The snow poured down relentlessly, a heavy blanket enveloping the world in white. The snowstorm whipped about in wild gusts, obscuring everything in its path. As Yeriel Rios rode his Vladimir Draft alongside one of the wagons, he squinted against the biting wind, raising a gloved hand to shield his eyes from the stinging flurries. "Este maldito tiempo…" he muttered under his breath, frustration leaking into his voice.
At just 27 years old, Yeriel had spent four arduous years with the gang. He had come to America, drawn by the tales of opportunity and success, seeking to escape the crushing poverty of his homeland. But the reality had been far crueler than the stories he had heard; he should have known better than to believe the hype.
His journey was marred by racial slurs, violence, and betrayal. He had been beaten, robbed, stabbed, and even faced near-lynching. Each experience stoked the fires of his anger, igniting a rage within him that he struggled to contain.
But then he had met Dutch van der Linde, a man with a silver tongue and a vision, who took him in and offered him a place in the gang. Under Dutch's guidance, Yeriel found a sense of belonging, a family forged in adversity.
While he wasn't the best shot, he had dedicated himself to practice. Over the years, he had improved significantly; he wasn't quite at the level of Arthur or John, but he was competent enough to hold his own when the situation called for it.
"Mr. Rios!" The call of his name cut through his thoughts, yanking him back to the present.
"Yeah?" He nudged his horse, Carol, closer to the source of the voice, where Dutch stood, adjusting his hat against the wind.
"Can you go with Micah and John to scout ahead?" Dutch instructed, his voice firm yet calm.
"Sure, jefe." Yeriel nodded, urging Carol forward to catch up with John and Micah.
"Alright, let's move, boys," Micah said, spurring his horse onward as they plunged deeper into the storm.
The trio navigated the swirling snow, their horses' hooves crunching against the icy ground. The wind howled, sending flurries whipping around them, but they pressed on, determined to stay together. The visibility diminished with each passing moment, the whiteout obscuring their surroundings. After about half an hour, a fierce gust of wind struck, and suddenly, everything turned into a blur of white.
"John!" Yeriel shouted, but the wind swallowed his words. He turned to Micah, his voice rising with concern. "Where did he go?"
"I don't know!" Micah yelled back, squinting into the storm. "We have to keep moving!"
They pressed forward, but the blinding snow had separated them from John. The howling winds drowned out the sound of their horses' hooves, and soon, they were alone, the world around them transformed into an endless sea of white.
Suddenly, over the crest of a snow-covered hill, they spotted a flicker of warmth—a cabin, glowing with light and the sound of laughter and music spilling out into the cold night. It seemed like a party, a stark contrast to the desolation surrounding them.
Yeriel glanced at Micah, a spark of hope igniting within him. "Go find Dutch. Tell him about this," he instructed, a sense of urgency in his tone. "I'm going to check it out."
"Sure thing," Micah replied, shrugging lightly before turning his horse and galloping back into the storm.
Watching Micah disappear into the wind, Yeriel felt a sense of relief wash over him. He snapped the reins on Carol, guiding her down the hill toward the cabin. He halted not too far away, securing Carol next to a tree. The black horse stood out starkly against the white snow, but he dismissed the concern and trudged through the deepening drifts toward the inviting glow of the cabin.
As he approached, the atmosphere shifted; if it weren't for the relentless snowfall, it would have felt almost serene. He ascended the small set of stairs, his heart pounding with a mix of excitement and trepidation, and knocked on the door.
A hush fell over the revelry inside, a sudden stillness enveloping them. The door creaked open, revealing a rugged man with a green bandana tied around his neck—an unmistakable O'Driscoll.
"What do you want, boy?" the man grunted, eyeing Yeriel with suspicion.
"Hello, mister," Yeriel began, tipping his hat respectfully. "I was just wonderin—" He froze mid-sentence as he recognized the man's insignia. The O'Driscolls were notorious for their ruthlessness.
"Oh! You're Yeriel Rios! One of Dutch's boys!" another man exclaimed from behind.
Instinctively, Yeriel stepped back, hand reaching for his volcanic pistol, but the man was quicker. He seized Yeriel's arm, and despite his lanky frame, Yeriel fought back, struggling against the man's grip. He threw a punch, connecting with the O'Driscoll's jaw, but the man barely flinched. Two others surged forward, grabbing Yeriel's arms and pulling him inside the cabin.
The interior was dimly lit and filled with rough laughter, but there was no joy for Yeriel. The man he had struck retaliated, landing four punishing blows to Yeriel's midsection. Gasping for breath, he felt the wind knocked out of him, each hit forcing a cough from his lips. With a shaky glance up, he spat defiantly in the man's face.
"Nice to meet you," he wheezed, a smirk curling on his lips despite the pain. But before he could brace himself, the man pulled out a cattleman revolver and swung it, connecting hard with Yeriel's face.
Everything went dark for a moment as his vision blurred and his knees buckled. The two men released their grip, and he collapsed onto the rough wooden floor, the laughter of the O'Driscolls echoing around him. He coughed violently, trying to clear his throat as he looked up at the men encircling him.
"Ah…" he croaked, "…shit." That was all he managed to say before the beatdown began in earnest.
The O'Driscolls unleashed their fury upon him, fists flying as they demanded to know where Dutch and the gang were hiding. Yeriel gritted his teeth, refusing to snitch despite the pain coursing through his body. Each punch landed with brutal force, but he held his ground.
One O'Driscoll boy delivered a vicious soccer kick to Yeriel's face, knocking out his second molar. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, but he met the man's gaze defiantly. "Suck my balls…" he spat, his voice strained but unyielding, mere seconds before a boot stomped down on his head, sending him reeling into darkness.
After what felt like an eternity of pain, the O'Driscolls finally tired of their game. They bound Yeriel's wrists and dragged him to a dank cellar, tossing him inside like refuse. He landed heavily on the cold floor, unconscious, in a dark space filled with the lingering scent of damp wood and despair.
As his senses faded, he barely registered the presence of another body in the cellar, the real owner of the cabin, Sadie, locked away in the shadows alongside him.