Unbound

Chapter 5

The words processed, like a printing machine pumping out newspaper after newspaper, words jumbled together. The voice was eerily familiar, a voice in the back of her head telling her she knew him.

Sir?

That's good. A female O'Driscoll was easily identifiable. A male O'Driscoll was not. If he saw her face, her eyes that close up, the likelihood he'd be able to tell she was a woman would be incredibly high. As long as she wasn't turned around, she was fine.

"Do we have an understanding?"

His question made her head nod cautiously, and she was abruptly dragged up to stand. His hand over her mouth stayed, as did the knife, and he began shuffling, leading her to the side.

"Hello, gentlemen." The attacker announced as they approached up to Colm and the boys.

They all stood in alarm, guns raised. Colm didn't aim, posture shifting entirely at the sight. Beth could feel the presence of men behind her attacker, part of his gang, she presumed, taking form, similar to the O'Driscolls behind Colm.

"Dutch."

"Colm."

Oh. She definitely knew the attacker. Dutch Van Der Linde. The men behind them were definitely his gang, the knife his rather fancy weapon.

Colm looked to her, at the blade pressed firmly to her neck, and he swallowed thickly.

"Had a good time taking that score?"

"I did. Don't know about my boys." Dutch replied, "Nobody has to die here."

"What's your proposal? Since you're a man of deals, after all." Colm spat, but didn't intend for it to make things worse.

Dutch merely pushed the blade further against her throat, causing her head to tip back in a futile attempt to be free of it.

"You let us ride out of here without being followed, and you get him back."

They all noted the use of 'him', and indeed they saw the benefits of the mistaken identity. They'd play along.

"What's the guarantee we get him back alive?"

"You know me, Colm. I'm a man of my word."

The faint shuffling of boots from both sides was making Beth weary.

"Give him back, and you can go."

"Wise choice."

Dutch nodded slightly, hesitating before removing his hand from her mouth. It planted to her shoulder, and the knife was removed. He pushed her forwards harshly, causing her to stumble and fall flat on her stomach.

She curled up slightly, left arm sticking to her side.

Dutch stepped away cautiously, maintaining eye contact with Colm before turning and speeding to their horses. The Van Der Linde Gang saddled up, riding away into the night.

There was a heavy silence as they waited for them to be out of view. As soon as they were, Colm knelt down to help Beth, who promptly ignored his attempts.

She slowly stood, boots planting heavily to the grass and dirt, right hand dabbing her throat. Upon pulling away, illuminated by the moonlight, she saw crimson. Her bandana was removed and pressed to the wound.

"Are you alright? Did he hurt you?"

"I'm fine. We lost whatever was down there." She peered down to the raided camp in genuine disappointment.

"Of course we did." Pete growled to himself, removing his scarf from his nose and mouth.

"We're just lucky nobody died." Colm dismissed, "That could've ended worse."

Beth walked over to her horse- or more appropriately, she hobbled- and then mounted up. "What's the point of hanging around? This place is worth Jack-shit now."

They exchanged masked looks before nodding, trudging to their mounts, preparing to return back empty handed. As soon as Dutch was mentioned, Colm knew, all bitterness towards them would be switched right around.

The ride back was unusually quiet. The moon no longer shined on them, deciding to bask them in a veil of black.

Waking with a start, sweat beading thickly, Beth gazed out of the window. Her chest heaved with each struggled breath, and finally she sat up, introducing her tired eyes to bright light. She squinted, legs swinging over the side of her claimed cot, and she exhaled shakily.

Thirteenth day in a row.

Elbows rested against her knees, gaze infatuated with the wooden boards beneath bare feet, AGAIN, and she gave herself a minute of internal self-reflection. This time, it was directed to Dutch, to the gang. And then to the man she met in the saloon; Arthur. With fallen shoulders, she stood, preparing herself for the day. Except she felt a burst of energy at the prospect of possibly meeting him again.

She had passed out in her clothes when they arrived back, so changing wasn't a worry. Picking up her hairbrush, she brushed her hair, eyeing the cut on her throat.

It was noticeable, but not excessively so. Crimson had long since stopped dropping out, so there was that. She tied her bandana around her mouth and nose, pulling it down to cover the mark.

Placing down the hairbrush, she swiped up her hat and put it on with defeat. Then she exited her room to find her horse.

Instead of mounting it, Beth instead took her brown side bag off of the saddle, slinging it over a shoulder and over her chest. She dug through it, checking for everything. She shrugged off her duster and folded it, stuffing it into a saddle bag. She then mounted up and spurred out of the village.

The ride to Valentine went by as yesterday; peaceful, unremarkable, uneventful. The sun was beating down again, but this time she didn't dare think about the heat. She didn't have the strength.

Halting at the saloon, hitching her horse, she reached into her side bag for an apple to offer the beast.

"You! You're one of them, aren't you?" A woman's voice practically screamed in exasperation.

The thumping of her shoes made Beth look her way, "Excuse me?"

"You're a Goddamn O'Driscoll, ain't you?!"

She knew trouble, and this was it. Quickly pulling up her bandana, she shook her head. This could become messy very quickly.

"Ma'am, calm-"

"You killed my son! My only son! How could you, you monster?!"

"Listen," She took a step forwards, hand still on her horse's neck, "You don't want to do this."

Then, suddenly, the distressed woman was shoved aside by a man. He seemed to tower over her, and her brows arched. She stepped back, lifting the brim of her hat up, as if checking if he were real.

"Sir."

Nothing.

Their stared at each other, a small crowd forming, and Beth was the first to take a swing. He grimaced, a foot placed back to keep him level. Then he straightened with bare teeth.

He swung, only for Beth to duck and stumble beneath it. She went for another punch. He caught her fist, drew his arm back, and she prepared herself, body stiffening.

His fist hit her square in the face, and she fell. All went black.

Waking to the sensation of cold, internal panic set in. Her eyes fluttered open, remaining wide as she watched the wet cloth being dabbed to her cheek.

"A-Arthur?"

"Are you tryin' to get yourself killed?"