nimble fingers, weaving the threads back over their bodies to keep them securely in place once more. Mort was the one to see her final touch, and as the wrinkles along her cheeks bobbed closer to his as she pulled the rope tighter, Mort's eyes sought to capture the color that existed in her hues, but the sheriff was certain all he saw was fear, and not their actual shade of brown. It was enough to grasp onto, as it was obvious by the way she moved in the men's presence that it wasn't any of them that caused the rivulets of angst that were threatening to spill.

"Ma'am," Mort tried, but before the question passed through his lips, he was already looking at the wisps of her hair shaking back and forth, her "no" although weakly given, being set in place before he could continue. "Won't you help us instead?"

"You should know by now that those I employ do everything I say, if they know what's good for them," Beryl's voice along with her skirt swept through the door and it didn't go unnoticed by anyone in the room that the old lady started to tremble at the terse sound coming from the boss' throat. "Ann, get back to the house."

The house, which the lady that they could now refer to more than just as their rope weaver was scurrying off to, was a dwelling that they had no knowledge of existing until they were given their opportunity to leave their confined box. Like their place of bondage, the large building was constructed of brick, situated against a hill where only someone stumbling in the right direction would possibly run into. Outlaws built in such places, to live in an unknown luxury away from suspicious minds, and it was vastly being proven that Beryl Monroe wasn't just an outlaw by family relations, but the very definition of one herself. It was her house, and they were her prisoners, yet they were so much more.

"What comes now, Mrs. Monroe?" Mort asked when Beryl's hand reached behind her and pulled the door shut tight, as in Ann's hasty exit, it had been left ajar.

"Why? Are you feeling the pinch yet, Lawman?" Beryl enunciated the title with elongated flair as she stared at Mort's face.

"Let's just say I'm feeling wary," Mort gave her a raised eyebrow to study.

"I let you wander free for awhile, didn't I?" Beryl shrugged, letting the gun in her hand make a slight movement toward the door. "Stretching your legs for a short while must have been an improvement than your cramped quarters."

"Yeah, and what for?" Jess' question turned Beryl in his direction as his steely gaze tried to pin her to the wall, but the returned spark in her eyes was enough of an expression to show it hadn't worked.

"Pretty Boy," Beryl lowered her voice a notch and as she bent closer to Jess, it teetered on being seductive, "you're about to find out."

The layer of brick that separated them from the outside was solid enough that sound on the other side was distorted or even nonexistent, but when there was a noise loud enough to gain their attention, all heads turned toward the door, except for the woman's. Her eyes stayed fixated to the man in front of her as a smile crept up into her cheeks, the dimples not showing added attractiveness, but deviousness. Wasn't that the sound of riders approaching, with emphasis on it being plural? They couldn't yet see what was beyond the closed door, but if it was a man, no, multiple men, there could only be a few reasons to the why, and none of them could be deemed as optimistic ones. The men who had captured them in the first place, the promised revenge coming in on horseback, or maybe even a posse?

"I'll be only a moment," Beryl's voice, not quite lost of its sensuality, shifted with her body as she strode through the door.

"What do you make of it?" Slim asked, craning his head to try to see through the brief moment of the open door as it closed behind the woman's frame.

"Dunno," Jess answered, squirming against the ropes, even though he knew his attempts were futile. "Maybe we don't wanna know."

"Just sit tight, Boys," Mort said, trying to sound reassuring, but even to his own ears there was the sound of doubt. "As long as we stay together we'll be…"

Mort was about to say an affirmative word, and although he was interrupted by the doorknob being turned, his pause also held dual meaning. Were they really going to be fine if they stayed together? There was such a thing as saying an encouraging thought aloud, but if there wasn't much faith in his own spirit that it would be true, how could he share it with Slim and Jess? There might have been a beautiful face behind the gun and her demands, but beyond the shapely surface was something akin to evil. It announced itself even further when Beryl's body returned to stand in front of them, her hands no longer bearing the sidearm, but holding something else behind her back, something that she deemed even more powerful than six bullets would be. In her eyes, spreading out to the creases in her aging skin, down to the way she held her mouth, and even in her prepared stance exposed the wickedness that raged within her. And this was the real reason why Mort couldn't utter a promise to his friends, because there would be no erasing of that emotion spelling out across the woman's entire body, until it had been eradicated. Surviving that kind of pain might not be able to be endured.

"Well, now," Beryl's speech was back to its iciest as she toyed with the object behind her back. "What do you suppose I have here? If you guessed a weapon that cuts to your core, you'd be right."

"You sure are enjoying this," Slim said, giving his head a slight shake as his eyes caught a glimpse of what was in Beryl's hands. "I can see you don't have a knife. True, a paper cut can sting, but not so much to make a man holler."

"This will, I'd imagine," Beryl produced the item, and in a flash of movement, she tossed it in Slim's direction.

"Hey!" Slim gave a surprised yelp when the newspaper landed in his lap. The folds hit his jeans with a louder than normal slap, perhaps it was because as it fell, there was an invisible hand that struck each cheek at the same time, because even in its folded state, there was no mistaking the headline. And this wasn't an old news item, but one fresh off the presses in a nearby Wyoming town, penned by the original hand that had started the ugly tale a few months earlier.

"Read it," Beryl's eyes narrowed on Slim as she gave the command. "You, after all, look educated enough to make out even the biggest words printed there."

"Should I?" Slim's question was asked in silence, looking first at Mort, who barely gave a nod of approval, and then when Slim's gaze switched to Jess, he watched as his partner adamantly shook his head back and forth. Normally he might have agreed with Jess, considering the words written in the previous articles could still be nauseously quoted in his mind, but Slim could see out of the corner of his eye that there was a hand back inside of a pocket where a gun was being touched. He would read.

"'Mort Cory and his band of road agents are making headlines again, in the worst possible way. No, they are not heroes, like some would argue by the fanciful tales told about how they defeated a notorious outlaw gang that had supposedly smeared their names with mud. As it seems, those names needed no help in smearing. They did that to themselves when they bought a ticket on the wrong side of the stagecoach, when they took it and more down yesterday afternoon. Some say they don't believe it, that it must only be a rumor gone wild, but the facts have been delivered and the truth can't be denied. The Mort Cory gang has been resurrected, and this time the only farce in the stories being spread is their feigned innocence during their previous escapades. Still doubting? The proof might not be easy to swallow, but it's already in everyone's throats so go ahead and shove it down like Aunt Edna's ten-year old fruitcake. Mort Cory himself took an unannounced leave of absence from his duties as Laramie's sheriff, leaving the town's Mayor scrambling for a replacement. Dim Sherman and Jest Harmer, well, what's ranch life anyway when you can rake in the dough on the stagecoaches they are supposed to be working for? They are missing as well, leaving only an elderly man to take on their spread alone. What kind of men would do that? The answer isn't hard to find. Only bad blood would be so cold. What pumps through Cory, Sherman and Harmer's veins must be on the verge of freezing, considering what they've done.

"'Robbing and killing. No, the better term to use here would be murder. The gun was out of Harmer's holster so fast, the witnesses weren't certain they even saw the draw. But the man he shot saw the bullet, screaming into his flesh before his body thumped dirt and breathed its last. They did the unthinkable, but unfortunately they didn't stop there. They rode the crime wave into a swooping rush of high water, descending on the Cox ranch that sits between the towns of Casper and Lofton. Plucking it clean is an understatement. Not only did they literally pluck every feather off of a poor chicken now destined for a pot, but they ransacked the house, turning over every drawer, breaking every dish, and even taking a single penny stuck in the tiniest Cox sock that had been carefully preserved since Santa Claus had slipped it in unseen last Christmas Eve. But perhaps the worst part of the story is what they did as their final encore at the Cox ranch. The man identified as Jest Harmer, slated with having the finest skill with his gun, apparently holds onto another fine art as well. Romanticizing women. The Cox twins, eighteen years and glowing with bubbly blonde beauty, likely are both still sobbing in their feather pillows this morning, had the displeasure of discovering first hand Harmer's second obsession. His handsome face might have given them a fluttering heartbeat under different circumstances, but not when the attraction was forced, blowing out the lamp light before showering them both with unwanted kisses. Mrs. Cox said she could still hear the stifled screams hours after the distasteful incident, afraid what really was going on behind that closed door, but despite a mother's terror, there will be no further suspicions to jump to. There won't be any pitter-pattering of little Harmer feet in nine months. The kiss was all that the sot sought.'"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jess interrupted with a bark, wearing something worse than a frown.

"Don't cut in or I'll lose my place," Slim said, the irritation of his voice not coming from Jess' jumping in for clarification. "But just so you know, a sot is a drunk."

"I ain't a drunk or a…"

"Just finish the story, Slim," Mort said quickly, watching the bemused face of Beryl starting to darken.

"'While one man was deeply involved with lip action behind a closed door, another member of the gang had his own form of mouthy participation. Dim Sherman, known as the group's muscleman, used his fists to split both the upper and lower lip of Mr. Cox, as the patriarch had dared the attempt to save his family from their hapless destruction. A cracked rib and several bruises later, the head of the household was left in an unconscious heap while Sherman stepped free from the incident unscathed. The gang's leader did the most wrecking of objects and lifting of valuables while his boys played, their sickening fun coming to an end with a banging of a bedroom door and a crying woman over her tattered husband's body. When the trio finally relieved the Cox family of their inexcusable behavior, they left irreparable damage and immense hatred imbedded in a large number of upstanding citizens who would rather see the members of the Mort Cory gang hang than be left to rot in a jail cell. They'll get there; it's only a matter of time when their true fate will be decided, by law, by man, or by their own destructive devices.'"

Slim stopped, the breaths coming in and out of his nose the only thing he could hear amidst the sudden silence that filled the room. The words that he had read fell hard on top of them all, as if the bricks that surrounded them had just given way and pounded their flesh into the ground. When the initial blow of shock receded, guilt, albeit an unnecessary emotion, took its place, searing into each heart as the accusations sizzled against their chests like a red-hot poker was jutting in their direction. These were their names, their reputations, their lives being ripped to shreds, even if it wasn't their actions.

"But none of this even happened," Slim said, finally breaking the silence and Beryl's terrible hold she had on them, just in her unmoving stance.

"Oh," Beryl gave a slow nod and an even slower created smile, "but it did."

"Someone sure has made everyone think it did," Mort's voice sounded weak at the heaping accusations against them, but there was enough noticeable strength in his being in the very way that he clenched his fists in his lap.

"One more thing," Beryl pulled a single piece of paper out of her pocket where the gun was also stashed, unfolding the sheet to poster size. "You're worth five-thousand. Dead or alive."

"Ouch," Slim said when the paper fluttered into is lap, not that the paper had bit into his flesh, but how its image had seared his vision, "this time it boasts our pictures, at least, it looks kind of like us. Artist's renditions aren't always perfect, but it is a little eerie."

"Names the same?" Jess asked, already setting his face in a wince as he waited for Slim's reply.

"Yup."

"Dad-gum."

"But how?" Mort asked the question that hung over each of their heads.

"I'll show you," Beryl said, taking the single step to the doorway. "Gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to the Mort Cory gang."

"What?" Mort and Slim said in unison, while Jess let out a chilling, "dad-gum."

Three men filed into the room, coming to a stop when they were in a straight line in front of the men they had portrayed.