Chapter 1

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The night was still around him. Completely still, devoid of life. No sounds of far-off wildlife, no distant howling of a lone coyote. Not even the faintest breeze which may have brought him a trace of something, anything, familiar.

Nothing.

Nothing to remind him of from where he had come, from where he would, most likely, never return.

The weak, partially clouded moonlight and stinging pain in his back were, regrettably, his only companions.

Even sleep seemed out of the question. Restlessly, the steel-grey horse pawed the ground with a single hoof, and again pulled himself as far as he could from the solitary post to which he found himself tied.

It was in vain. The harsh rope of his crude headcollar only pulled itself taut, almost threatening to dig into his tender skin.

A low, pitiful sigh escaped his nostrils. Of course he wouldn't be relieved of his suffering so easily.

It had only been three days since they - whoever they were - had brought him to this place, this place of torment, but to the miserable wild stallion it felt as if he had been trapped here for an eternity. The onslaught against him, against whatever shred of his former self he had carried with him, had been endless. He had thought that the round-up, and the accompanying torture of being forcibly marked as just another burden, would be the end, but alas, it was not to be. Since he had been liberated - as if "liberated" was even the right word - they had sheared off his beautiful long mane, cropped his long tail, nailed heavy iron shoes to his hooves and pressed him, against his will, to obey the harsh commands of the spur and whip.

They had, unknowingly, only made him feel... dehumanised.

The grey mustang sighed again, inwardly cursing himself. Why hadn't he tried to escape? Why hadn't he just taken on his human form before any of this had happened? Before he became subject to the iron will of those who saw him as just another ordinary horse?

Why? Why hadn't he?

Reluctantly, he paced over to the lone wooden pole. Laying his forehead against its surface, he tried to ignore the relentless twinge of the whip-scars across his back.

Why...

He closed his eyes.

It was going to be a long night.

.................................................................


Jesse McCree was used to horses.


He was used to the incomparable feeling, the sheer thrill, of riding on horseback. On any normal day, it was not unusual for him to find the rhythmic, even hoof beats and gentle swaying of his horse beneath the saddle to be relaxing, but tonight they seemed more... soothing than usual. As his mount continued picking its way carefully through the forested trail, he could feel the need for sleep quietly threatening to pull him under.


The cowboy yawned, and tried to force himself upright.


It's around here somewhere. We just need to keep goin' 'til we find it.


Still, that was easier said than done when sleep threatened to pull him from the saddle...


"Jesse! Sit up straight and concentrate on the mission."


The stern order seemed to reverberate around him, as it cut through the silence. McCree hastily straightened his back, startled, and gave a sigh. Jack Morrison was a valuable companion, and one of the best ranch hands a man could wish for, but he sure was grouchy sometimes.

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