#graphic content

You fade in and out, your head swimming with nothing and everything all at once, empty, yet foggy, heavy, yet so light it feels like it could float away if it weren't attached.

You hear the creaking of wagon wheels, voices speaking low and indistinct. You couldn't make out what they were saying, even if you had the consciousness to try.

You try to move your hands, your feet, but you're tied up. Wrists bound together behind your back in an uncomfortable way; ankles roped together, as if you could run in the first place.

The night air is too chilled for your clothing, now mostly soaked from the struggle with the woman in the bath.

If you were all there, you might ask who the people were, or where they're taking you. But you're not all there. Your brain is nowhere to be found, even though the throbbing in your head is insistent that is in fact still in your skull.

The wagon jostles hard during a turn, the horses taking it too fast over the rough terrain. Your head slams against the wooden bed, making you groan against the cloth gagging you as the throbbing in your head grows.

The wagon comes to a halt, and you feel yourself being picked up, someone tossing you crudely over their shoulder and carrying you. You open your eyes, but you can't make anything out.

Too weak to do anything, You listen to the voices. A man yells, another laughs. A lady, presumably the one who helped kidnap you, giggles, her voice girlish and strange sounding.

Then, you're being tossed onto a rough, straw-tick mattress on an old, wooden frame. You can feel the straw poke through the fabric covering, prickly on your legs and face.

You're left alone for a while, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to do anything but hope that soon it would be all over.

Arthur Morgan looked around the saloon. He didn't see you anywhere, and his last two beers had been delivered by a man who he assumed was the owner. The man was dressed sharper than you had been, and than the bartender. He had money for sure, at least some. And he was looking very displeased about something; likely the fact that he was serving drinks to the rowdy saloon instead of you doing it.

Javier and Sean were off trying to flirt with some of the local women and saloon girls; hell, Sean was practically teasing one of the whores into letting him go a round for free.

Lenny and John were sitting at the table, arguing about something, going mostly unnoticed by him.

"That ain't a real word!"

"No, it definitely is a word, John."

"It sounds like somethin' Dutch would say when he's lyin'."

"It probably is."

"See? You just admitted it! It ain't a real word!"

"Most of the words Dutch uses when he's lying are still real, John."

"…No they ain't. He uses words like ambivalent and… quintessential."

"… And?"

"And those ain't real words! I'm telling' you, he's makin' 'em up, Lenny!"

Arthur turned to them, interrupting the argument.

"Where's the girl?"

Both men look at him, confused.

"What girl?" asks John.

"Y'know, the server."

"Ain't she just… I dunno… serving drinks?" John asked.

"You know," Lenny started, "it has been a while since she last came by here. It's been that man serving since then…" His gaze went around the room, until he found the owner, who was frantically running around the floor, trying to serve drinks to the rowdy patrons.

Without another word, Arthur stood and made his way over to the man, standing in front of him and stopping him in his tracks. He loomed over the man, crossing his arms.

"Where's the girl?"

The saloon owner, Mister Smithfield, shook his head, responding exasperatedly.

"What girl?! There's girls all around here, you brute, I can't keep track of all–"

"Not any girl. Her. The server. Where'd she go?"

Mister Smithfield let out an irritated huff.

"She ran off on me, in the middle of a rush, and didn't even think to say so much as 'I quit'! Leaving me to fend for myself in this pack of– of– of animals!" he sputtered, his tray of empty glasses almost flying from his hands as he tried to gesture wildly.

Arthur's expression went cold.

"She run off. In the middle of a rush? Now, you tell me what's wrong with that statement."

"How am I supposed to know? She hasn't been working here for more than a couple of months, and now she leaves– If she thinks she's gettin' her job back, she can think again!"

The bartender, Cliff, suddenly spoke up from behind the bar, having overheard.

"Now boss, you know Miss wouldn't do that…"

Arthur, realizing he'd likely have more luck with the seemingly sympathetic bartender rather than the angry owner, turned to Cliff and asked.

"When you last see her?"

Cliff's hand stilled from wiping down the bar, his other hand coming up to stroke his chin as he thought.

"Well… last I saw her was… maybe an hour or two ago? Hard to keep track of time when we're busy… haven't seen her since she went to tend to that deluxe bath for the one lady…"

"What lady?"

"She was sittin' right over there. Blonde, short… didn't look like a very– eh– Christian lady, if you asked me; but who am I to judge? Had a couple o' men with her. Real rough types…"

Arthur's eyes narrowed.

"Rough types? How so?"

"Just… looked like the kind of folk you had to be careful of. I seen my fair share of men you don't wanna mess with…"

Arthur's mind briefly went to the fight with Tommy, how he'd been underestimated in his ability to take on the man. This very bartender was the one working… Yeah. He probably would know the rough types…

"They leave with the lady?"

"No, they waited a bit. I didn't see 'em leave, just realized they were gone at some point after Miss went to tend to the bath."

Arthur's jaw clenched and his fists were balled up at his sides. It smelled a whole lot like trouble…

"Where do ya give the baths?" he asked.

"Uh… back there. Straight back, to the left. Door on the right is the stock room, but when she's tending to someone it's where she sits and waits for 'em to call her in."

Arthur didn't waste any time, going behind the counter, stalking down the hall. He was a man on a mission, determined to see just why you hadn't returned… his stomach was twisting in a way not unfamiliar to him. Like when you hear a gunshot ring out and you go looking for the source.

When he got to the back of the hall, he briefly glanced in the stock room to the right, noting the chair she likely sat in while waiting. Nothing out of the ordinary there. The he turned left, looking at the door to the bathing room. There was no noise coming from inside, no sloshing of water in the tub, no sighs of contentment from a hot bath, no murmuring voices in quiet conversation. It was eerily quiet. The sign said 'PRIVATE' in big, dark lettering. And the door was just ever so slightly ajar.

He pressed it open, door creaking slowly, and went inside.

You wake up to a splash, someone throwing a bucket of cold water on you. You gasp from it, the cloth tied around your mouth muffling the noise as you open your eyes and look around with bewilderment.

Still out of it, the shapes of wooden furniture and the dirty torn curtains blowing from the wind of the open window turn into unidentifiable objects to you. You squint your eyes trying to make them out, head throbbing, and a sickly, sweet taste in the back of your throat, like some kind of fruit gone rancid. The room is spinning but slowly stills, allowing you to focus on what was in front of you.

Colm O'Driscoll.

"There she is… our own Sleeping Beauty…"

His deep, dragging voice makes your hair stand on end, like a spooked cat. He stands in front of the rough straw-tick you're laying on, looming over you, then walks around the side with slow, heavy steps, each one like another thump to your already racing heart. His gaze is assessing, a predator watching his prey, seeing if they're fit for eating or just trash to be discarded.

"I think you'll do just fine. My boys picked out a real winner with you. A fine little piece to play with."

You want to get up, to run from the cabin, to scream. Anything. But you can't, you're stuck just listening. Stuck listening to a man describe how perfect you are for his idea of 'playing', of 'fun'. Hands bound together behind you uncomfortably with a rough length of rope, feet tied at the ankles, too.

Your body shivers and you can't tell if it's from the chill of your wet clothing in the cold air, or if it's just because of how he's looking at you.

"You know, I think you might serve real well here. A lot longer than them other girls they brought me. Most of them…" he lets out a huff, somewhere between amused and annoyed, shaking his head, "they don't last more'n a couple a' days. But you… you got fight in ya, girly, don'tcha? You could probably last me and my boys a good bit. Unless… I go a little too hard on ya… But I'd only do that if you're bad. You gonna be bad for me, girly? Or… are you gonna be a good little thing and play along?"

He reaches down to touch you. His hand comes up to caress your face, knuckle running along your cheekbone. It wasn't gentle, it was possessive. He was looking at the gift brought from his men to him. His new toy. You..

Arthur stepped into the room. It was… eerie. Like some scene in an unsettling painting where the artist used all those strange shadows and disturbing undertones.

The air was still, the steam that was there once now hung low. The bathtub water was cool, only a little above room temperature, a light film of soap and oils on top. The sounds of the saloon were quieter back here, the laughter muffled and the notes played on the piano sounding discordant and off. All of that wasn't to mention the glaringly obvious truth of this room: something happened here.

There was a struggle.

The floor had puddles of water here and there, a towel lay half dragged from the tub, partially soaking wet and the other part still dry. There were muddy footprints on the floor… one smaller set: the woman who had the bath, and two larger sets: the men she was with. No second set of women's. Like she came in and just… never walked out. They led to a service door that he could assume was normally locked from inside, but wasn't right now.

He spotted something on the ground by the tub. It was a white handkerchief, crumpled up and half wet from sitting in a puddle, looking like a little drowned dove.

When he grabbed it off the floor to look at it, the smell coming off it hit his nose. He brought it a little closer, giving a small sniff.

He instantly recoiled at the cloying, sweet smell of it, like fruity and floral but inherently wrong. The taste lingered in the back of his throat and his sinuses.

Chloroform.

He knew the smell. Hosea sometimes used it when they were desperate and had to get someone knocked out, though he preferred not to. And he knew some of the more nefarious uses people had for it, drugging people for all manner of things.

He spat hard on the ground, trying to clear the lingering taste from his senses. His jaw tightened, and he clutched the rag in his fist while turning on his heel and storming out into the front of the saloon.

Mister Smithfield was still out there, currently speaking to a customer about your 'running off'.

"And if she says anything about back wages–!"

Arthur grabbed him by his collar and held the handkerchief against his nose for a moment, just long enough to make him gasp it into his lungs.

"She didn't run off," he growled as he pulled the handkerchief away, tossing it onto the bar counter.

Mister Smithfield sputtered and gasped, both from the sweet air he'd just inhaled and from the shock of being grabbed by a man who looked like a storm-cloud.

"What– what the hell is that?" he yelled as he stumbled back, feet unsteady from the now slowly, spinning room.

"She was drugged and taken. All because you decided a couple o' coins was better than havin' her out here doin' her job!"

John and Lenny smelled the scent off the handkerchief waft toward them as they stood nearby.

"What the hell is that shit? Smells like Uncle brewed a bad batch o' hooch," John said as he eyed the handkerchief with disgust.

"I opened a can of peaches that had hole in the bottom, once. Smelled a whole lot like that," Lenny said, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

But it was Cliff's face that said the most. His skin had gone pale and his normally friendly expression looked haunted.

"Chloroform. Knockout drops. That's a smell a man never forgets… Doctor's would use it in the war… I helped hold a few men down after they got near knocked out from it for their surgeries. Docs claimed they couldn't feel anything, but it made 'em real… agitated and restless sometimes. Had some myself once, when they were digging bullets outta my leg. It helped, but if I knew my head would be poundin' like it was afterward, I would'a gone without."

Everyone was silent for a moment allowing the statement to settle over the group like a weighted blanket, the noise of the saloon itself seeming to fade into the background. But then, someone unexpectedly cleared their throat. Arthur's head whipped around to see who interrupted.

"Y'all ain't talkin' about that girl that was in here earlier, are ya?"

It was one of the girls Javier and Sean had been talking to. Their group had overheard as they wandered closer to Arthur and Cliff's conversation.

"Yeah, you know her?" Arthur asked, seeing the glimmer of recognition on her face.

She nodded, her earlier laughter nowhere to be found.

"Honey, that's Pearl White. She's a mean little thing… We worked the same line down in Blackwater before everything went to shit there. Used to be a good girl 'til that devil Colm O'Driscoll got his claws in her."

"Ye sayin'… she's Colm's girl, now?" Sean asked, slurring his words from having taken too many shots of rye. "I been a couple'a rounds meself wit'… wit' ol' Pearl. Never t'ot she were the type ta go wit' the likes a' him! Right bastard…" Despite being three sheets to the wind, his anger was evident.

"Mhm… she is. He uses her as his sweet face to make people trust 'em more… and if that's sweetwater y'all got on that there in your hand, it's definitely hers."

"Sweetwater?"

"That's what she called it anyway. Used to use it on men after they passed out from a night with her, to make sure they stayed passed out 'til she left with all the money in their pants… used it on me when she left our group, a few other girls, too. The bitch took everythin' and ran."

"Should'a figured O'Driscolls would be behind this shit…" John muttered, shaking his head.

Arthur shoved the crumpled handkerchief in his pocket and squared his shoulders.

"Lenny! Get Sean back to camp. He ain't gonna shoot straight in the state he's in. Let Dutch know what's goin' on. John, Javier? You're with me." He turned, grabbing Smithfield by the collar of his shirt and shoving a finger against his chest. "And if we don't find her, I'm burning this place to the goddamn ground," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Smithfield didn't even have time to react before Arthur let go, pushing him back and making the man stumble. He stormed to the back hall towards the service door, not bothering to look behind him to make sure they followed.

He was carrying the weight of your survival on his shoulders, and he didn't care what anyone had to say about it.

"Don't you worry, girly… this bed? It's temporary…" Colm's breath smelled like rot and whiskey and stale cigars. He was on the mattress with you now, next to you, face inches from yours and his voice a whisper that seemed to get colder with each word. Every time you looked away, he gripped your chin and turned your face back towards him. "We'll be movin' out here in a few hours. Then you'll have a nice, comfortable bed… one you won't mind cuddlin' up to me on…"

He punctuates his words by licking a long stripe up your neck to your ear.

It felt slimy, and violating, making you recoil with a small involuntary whimper.

He inhales the scent from the hair, behind your ear, then gives the side of your head a testing kiss. It would almost be considered tender if not coming from him.

He lets out a low, creeping chuckle.

"Girl, you smell like fear. I like that, you know. Means you know what I can do to ya…"

He pulls a knife from beside the bed, and traces it up your arm, to the front of your blouse, then slowly pulls off each button with the knife, each thread popping as they snap off.

He uses the tip of the knife to open your blouse with slow, delicate precision, revealing your chemise and stays. Then, with more force and less restraint, he slips the knife blade under the neckline of your chemise and yanks downward, tearing through the chemise and stays in one smooth motion.

As he takes a moment to look over your exposed chest and stomach, you vaguely register somewhere back in your brain, behind the fear, his expression reminds you of a child opening a present on Christmas day.

You barely notice the tear running down your cheek, but he does.

"Aww, don't cry now, girl… I ain't gonna hurt ya that much… Hell, maybe if you're good enough, I'll keep ya. How's that sound? You wanna be mine?"

You shake your head no, more frantic tears now spilling down from your eyes, vehemently against letting him have any ideas about you wanting this. Who could want this?

He just chuckles again at your frantic look, amused with your defiance.

"Oh, you're gonna be a fun one, huh? Most girls, they realize by now they ain't goin' anywhere… they find it easier to be… agreeable. But you… you're different, huh? You're gonna give me a hell of time."

He laughs at the thought, grinning ear to ear.

"Don't you worry none, I like me a challenge. I like breakin' in a feisty little filly like you. Now, how 'bout we get you out of those ropes, hm? Just for now. You can let me see just how much fight you got in ya."

He takes his knife again, grabbing you and pulling you to sit up by your arm, and roughly reaches behind your back to cut through the rope. The sawing only takes a moment, and when your hands are free you pull them back, rubbing your wrists as if you could make the burn of the rope go away. He pushes you to lay back again, then unties the long strip of fabric his men used to gag you.

"There. Now we can hear how pretty you sound…"

You don't say anything, refusing to interact as much as you can with your limited autonomy. You don't look away, knowing he'll just grab your chin and make you look at him anyway. But the look you're giving him… it's no longer fear. It's daggers.

You're interrupted by someone pushing the door open and walking just into the doorway.

Colm turns his head, looking at whoever dares intrude right now.

"Pearl…" he growls, "you better have a damn good reason to be in here right now, woman.".

He turns to look back at you.

You watch as she shrinks back a little, but she still has a slight defiance to the set of her jaw as she answers him.

"The boys are gettin' into the moonshine you said not to touch. Casey's tryin' to pick a fight with the scouts already. If they're too drunk in the morning' to sit on a horse, we ain't goin' nowhere…"

Your hands, now free, don't move yet… you feel the steady pressure of your revolver tucked and still hidden in the waistband of your skirt…

If he just looks away… just for a moment…

It takes what feels like forever, as he rubs your jawline in steady, smooth strokes… but finally he turns his head to answer her.

A slow, sadistic grin spreads across his face.

"Now Pearl, you're a terrible liar when you're poutin'. You come in here when I'm havin' a bit o' fun like there's a fire out there… tell me, that really what's goin' on, or you just burnin' up 'cause I ain't lookin' at you?"

Pearl looks like he's slapped her, flinching at his cruel words, her face turning red. You use the opportunity to slowly guide your hand down to your waistband…

Pearl stammers, trying to think of something to say, but can't. She ends up looking at you, her eyes burning holes into you. This is your fault to her… a distraction, not a prisoner. Thankfully, Colm's body is blocking the view of your hands.

She leaves, slamming the door behind her.

Colm slowly looks back at you, about to say something, but you draw the gun from your waistband quickly and pull the trigger, the gun aimed at him.

Right before the pull, in a flash, his hand pushes the one you're holding the gun in up, above your head.

BANG!

The gun goes off, and the bullet grazes the top layer of skin on Colm's shoulder.

He doesn't react much, aside from how heavy he's breathing. His eyes, full of rage now, stare into yours, deep and cold.

You're shaking.

Then, he begins to laugh again, that slow, deep chuckle of his. He's amused. He's furious. He's danger.

He pries the gun from your fingers and tosses it across the room on the floor.

"Thought I didn't know 'bout that piece you was hidin' from me, huh? Yeah… I knew… I was wondering how long it'd be before it made its appearance… you really are a little fighter, huh girly? Don't worry… you ain't gonna be fightin' for long."

Suddenly he lifts your skirt up, bunching it around your waist, then with no hesitation he tears through your drawers with his knife, ripping them off and throwing them to the side.

"There… now we can have a good time… c'mon now, I'll make sure it's real good for ya… gonna make you squirm on me, girly," he taunted, his vile commentary making your gut twist in revolt. You feel like you're gonna throw up…

He starts slithering his hand up your thigh, making you shudder.

"Bet you want this… bet you're just achin' for it. Let's see, shall we?"

His words are so disgusting.

Disgusting.

Disgusting.

Before his hand reaches its destination, you spit in his face, landing the glob warm and wet on his cheek.

For a moment, neither of you move. The warmth of it seemingly contrasting against his icy, cold glare.

Then, he smiles.

He reaches up, not to wipe it from his cheek, but to smear it across his face with slow, terrifying deliberation, like he's applying some kind of twisted warpaint.

He leans in closer, his rancid, rotting breath right under your nose.

"Now," he whispers in an almost fond tone, "that wasn't very agreeable, was it?"

He doesn't give you a chance to answer, his hand a blur as he backhands you with a closed, heavy fist.

Your world shatters, the tang of copper in your mouth as everything goes black. The last thing you register is Colm's deep, guttural chuckle, and his hands, slithering up along your thighs before prying them open.

When you wake, it's slow and cold. Rain pattered on the canvas covering the wagon, a sound that sooths your mind, giving it a small background to listen to instead of focusing on the dull throbbing sensation in your head. Your thoughts are sluggish and thick. The wagon creaks as it rolls along, and the damp wood underneath you is a welcome, if temporary, respite from the poking straw-tick.

Your shirt was tucked into your waistband in crude effort to cover your chest, considering the buttons were snapped off, but it didn't provide much warmth or modesty, especially with nothing underneath. Your skirt was at least pulled back down to cover your legs, but you no longer had shoes on, your toes chilled from the exposure to the cool air.

There's a small, gray stream of soft light coming through the canvas. It must be early morning, you think.

You realize that though your feet around bound and the cloth is back wrapped around your mouth, your hands are still free…

You frantically reach behind your head, trying to find where the knot to your gag is. It all feels like one continuous piece of fabric, making the knot impossible to locate. You try and slide the cloth up or down, to pull it off, but it's tied tight enough that it's deep in the groove of your mouth, making that impossible, too.

Finally, you reach down to try and untie your bindings on your feet. You could jump out of the wagon, be free… but your fingers are too cold and numb from both the chill in the air and from how tightly they were tied just hours before. You pick desperately at the knot, the hemp biting into the skin around your ankles more each time you think you got something loose, a testament to Colm's men knowing their trade. You pick at it… pick for what feels like forever.

But eventually, the rough rope against already cold, numb fingertips makes you lose all feeling in them entirely.

You close your eyes, trying to think of something, the tears brimming in them again.

Your hands begin to search your pockets in hopes that you could find something, anything inside them that could be of use. But you quickly note that the men must have cleaned them out, nothing left inside… nothing except one thing, folded up and laying against the lining on the edge… something they missed.

You pull it out and clumsily smooth it before holding it up to the small strip of gray light.

A five dollar silver certificate.

A gift from a ghost.

Your tears still as your eyes trace the lines of the scene on it… tracing the lines of Lady Electricity… of her wings…

You know Mister Smithfield won't come for you. Nobody would likely come for some forgotten widow like you. Nobody would ask where you were, or talk about you.

Nobody would come for a ghost.

But this… this was proof that someone had thought about you… Somebody had seen you.

Another ghost.

And as you realized that, looking at Lady Electricity and her wings, letting them carry you, you held to the desperate, foolish hope that that other ghost would come for you; you were unaware that he was already looking.