Sacred Scars (Book I)

We All Fall Down

*Warning* Female assault/exposure/violence

     By the time the Van der linde gang reached the steep incline of rocks, stars had begun to pepper the inky sky with increased brilliance. They halted and tethered the horses several feet away from the cave entrance, lining across the ground behind the protection of the jutting rocky terrain. Charles, Javier, Dutch, Morgan, and John, fell down on their bellies, propping up on elbows, just watching the firelight bounce from the cave's entrance.

     "Arthur, take a look." Dutch's low tones whispered across to the younger outlaw. Shuffling quietly, Morgan reached in his pack for the cracked metal of his binoculars and brought them up to his searching eyes. Through the dark rings he could see the lumpy shadows of the gang gathered in threes and fours around a spatter of campfires. He swept his head back and forth looking, searching for the treasure they sought. But after a moment he realized with, stunned expression, there was nothing. No lockboxes, no crates of cash, no bags of bounty. Absolutely nothing but the litter of greasy men coughing and snickering just waiting for...for what? Arthur looked up over the spyglass, his brows sewn together in clouded confusion and looked back again through the eye piece. By now the others sons of Dutch were all staring at him with puzzled expressions. "Arthur? What is it? What do you see?" Dutch's usual steady tone adopted the slightest of tremors as he watched on with concern. "That's just it Dutch. Nuthin. Nuthin but goddamn O'driscolls and fire. There ain't nuthin in that cave but..." His words faltered. "Jezus..." he mumbled under his breath. "What?? What is it, Arthur?" John was watching him, glancing from the cave mouth to the deep turning frown that slithered across his brother's face. "Trouble." he said simply. He pulled the gear from his face and flopped it sideways to John lowering his eyes behind the leather brim of his hat and shook his head.

      John took the binoculars and peered through mirroring Arthur's movements, searching the cave. Again, he saw the same. Coated bandits striped with guns and impatience. He swung the far sight back and forth, until from the corner of his vision he caught the glittering sparkle of red against the glowing blackness. His head turned back swiftly and his voice caught with a sigh. "Lilah..." he breathed miserably. And there she was in the sea of evil. A shivering little thing bundled up in a weathered long coat. Her legs pulled into her chest. Tiny trembling arms wrapped around her knees in self-protection. Her eyes were wide and watery, darting around her in evident fear of the groping men that walked or sat in waves just at her gathered feet.

     He took the looking glass away, shaking his head and swallowing hard against the dryness that had scratched through his anxious throat. "Shit..." he cursed meeting Arthur's, I told you so glance. "What the hell is she doing here?" He asked, the soft rasp of his whisper broken in frustration. "She? She who? Give me that." Dutch reached over Arthur and took the eyeglass glancing through it with frustration and impatience. "And who, pray-tell is said 'she' Marston? And what the hell is she doing in a cave filled with Colm's boys??" John lowered his head, shaking it back and forth in the long palms of his hands. "Aww Dutch, she's.... she's just a girl from the bar... Aww damn it Dutch. I don't know why she'd be in there with them boys." John's face was drawn with worry. Dutch could see the kid's torment reflecting in his eyes under the bright moon. "Well alright. Everybody just stay low. Stay put. Let's just watch for a moment, see where this leads." They did as he said, as Dutch handed the piece back to Arthur to watch on in silence.

     Inside the cave Lilah shuffled her bare feet closer under her dress. She regretted the long silky slit that trailed from her lower thigh to her ankle now. Wishing for all the world she wore a nun's thick robes along her person instead. Around her the sour men smelled of horsehair and dirt and spit. They eyed her slender calves with watery mouths. Clayton and the few that rode with him had left her to her devices, seeking to track down this boss of theirs that so anxiously awaited her return. And although Clayton himself was foul, he had given her some false sense of protection from the other men that circled around her. It didn't take long before the spicy thick whiskey that ran headlong through the gang began to take hold steering their actions in reckless abandon. She was a prize, but Clayton said unharmed, not untouched.