Infuriated and feeling bitterly betrayed, Dr. Drake Voss stormed into the middle of the saloon. He had something to say, and he wanted everyone in town to hear it.
"Listen up!" the doctor declared, his voice cutting through the din. The saloon hushed into silence. The bartender stopped wiping the counter, the pianist's fingers paused on the keys, and every cowboy and wrangler ceased their activities to look at the angry man standing in the middle of the room.
"I am NOT owned by Bull!" Drake proclaimed, his voice echoing off the wooden walls. "I am NOT owned by anyone!" His eyes scanned the room, challenging anyone to argue.
Just as Bull Blackwood trotted into the saloon to catch up with Drake, he froze, his jaw dropping in disbelief, his heart sinking.
"I am not owned by THIS man!" Drake pointed directly at Bull, then swung his arm to point at a random cowboy. "I am not owned by THAT man! I am not owned by anyone! I am free and my own man!" He declared, his voice filled with defiance, and stormed out.
"Drake, wait!" Bull pleaded, extending his hand, but Drake ignored him, marching out of the saloon in a fit of righteous fury.
The bartender shook his head and slid Bull a shot of whiskey on the house. "That poor boy has no idea what he just said, does he?"
Bull sat down at the bar, downing the shot in one gulp. "Nope," he replied, watching as half a dozen cowboys stood up and sauntered out of the saloon, a predatory look in their eyes.
The bartender chuckled, shaking his head. "He just declared to everyone he was fair game, didn't he?"
Bull let out a heavy sigh, staring dead ahead at the bottles on the wall. "Yup."
"Too bad there ain't enough women in this town," the bartender sighed, wiping a glass clean. "Guys like him don't last long out here."
"Women folk prefer the glitz and glamour of the cities," one cowboy laughed at the end of the bar. "That's why they all got up and left. No dame wants to live out here in the boonies with us uncultured swine."
"Women folk are just for breedin'," another cowboy chuffed, sitting near them and downing his shot glass. "Boys like him are just for fun." He slid away from the counter and headed out of the saloon.
"The hunt is on then," the bartender stated, polishing a glass and pointing to the windows around the corner. "Better hurry up, Bull, before that boy gets hurt or worse," as now a dozen cowboys marched with purpose around the corner and down the back streets.
"He's made his decision," Bull muttered, tilting his head down and away from the windows, shutting his eyes tightly, unable to bear witness to the pack beginning their chase. "And he voiced his position loud and clear."
—
Drake marched with determination, anger, and fury in his eyes. He didn't know where he was going or what he was going to do; he was just walking as fast as he possibly could. Away from this town. Away from that giant. Away from anyone and everyone.
As he steadily walked down the dusty side street of Paradise City, he heard boot steps behind him. He shot a quick gaze back and saw two or three cowboys, with the ugly jerk he met in the bathroom leading the charge.
Seeing that they were caught, the lead cowboy smirked and yelled out, "Where ya goin', son? Lost or somethin'?"
Drake ignored them, moving forward and picking up his pace, walking faster. He turned a quick corner, hoping to lose them, but his path was blocked by three more cowboys, all jeering and sneering, laughing and clapping at his dismay.
Drake spun around to head back the way he came, but the way was again blocked by two cowboys, each with their wrangling lassos out, twirling them like they were about to lasso a calf at the rodeo.
Drake backed up towards the barn to his left and banged against the locked doors. Drake didn't shout or scream; his blood was pumping too fast and he was too terrified. No gun or ether to fight. Nowhere to flee. His freeze response triggered, locking his legs in terror.
Suddenly, the barn door opened wide, and Drake fell back onto his rear on a pile of hay on the ground.
Laughs and jeers crowded around him as the leader of the group loomed over him. "Well, well, well. Looks like our Pretty Blonde Boy is fair game after all." He sneered and spat to the side. "Wrap him up nice and tight, boys. We got some fun to have back at base camp!" He clapped, and the rest of his gang clapped, cheered, hooted, and whistled as Drake saw ropes fly and a sack cloth drop over his face.
Drake's heart pounded in his chest, the sounds of laughter and jeers ringing in his ears. He felt the rough hands grabbing him, the ropes tightening around his wrists and ankles, the sack cloth tightening around his face. Panic surged through him, but he couldn't move, couldn't fight back. As he yelled, and gasped for air, a strange and pungent scent wafted into his nostrils. His vision blackened, his pleas subsided, as the potent chemical blacked him out, leading him into pitch black darkness.