Sundown Sinners

Chapter Five: Like Wild Animals

Most people don't die from the act of hanging. I'm not saying that people weren't hung very often, or that it wasn't America's favorite flavor of public execution, especially during the Wild West. Instead, I mean that most people didn't die from the act of suffocation while they were hanging. Instead, when the floor dropped out from underneath them, most people died from their necks breaking as their full weight was yanked downward by gravity, playing a losing game of tug-o-war with the hemp rope.

My neck did not break as the floor disappeared from underneath me. In truth, I didn't even feel the rope snag as it was pulled taut by the weight of my body. Instead, I felt myself drop through open air, falling far farther than it felt like I should have. I heard screams and the terrified whinnies of horses. I felt hands dig into my flesh, snatching me from the air and the jaws of death itself. I was slung over something, my stomach against solid leather and my legs dangling over the edge as the curved platform underneath me bucked and squealed.

The hands that had stolen me from the gallows now gently rested on my back, stabilizing me as we rode away from the noise of the township. I heard the loud blast of a gunshot from a revolver. I heard the Sheriff screaming for the deputies to shoot. I clenched my jaw as the world around me lurched, my world dark from the hood over my head. My hands were still tied, and anyway, there was no way I would want to see whatever was happening outside of my dark cocoon. I was safer in the darkness, even if only mentally.

"We'll get you home, Doc." The man's voice was low and quiet, barely audible over the chaos echoing all around us. "I'm sorry it took so long to find ya." And he really did sound sorry, whoever this man was. Could he have been one of the Reeves Boys the Sheriff had been going on about?

My skin prickled as the cold air rushed past. We were riding out of town at an alarming rate, the wind rushing past us in violent gusts. I realized that I must have still been naked and covered in the cum of the Deadbranch men, but in the context of the game, it probably didn't matter.

"Are we good?" A voice called over the cacophony of noise. There was another gunshot and an "Oh shit!" in response.

The man whose horse I was slung over patted my ass affectionately with a chuckle. "You're okay, Doc. Jacks is good too, no need to worry about fixing anyone up." His voice wasn't exactly warm but had a gravelly quality as his hand rested on my hip. Was this man supposed to be my lover? He certainly was acting like it from the way his thumb drew slow, soothing circles on my skin.

"Finch cleared the way!" A new voice shouted. This one was angrier and clearer than the others. "Come on! Move your asses! We aren't coming back to this shithole twice!" His horse's hooves beat against the hard ground in a series of loud, aggressive stomps. It seemed to be just as pissed as its rider. The angry man siddled up next to us, his horse snorting next to my head.

"Why is he naked? Can't a man be hung with some fucking dignity?" The angry man demanded.

"It's none of our business, Silas." My savior's hand slipped off of my ass and slid up to my back. Ah. If we were lovers, maybe the rest of the gang didn't know? "You should leave the Doc alone until he wants to talk. Scout ahead. I'll bring up the rear."

"You're not bringing up the rear!" Silas argued. "You've got Doc Mallory! You should be home by now. It's not just your life at stake if they decide to come after-"

"Silas!" The gravelly voice bit out. I had a sudden memory of my father admonishing me when I talked back to him about what college I wanted to attend. The intonation was too familiar to be a boss-underling relationship. These men were related. "Ride ahead. Now. I ain't asking twice."

"Or what?" Silas pushed. Yeah, they definitely had to be related. Any normal leader of a gang of outlaws would've shot someone this disobedient by now. "You going to make me walk home again? Shoot my horse and leave me for dead?"

"That's not what happened." The gravelly man sighed. "Your horse was lame, Silas. He was just going to slow us down, and you were the one who didn't want to ride with Cook."

"It's bad luck to get on a horse with a woman!" Silas hissed. "Don't you know that?"

"It's worse luck to ride on a lame horse." The man responded sarcastically. "Get a move on. We'll talk about this later."

"I'll watch your back." Silas answered. There was a winnie from his horse as he pulled it up short. The sounds of them quickly disappeared.

The gravelly man sighed hard. "You ain't missed much, Doc." His hand gripping the reins rested against my shoulder blade. "In fact, I think he's gotten worse since you've been gone. He's been questioning my every move. I'm at my wit's end with that boy." He sighed again, this time longer.

I probably should have answered, but something was holding me back. I didn't know this man. It didn't feel right to talk to him about his internal conflicts when I didn't even know his name. Maybe the game would give me a cutscene once we stopped riding? I wondered how this game handled cutscenes, if it even had any. Would it be like watching something happen from afar, as if it was on a tv screen? Or would it be like a dream, where my actions and words were all not my own? I wasn't quite sure if I wanted to experience that or not.

The sounds of a cowboy gang breaking their doctor out of prison got quieter and quieter as we rode into the wilds of the frontier. Based on what the Sheriff had said as he was hanging me, we were somewhere in California. I wasn't sure where Deadbranch was supposed to be, but I knew California well enough in the modern era. Hell, growing up and never really leaving the state, I knew quite a bit about California in the Wild West too.

Back then, it was mostly gold miners and immigrants. The gold rush of 1848 brought in hundreds of thousands of prospectors, turning sleeping towns into "boomtowns" overnight. Because there were so many people from so many walks of life, and not much gold to be found, towns were often violent and full of murder and arson. Entire townships could burn down in a single night from one drunken brawl or another.

For a game setting, California was not a bad place to be. There wouldn't be the hot, sunny beaches of Los Angeles or the classical golden gate bridge of San Francisco, but there would be plenty of food, cultures, and fun to be found.

"We're here." The gravelly man told me as the horse slowed to a stop. There was a thundering of hooves as several other horses pulled up alongside us. Clothes rustled and guns clicked as they were shoved back into harnesses and belts. The man whose horse I was on slipped off the animal's back before gently lifting me down. I hadn't even realized how high I had been until I felt him lower me onto solid ground. From watching TV, horses didn't look all that massive. But they really, really were.

"Grab him a blanket." The man said, shielding my body with his own as I tried to move my hands. They had gone numb during our ride, and now there was an uncomfortable tingling in my fingers that was almost painful. There was the sound of rustling and someone mumbled 'Here' as they handed the garment over. Carefully, the man draped the blanket around my body like a parent wrapping a child in a towel after a bath.

"Close your eyes, Doc." The man mumbled. "That hood's been on for a while now. You'll probably need to get used to the light." I did as he instructed, shutting my eyes tight. Slowly, he inched the hood off of me. There was a gasp. Then, there was silence.

I slowly opened my eyes, squinting against the sudden sunlight. He had been right, wearing a hood for at least an hour had been no joke. I was suddenly aware of how much my head hurt. My neck hurt too. In fact, I was pretty sure there wasn't a single thing on my body that didn't hurt.

As the people around me slowly came into view, I recognized the shiny glint of a knife pointed right at my nose. It belonged to a man of maybe early thirties, his brown hair tangled and long at his shoulders. His face was a mixture of rage and shock, his stubble doing nothing to hide his expression.

There were other people around as well. The man closest to me, the man with the gravelly voice, looked a lot like the man with the knife. Only, he was older, his brown hair streaked with strands of silver around his temples. He had a thick, well-trimmed beard that framed a square jawline. He was frowning, but his eyes didn't hold the malice of the other man.

To my right were two other men, both in their twenties. One was as pale as curdled milk, his body unnaturally skinny and lanky. He had vaguely red hair that covered his face in a sweep of bangs. He wasn't staring at me, but down at his hands, which fiddled nervously. The other man had tannish brown skin, his hair a dark black. He was South American for sure, but out of all the people who stood over me, he had the kindest eyes. He looked unsure, but when I met his gaze, he smiled weakly.

To my left were a man and a woman. The man was much older than the rest of the crew, his hair and beard a mixture of white and gray. He had a broad nose and a nasty frown, his hat hiding the rest of his face in shadow. The woman was almost as tall as the old man, her hair black and curly and tied into a bun at the back of her head. She didn't wear a dress like Mother Maeve, but instead a button-up shirt and trousers like the rest of the gang around them. Her skin was dark, her irises black. If I had to guess, I would say that she was older too, but one could only tell if they looked close at the wrinkles around her eyes and lips.

"You're not Hank Mallory." The outraged man whispered, his voice shaking. His knife was shaking too. I blinked at him, clutching the scratchy wool blanket tighter around my chest.

"I'm not?" I asked stupidly. I hadn't even considered that my identity could have been mistaken. It was a coin toss whether you were allowed to choose your character's name or not in video games.

"What?" The man hissed. "Are you making fun of me? Do you want to fucking die?" He thrust his knife forward and I flinched back, stumbling into the solid side of the horse. It barely seemed to notice, its face buried in the tall grass as it munched away.

A hand shot out, catching the man's wrist before he could take my eye out. It was the bearded man. My savior. Twice now, I guess.

"Don't stab him yet." He spoke, his voice still low and gravelly. "We don't even know who he is."

"Well, he's not Doc." The latino boy stated helpfully. His smile had widened slightly, but it was still nervous. "Doc has a beard. And is older."

"Maybe we should ask him who he is?" The woman's voice was smooth and unbothered. She didn't seem to be glaring at me, but her gaze was still a touch distrustful. I couldn't blame her. They had thought they were rescuing their friend, who I apparently was not.

"Or maybe we should gouge out his eyes so he can't identify us!" The man with the knife snarled. Judging from his attitude, I guessed that he was probably Silas, the angry man from earlier. Looking between him and the gravelly voiced man, I assumed my guess was correct. They were related... brothers were probably more likely than father and son, judging from how young they looked.

"People already know what we look like." The skinny man mumbled almost under his breath. He spoke so quickly that I barely understood him. "People know because they took pictures and now all the towns have pictures of us and they put them on posters."

"I know that!" Silas yelled. He tried to yank his arm away from his brother, but the bearded man held firm.

"There will be no stabbing until we figure out what's going on." The bearded man said. "So put your knife away and stop acting the fool. You're embarrassing yourself." I almost cringed at the hardness in his voice. You could tell that they must have fought like this often. Silas snatched his arm back, glaring at the bearded man. He pushed his knife into its sheath on his belt and walked away without another word, his eyes burning with rage.

No one watched him leave. Everyone kept their eyes on me. I wished I was wearing something more substantial than a blanket. Vaguely, I wondered where the scraps of my clothes had disappeared to. I swore I was wearing a shirt before they hung me, even if my pants were around my ankles.

"Who are you?" The bearded man asked, his voice careful. "Why were they trying to hang you?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but was unsure how to start. I couldn't very well tell him that I was dropped unceremoniously into a video game, where I woke up in a jail cell, fucked the Sheriff, met a horse-riding preacher, got taken to the gallows, then had a foursome in front of an entire township to prove that I didn't need to be hung, only for them to hang me anyway. Jesus, I had a busy morning.

"My name is Elliot." I finally answered. "At least, I think it is." For all I knew, I really could be the Queen of England.

"You think?" The man asked skeptically.

"I think." I confirmed. "I woke up in the jail cell in Deadbranch. The Sheriff kept calling me Mallory and telling me that I was going to be hung for robbing a train. He said they found me falling off the back." I glanced down at the wedding ring on my finger and held it up to the crew of people. "They gave me this ring and a black hat. They said they found them near me."

The man gently grabbed my hand and slipped the ring off my finger. He inspected the writing inside before casting me a suspicious glance. "Where did you get these?"

"I don't know." I told him tiredly. "I don't remember anything from before the jail cell."

"Then how do you know your name is Elliot?" Said the hispanic boy.

"I don't really know that either." I responded. "It just... feels right." That felt flimsy, even to me, but the crew didn't seem to find it any stranger than everything else I had told them.

"So, the Sheriff thought you were Doc?" The woman asked.

"That's what he said." I shrugged. "I wasn't exactly in a position to contradict him."

"I don't remember you being on that train." The bearded man stuffed the ring into the breast pocket of his vest. "Where were you sitting? Where were you going?"

I felt a wave of frustration rise in my chest, but fought to push it down.

"I don't know." My voice was clipped. I had to keep a better hold on my temper. The last thing I needed was for this outlaw gang to decide that I was better off dead than alive. If I were a cat, I would've been running out of lives to spend. As it was, I wasn't sure how many more brushes with death I could reasonably have before my luck ran out.

"So, for some reason you fell off a train. The Sheriff rode up and saw you lying there on the tracks, unconscious and with Doc's ring and hat beside you? He probably read the ring, knew the inscription, and arrested you? Then you had a trial where you were found guilty. You got thrown in a cell to await your execution, then you got yourself hung?" The hispanic boy asked skeptically.

"Something like that." I mumbled. "I don't even remember the trial. He told me I was Mallory and I was scheduled to be hung. Then he had me perform that sham of a repentance trial-"

"Holy shit!" The hispanic boy exclaimed. "You took him up on that? Is that why you're naked?" His eyes seemed wild. Excited. There was something deeply amusing about my predicament to him. I flushed a deep shade of red.

"I thought it was my only way out alive!" I insisted. The boy held up his hands.

"Woah! No judgement!" He grinned. "I bet it was so hot. I wish I could've seen it. You probably did a decent enough job if they kept you alive that long. The sun was practically up by the time we got to you."

"And whose fault was that?" The old man grumbled, his arms crossed over his chest. The hispanic boy rolled his eyes.

"Silas'." He responded in a deadpan tone.

"Right." The old man replied skeptically.

The bearded man was silent, his eyes appraising me like a scientist studying a dead bug pinned to a cushion. I adjusted my blanket nervously.

"Are you going to kill me now?" I asked quietly, looking down at the man's shoes. His gaze was so intense it felt like it was burning a hole into my forehead.

Silence followed my question. Everyone seemed to look to the bearded man. I realized then that he must be the leader, though maybe I should've guessed from his presence alone. He was the one who had pulled me away from the gallows. He was the one who stopped his brother from taking off my nose with his knife. Whoever this man was, he was important. And handsome, too, in a rugged sort of way.

After a moment, the man shook his head. "We aren't going to kill you. Not yet." He looked past me, toward the direction of Deadbranch. "You're the only link we have to the real Doc Mallory. But," He lifted my chin with his finger and caught my gaze. "Make no mistake, if you make trouble around here or try to sell us out, I will kill you so quickly you won't even realize you're dead until you see those pearly white gates at the end of the tunnel."

I stared into his eyes. They were green with flecks of orange and brown. They seemed to swallow me, like a wave in an oceanic storm engulfing a capsizing ship. I was nothing against that gaze. This man could crush me like an ant.

"I won't make trouble." I insisted, my voice trembling.

"We'll see about that." He responded, his hand slowly dropping my chin. He looked around at the crew of people behind him, then flicked his head toward a circle of furs and blankets around a dead campfire. "We'll make introductions. Come on."

"And we'll get you something to eat." The woman said softly, reaching out a hand to me. I blinked at her, surprised by her sudden kindness. Hesitantly, I took her hand and allowed her to lead me toward the fire, which the hispanic boy began to build up with sticks and pine needles.

"So, who are you guys?" I asked, wishing I had something to wear instead of a ratty old blanket, but far too afraid to ask. After all, each of the five outlaws in front of me seemed to be packed to the brim with guns, knives, and probably other weapons. I certainly didn't want to annoy them and find out the hard way.

"Officially?" The hispanic boy laughed.

"I think he means technically." The skinny boy responded nervously.

"My name is Emilia Mills. You can call me Cookie." The woman's voice was getting warmer by the second as she grabbed a kettle from a rough canvas bag. She poured a small bit of water into it from a canteen before she used a stick to place it on top of the newly lit flames. The skinny boy, who had not built the fire, looked vaguely offended.

"Her name is Emilia Finch." The old man grumbled. "And she is my wife. So, don't get any ideas, boy." His voice was more grumbly than it was vicious. He looked more like a grumpy old man than a murdering outlaw. "And if you dare question our marriage, I'll gut you like a fish."

"Why would I question your marriage?" I asked before I could stop myself. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized what the man was saying. He was white. She was black. This was in the 1800s, when there were still plenty of African American people in bondage as forced, abused slaves. It was a wonder at all that she was even here, let alone with the respect of several white men. And yet, in California the segregation of whites and everyone else was not as aggressive as it was in the South. California was a true melting pot, especially with the gold rush. She was likely a freed woman.

"Don't make me laugh, boy. Shut up and keep your head down and do what you're told." The old man grumbled. Cookie shot him an irritated look.