OUTLAW COUNTY

BRAND OF THE WRANGLER

 

High desert. The setting sun was retreating behind the canyon bluffs, casting long shadows that slowly began to engulf the small town of Pine Box.

Pine Box wasn’t much to look at. A scattering of wooden buildings that stood stubbornly against the vast, sunburnt stretch of arid rock. A thin, crooked main street cut through the center, which connected the saloon, the church, and the jailhouse.

Inside the jailhouse, Sheriff Ford Beaumont sat slouched at his desk, absently studying a worn-out map. The door burst open. He lifted his eyes. A woman, hands clasped together in worry.

“Sheriff Beaumont,” her voice trembled. “Samuel—he still ain’t come home. I don’t… I don’t know what to do,” she sobbed.

Ford stood up. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and built solid. A frame shaped by years of hard labor and riding through rough country. His hair was grey now, worn short beneath his hat. A thick handlebar mustache hung over his mouth, framing a deep, yet soothing voice.

 

“Take it easy, Mrs. Harlow,” he said as he walked over and placed his hand on the weeping woman’s shoulder. “The Sam Harlow I know can handle himself. Best you can do is head on home and—“

 

“It’s been a week!” she cried. “I just can’t bear another night without my husband! Heaven forbid what I’m to do if he ain’t ever gonna come home! There’s a demon in them hills out west, Sheriff! I know it! I know it, I just know it!”

 

Ford tries to interject. “Come now, Mrs. Harlow—“

 

“And you know it,” she snapped, jabbing a finger into Ford’s chest. Her voice simmered with a mix of anger and helplessness. “Joe Billings? The Grady brothers? The Kemp’s farmhand? Damn demon… wrangled them from us like cattle! And now my Samuel…!”

 

Mrs. Harlow buried her face in her palms, and broke down in tears. Ford was silent. She was right, after all. All those men had disappeared mere months apart, all headed in the same direction. Most dead set on taking the law into their own hands and bringing the others back.

 

Ford squinted his eyes in deep thought. One missing man is misfortune. Two is a coincidence. He didn’t know what to call three, much less four or five.

 

Deputy Simmons stepped in quietly, placing a gentle hand on Mrs. Harlow’s back. Without a word, he led the weeping woman out of the jailhouse, her sobs trailing behind them. A moment later, he returned alone, closing the door behind him.

 

“Wrangler, eh?” he inquired. “That’s a new one.”

 

Ford rubbed his eyes.

Deputy Simmons walked behind the desk and leaned over the map, furrowing his brows. “Queer year. …Joe Billings I get. Maybe.”

Ford nodded slightly.

“The farmhand could’ve just kept walking. Maybe he wanted to move on along,” Simmons theorized.

Ford walked over to the window and looked on into the dark desert. “There’s nothing in that direction for weeks on end,” he said flatly. “If he wanted to move on, he’d have gone east.”

Deputy Simmons joined him. “The Grady brothers?”

“…Takes more than bad luck to make two men vanish,” Ford grumbled. “And now Samuel, too,” he added.

“Tough sunnova bitch too, that Sam Harlow,” the deputy said under his breath.

They shared a long moment of silence.

“Simmons,” Ford said in a grave voice. “If I don’t come back, you’ll be the one keepin’ the peace.”

Deputy Simmons swallowed hard and nodded.

Ford adjusted the brim of his hat. “I’ll ride out come sunup.” With that, he stepped out of the jailhouse, the door creaking shut behind him.

 

Later that night, the Beaumont house sat quiet under the pale moonlight. Inside, an oil lamp flickered softly, casting shadows across the walls. Ford stood near the window, watching the dark stretch of land beyond town.

His wife, Eleanor, sat mending a shirt in the lamplight. The needle pierced through the cloth with rhythmic certainty. Such certainty, that her eyes weren’t on it—they were on Ford. She set the shirt in her lap, and let out a pointed sigh. “What kind of life is this?”

 

Ford didn’t answer. He turned his head toward Eleanor.

 

“They look at you like you have all the answers,” she scowled. “Like you can solve all their problems. They can’t wait to be told what to do.”

 

“They need someone,” he said.

 

“They do,” she cut in. “But maybe you need it more.”

 

Ford looked at her, his expression unreadable in the dim light. Eleanor walked past him, pausing at the door to their room. She opened her mouth to speak —then thought better of it. Without a word, she stepped into the bedroom, vanishing into the darkness.

By the time Ford turned in, she was already beneath the covers, her back turned to him. He undressed in silence, folded his clothes with care, and eased down beside her. For a moment, he watched the curve of her shoulder, the rise and fall of her breath. He reached out and placed a hand gently on her hip. She didn’t move. Didn’t pull away, but didn’t lean in either.

Ford withdrew his hand and lay staring up at the ceiling, the weight of his wife’s silence causing his mind to roam. He was the law in Pine Box. The man people trusted to keep the order. Such was the job. And he did his job well. Yet a constant, quiet pressure sat heavy on his shoulders. He'd learned to live with it, and even take pride in it. He knew that if everything was under control, folks would be happy. But control had become second nature to him. And in quiet moments, he felt hollow.

Ford slowly drifted off into a restless sleep.

 

The first hints of dawn began to pierce the gray sky. Ford stood by his horse, tightening the last strap on his saddlebags, packed with provisions. His rifle was slung behind the cantle alongside his bedroll, and a big iron was strapped to his hip—ready for whatever lay ahead. Eleanor looked on at him, arms folded. Ford faced her, and gave a small nod.

 

“I hope you find what you are looking for,” she said, voice low but firm.

 

Ford paused, eyes lingering on her just a second too long. Then, without a word, he mounted up and rode into the rising dust.

 

 

The desert loomed. A vast expanse of scorched rock and cracked earth. Neither caring, nor forgiving. Distant mesas towered like ancient giants, their red cliffs carved by howling gales. Canyons split the skyline, jagged and deep. Gnarled yuccas and sparse tufts of sagebrush clung to the land, seemingly out spite.

Sheriff Ford Beaumont had been in the saddle half a day, and already the heat was starting to wear on him. The air shimmered over the horizon like a beckoning, infernal phantasm. He rode on.

The trail Sam Harlow had left behind was faint. A broken sage stem. A scuff in the dust. The iron circle of a horseshoe half-pressed into the dirt. Sure enough, it led on west.

By midafternoon, the wind picked up. Its chilling wails could be heard whispering through the rocks, brushing over mesquite and cactus like a ghostly touch. Ford scanned the horizon.

Still no signs of Samuel. No vultures. No wreckage. Just open country and heat haze.

Days turned into nights, and Ford kept on riding.

The cold nights offered little comfort. Every skitter and every crunch reminded that the desert never slept. Everything was either predator, or prey. But Ford was experienced. He didn’t scare easily. And yet, one of the hardest things to get used to in the barren wastes, was the quiet. It was the kind of quiet that made a man feel small. Magnified by the sea of stars gazing down from the cosmos. A coyote howl in the distance would become a grounding, welcomed sound.

Ford awoke to a disarming sight. His canteen was laid near his bedroll, empty. Upon inspection, it appeared to have been slashed by a blade. He stood up assessing his surroundings, shoulders tense, hand hovering idly over his gun.

Sun-bleached rock as far as the eyes could see.

That was the first moment he truly felt it—not fear. Presence. This wasn’t the work of any animal. This was a person. Someone who stood inches away from him in the night. A chill ran down his back. Was he being toyed with? No… It was a message. A warning.

Ford furrowed his brow, scanning the land. He glanced at the canteen in his hand, realizing that whatever he did, he would need water. After quickly checking the map, he rode off south, deep into the canyons.

The ride was long. Ford sat tense in the saddle, every rustle in the brush making his hand twitch toward his gun, every distant shimmer keeping his nerves on edge. He couldn't shake the creeping sense that eyes were on him, just out of sight.

 

He reached a narrow pass, the canyon walls closing in around him. He knew there was a creek nearby, so he pressed on through the winding trail. After a few bends, the soft trickle of running water reached his ears. He spotted the creek and swung down from the saddle, leading his horse along.

 

“Drink up, Strawberry,” he said in a low voice, kneeling by the bank.

 

Ford mended the canteen as best he could, and dipped it into the cool stream. He stayed vigilant, taking a swig. Removing his hat, he tipped the canteen over his head, letting the water spill down his face and neck, soaking into the dust and sweat. He ran his fingers through his wet hair, and exhaled sharply through his nose.

 

He put his hat back on, and gave a low whistle, signaling to Strawberry.

Strawberry didn’t come. Ford looked over and saw the horse staring at something in the distance. Frozen still. Not drinking, nor grazing. Just watching.

Ford followed his gaze.

On a low ridge, maybe three hundred yards out, a figure stood. Tall. Motionless.

Black hat. Black coat.

Ford blinked, and the ridge was empty.

He immediately jumped in the saddle, and raced toward it.

 

Rounding a bend, he found it: a spent fire. Still warm.

 

Etched into the sandstone nearby, deep and deliberate, a strange mark. Ford ran a finger along it.

 

A brand.

 

“W”.

 

         Ford rode on with haste. His mind was racing. He felt that he was riding right into the same dust the others vanished into. And yet, something pulled him in. A bizarre feeling, deep inside. He didn’t like the way it sat in him. But he was too close to turn back now.

 

The canyon deepened. Unfamiliar territory. Strawberry moved steady. At that point, Ford was following instinct more than trail.

 

Hours passed. The sun started its slow descent again, starting to bleed color into the cliffs. There were no more signs. Ford knew he couldn’t navigate through the dead of night. Nor would it be wise to.

 

The pair camped just before nightfall, sheltered under a rock overhang. The night felt quieter than before. Ford’s hand drifted toward the rifle resting over his bedroll. He didn’t sleep much that night.

 

The image of the brand replayed in his mind over and over.

 

At first light, Ford saw exactly where to go. A thin pillar of smoke rose against the pale morning sky, drifting up from deeper within the canyon. He mounted up without a word, heart thudding in his chest, and rode toward it.

 

The canyon opened up to the source of the smoke. A small fire. Bright and hot, like it had been stoked just moments before. Ford drew closer, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his hat.

 

Resting on the flames was a brand.

 

That same “W.” Glowing red. Waiting.

 

 Ford reached for his gun, but it was too late. A sharp crack split the air, and in an instant, a whip snapped tight around his torso, pinning his arms and yanking him clean off the saddle.

With a grunt, he hit the ground hard, shoulder-first, dirt in his mouth, the wind knocked out from his lungs. Before he could recover, rough rope cinched around his wrists, tight and fast. He thrashed, growling through his teeth, but the rope held. He flipped on his back in an attempt to stand, but a heavy boot planted firmly on his chest, keeping him pinned down in the dirt.

 

Ford looked up.

 

Stood over him was a man —tall and broad, dressed in black leather, shadowed by the sun behind him. His face was hidden, scarf pulled high, hat pulled low. Ford squinted against the sun, his breath shallow. A pair of dark eyes peered back at him from under the brim. The stranger studied him closely.

 

Ford’s badge caught a glint of sunlight. The figure noticed, leaned down, and plucked it from his shirt. He examined it in his gloved hand for a moment.

 

The boot lifted from Ford’s chest, and the man turned away, slipping the badge in his pocket without a word.

Seizing the chance, Ford scrambled upright onto his knees, trying to find his footing—but the moment he moved to stand, a noose lassoed around his neck and yanked him back down.

Ford found himself hauled by the neck over to his horse. He was being wrangled like livestock.

Ford was hoisted back onto the saddle with surprising ease—hands still tied—perched atop Strawberry like a man ready for parade. The Wrangler tossed the rope over a sturdy juniper branch growing atop the rock wall, pulled tight, and tied it off.

Ford quickly understood the situation. One wrong move, one jolt of panic from Strawberry, and he’d hang. He gritted his teeth, muscles tense.

The Wrangler stood beside him. Then, without warning, he grabbed Ford’s shirt and tore it open—buttons flying, the cotton ripping like paper.

The sheriff’s chest was bare, heart hammering beneath. He was caught off guard, but maintained his composure, given the situation he was in.

The Wrangler walked over to the fire.

“Could’ve turned back, sheriff,” he finally spoke. His voice had a deep, disarming quality to it. Low and commanding, with an edge that stirred something in Ford, a feeling he couldn’t quite place—and certainly didn’t want to.

From the burning coals, he pulled the branding iron. “Twice.”

The “W” glowed a deep, hateful red.

“Now you find yourself in this situation,” the Wrangler approached. “But I’m giving you a choice.”

Sweat dripped down Ford’s neck.

“Your horse takes the brand,” the Wrangler said, stepping closer. “He scares and runs. Rope goes tight. You swing.”

A gust of wind hissed through the rocks.

“Or,” he said, raising the brand to Ford’s chest, “you take it. One clean mark on your skin, and you live. But you belong to me.”

Heat was trailing off the iron in waves.

Ford swallowed hard, staring straight ahead, unmoving. The noose pressed light against his throat—a ghostly grip of what’s to come. Sweat trickled down his back. The desert sun beat down from above, and the canyon walls watched on with indifference.

He could hear his own heartbeat.

The Wrangler stood still, waiting. He didn’t rush him.

‘You belong to me.’

Those words echoed loud.

Ford Beaumont had spent a lifetime wearing iron on his hip and brass on his chest. He was a a man of law, sworn to protect and to stand tall when others ran. People looked up to him. Counted on him.

He thought of Eleanor. Her parting words.

‘I hope you find what you are looking for.’

He thought of the men who had vanished. Had they stood here too? Had they felt this same shame? Had they fought this same war between pride and survival?

He didn’t want to die.

But to be branded like cattle… To become someone’s property… To carry that mark for the rest of his life, and know what it meant… Was that living? A strange feeling stirred within him.

The rope held firm. Strawberry twitched beneath him. The noose cinched tighter.

There was no trick here. No clever escape.

It was clear.

Live on someone else’s terms—or die on your own.

He closed his eyes.

Images of the desert swallowing another man whole. Vultures picking at his remains. His wife burying an empty coffin. He thought of all he could still do if he stayed alive, if he waited for the right moment.

Bide your time.

Take the brand.

His jaw clenched. He opened his eyes and stared down at the iron. Then he nodded. Once.

“Do it,” he said. Voice dry. “Brand me.”

The Wrangler looked Ford in the eyes, showing nothing. He pressed the burning iron into Ford’s bare chest.

The world exploded into fire.

Pain like he’d never known, pain that cracked something inside him. His teeth ground together, pain flaring through his jaw. He would not scream. Would not give the man that.

Smoke rose with the smell of seared flesh.

And then, it was done. The Wrangler pulled the iron away, and Ford was no longer his own.

The rope was cut. Ford slumped forward in the saddle, wrists still bound, chest heaving.

He didn’t speak.

The Wrangler led Strawberry by the reins, walking him deeper into the canyon, his new property in tow.

 

The ride was silent.

Ford’s chest ached, seared and raw, the branded "W" pulsing with each hoofbeat. His shirt hung in tatters, barely clinging to his shoulders, soaked with sweat.

The canyon opened up to a flat stretch of land, where an old, sun-bleached bunkhouse awaited the Wrangler’s return.

The Wrangler tied Strawberry to a rail post, then reached up and pulled Ford down off the saddle, one firm hand under his arm, the other gripping tight at his waist. Ford stumbled, boots hitting dirt hard.

The outlaw looked Ford up and down, from torn shirt to dusty boots.

“That’s not how property looks,” he said.

He grabbed the front of Ford’s ruined shirt, and with one harsh motion, ripped it completely off, tossing it straight into the nearby firepit. Then came the belt. The Wrangler worked it loose without a word, and slid it off. He then drew a knife.

Ford tensed up. The Wrangler’s gloved hands slid over his thighs as he slowly sliced through the denim. The pants fell away, kicked into the firepit.

Ford felt a rush of humiliation as he stood there, in nothing but his underwear. But the Wrangler wasn’t finished. He slid the blade between the fabric of Ford’s drawers and his skin, the cold metal grazing his inner thigh. The cut fabric fell to the ground in tatters.

Piece by piece, Ford had been stripped completely bare.

The Wrangler picked up the shreds and took a step back, scanning Ford’s frame with unreadable intent.

Ford’s broad chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, arms still bound tight behind his back. His body, though dusted with dirt and sweat, reflected years of hard work. Weathered skin over taut muscle. The sun caught on the hair trailing down his chest and stomach.

The Wrangler’s eyes swept across him. From Ford’s chest, they traveled lower, and settled there. Ford wasn’t used to being seen like this. He felt an unexplained, unwanted heat begin to form in his stomach. It was enough to make him avert his gaze.

 

The Wrangler threw the shreds of Ford’s underwear into the firepit, and set them ablaze.

 

Ford watched his clothes burn, curling and blackening in the flames.

The Wrangler picked up a heavy tin pail from beside the bunkhouse. Water sloshed around as he walked back, pausing only a moment before dousing Ford in one clean splash.

Ford gasped. The water hit like a slap. It soaked him from head to toe, slicking every muscle, rinsing away the sand and the sweat.

The Wrangler stepped close.

He reached out and ran his gloved hand over Ford’s shoulder—wiping clean a streak of grit, trailing down toward the brand.

“Better,” he said. “Now you look like something I own.”

Ford didn’t speak. He just frowned. Somewhere deep inside, under the humiliation, under the pain, under the pride and the shame—

—something else stirred.

The Wrangler produced a strip of dark cloth from his pocket. He stepped behind Ford and slid it over his eyes, tying it tight.

Ford’s world went black.

The sound of the desert slowly faded, replaced by the creak of old floorboards as the Wrangler guided him into the bunkhouse—one firm hand at the back of his neck, steering him like a horse on reins.

The air in the house was cool. Ford’s bare feet brushed against rough wood. Each step creaked with age. The air grew heavier, cooler, and the boards tilted beneath him—stairs. Steep and narrow.

A moment later, they were in the cellar. It smelled faintly of earth and rope.

The Wrangler turned him with a hand on his chest, guiding him to stand tall in the center of the space. There was a pause, a moment of nothing—Ford could hear the man moving, rummaging. He tensed in anticipation.

Ford flinched as a hand pressed against his chest from behind. It slowly applied something slick to the mark. A soothing ointment, cold at first. The Wrangler’s hand moved slowly, smoothing the ointment with a calming rhythm. The touch was firm, yet it seemed to linger at times, as if testing something. Ford’s mind raced. He had never been touched this way by anyone.

Another layer of ointment was applied. The coolness of the balm steadily turned to warmth as the Wrangler’s hand worked it in, massaging over the tender flesh. The circular motion was slow—almost too slow, as though he were savoring the touch, taking his time with it. Ford tried to hold himself stiff, to keep the tension in his body, but his shoulders began to unwind, and his thoughts to unravel against his will.

 

Then, without warning, Ford felt the back of his head brush against the outlaw. His chest tightened as the realization hit him. He had let his guard down. His body had surrendered to the touch in a way he wasn’t prepared to accept. Before he could recoil away, the Wrangler’s gloved hand was over his mouth.

 

“Easy,” said the Wrangler, holding him tight.

 

Ford’s pulse quickened as the man’s fingers moved once more, applying a final layer of ointment to the brand on his chest. The tight grip of the Wrangler’s hand over his mouth made it harder to hold on to any sense of control. He could feel his heart pounding, and to his embarrassment, he knew the Wrangler could feel it too.

Once the lotion was worked in, the Wrangler let go.

Ford steadied himself quietly. “I’m gonna kill you,” he muttered.

The Wrangler let out a sound that almost passed for a chuckle—dry, nasal, and gone in an instant. He stepped away.

Ford listened carefully. The man shuffled about, unspooling something.

“Y’know…” the Wrangler’s voice broke the silence, “The desert has a way of stripping things down to what they truly are.”

Ford felt rope touch his skin.

The first loop was pulled tight just beneath his chest. It circled back and came around again, higher this time, pressing across his pecs, pulled tight behind him. The ropes ran under his arms, and taut over his shoulders, tied off between his shoulder blades with a mean knot.

The Wrangler didn’t rush.

A third loop ran snug around Ford’s ribs, followed by a fourth and fifth, just above his navel and tight around his waist, pinning his arms to his sides. He could feel the pressure growing, clenching his bound hands into fists.

The Wrangler threaded more rope, each pull cinching the loops tighter, flattening any slack until Ford’s arms were locked firm in place, shoulders tugged back, and chest pushed forward, bulging against the ropes with every breath he took.

 

Pride kept Ford’s mouth shut. He stoically endured the process.

Down it went, the Wrangler's hands sure and methodical.

Ford felt the rope brush against his thigh. The loop circled high, snug against the base of his hips, and cinched tightly between his legs. It pressed close—uncomfortably so—to more sensitive parts of him, making it hard to ignore how exposed he really was. Another loop followed just beneath it, tighter.

 

The Wrangler dropped lower, looping ropes above and below Ford’s knees. Each pass drawn tighter with an efficient cinch. He gripped the ropes around Ford’s torso, tipped him over, and lowered him to the floor with a dull thud. He continued, securing Ford’s calves and ankles, pulling them together until even the smallest movement was taken from him. The final loops wound around his feet—across the soles, then between them, tying each foot in place, heels touching.

 

When the Wrangler finished, every inch of Ford’s body was bound. The ropes were tight and efficient.

 

The Wrangler reached down and removed the blindfold.

 

Ford blinked against the light. His eyes took in the extent of his restraint. He averted his gaze, flustered. The Wrangler took notice of that. He spun on his heels and exited the cellar, the door closing behind him with a heavy thunk.

 

Ford was alone. He began to strain. The bindings didn’t budge. Not even a hint of slack. He tried to roll his shoulders, but the ropes held everything firm in place. Every knot was placed far from reach—cleverly so.

 

His eyes swept the room. Smooth stone walls and bare timber. No exposed nails, no jagged edges. Nothing of use. He exhaled sharply through his nose, and began to wriggle. He steadily rocked his body into a sitting position, and leaned his back against the cold wall. He pressed into it, using friction to inch himself upright, muscles flexing hard against the ropes.

 

Moments later, knees shaking slightly to keep balance, he stood.

 

He twisted to face the door, and hopped closer.

 

One, two—THUD.

 

No give.

 

He gritted his teeth, adjusted his balance, and slammed his shoulder into the wood again.

 

THUD.

 

Still nothing.

 

Ford narrowed his eyes, breath steadying again. He set himself one more time—gathering what little momentum he could, ready to throw everything into one final slam.

He drew in breath, leaned back—

 

But before he could charge, the door swung open. The Wrangler’s hand swiftly wrapped around Ford’s neck, mid motion. Ford stumbled off-balance, but the grasp around his neck stiffened, keeping him upright.

 

“No more of that,” the Wrangler commanded in a low voice. In his other hand, he carried a large, rectangular object, draped in canvas. He leaned it against the wall.

 

Ford struggled as the outlaw’s grip squeezed tighter. The growing pressure drew a sound from his throat he hadn’t meant to make.

 

The Wrangler’s eyes slowly trailed down. “Why are you fighting it, sheriff?”

 

Ford bared his teeth, growling defiantly. “Go to Hell.”

 

The Wrangler shoved him back. Ford hit the ground with a thud. He stared up viciously at the dark man looming over him.

 

Without warning, the Wrangler’s boot pressed down, the heavy leather sole flattening Ford’s traitorous swell against his stomach. Ford bit back a groan as his hips bucked involuntarily.

 

“A man’s body never lies,” the Wrangler murmured, his boot grinding down slow and deliberate, coaxing honesty from Ford’s bound figure.

 

The pressure only intensified, shamefully forcing out a slick bead—undeniable, humiliating evidence of the truth his body couldn’t hide.

 

The Wrangler stepped back and turned away, leaving Ford panting, and profoundly frustrated.

 

“Men like you think strength comes from being in control,” the Wrangler said flatly. “But true strength,” he continued, unspooling a slightly thinner rope, “is found in surrender.”

 

He turned. “You are bound by more than rope, sheriff. Pride. Shame. The rope is what will free you.”

 

Ford’s heart pounded as the man crouched over him and reached down.

 

Restraint met arousal as the Wrangler tightened the first loop around the base. Several others followed, fastened without slack. He worked slowly, inch by inch, drawing the tension higher with every pass. Ford’s face flushed as his shame throbbed against the rope.

 

The Wrangler moved lower, to the most sensitive of nethers, binding them firmly, circling again and again, each pass holding them more securely than the last, tightened to the limit. So tight that they swelled against the rope, shaped by the tension, completely exposed.

 

Ford burned with humiliation. The pressure was tantalizing.

 

The Wrangler rose, slow and steady, taking a moment to admire his work.

 

Ford was looking away in shame. He wouldn’t meet the Wrangler’s gaze, nor would he acknowledge the traitorous part of him that visibly reveled in his helplessness—achingly so.

 

The Wrangler walked over to the canvas covering and pulled it off, revealing a large, tarnished mirror. He adjusted it in the right position, and returned to Ford, sitting down just above his head. With a firm grip, he pulled Ford from the floor, leaning him back against his chest, settled between his legs.

 

“Look at yourself,” the Wrangler commanded.

 

Ford’s eyes darted away immediately. He couldn’t bear to see himself like this. “Damn you,” he groaned through his teeth.

 

The Wrangler’s hand clamped firmly over his mouth, and forced his head forward. Ford had no choice but to obey. His eyes met the mirror, and the sight made his stomach drop.

 

There he was: bound tight from shoulders to feet, rope hugging every contour of his body without any slack. His arms were drawn back, chest pushed forward, legs locked together. He couldn’t believe how completely he was tied, how much control another man had over him. Worse, his body was betraying him. Every part of him had been claimed.

 

“This is who you are, sheriff,” the Wrangled whispered in his ear. “The sooner you accept it, the better.” Ford groaned in protest into his grasp.

 

The Wrangler tightened his grip. Ford’s body responded against his will. A bouncing twitch.

 

The outlaw roamed his free hand over Ford’s chest, tracing the edges of the brand, before his fingers trailed lower, brushing against the sensitive nub. The pressure from the rope across Ford’s chest heightened the tenderness, stirring nerve endings he didn’t know he had. He stiffened at the unexpected sensation— one he thought was reserved for women.

 

The Wrangler’s finger moved in slow, deliberate circles. Despite Ford’s best efforts, his body reacted again. A slick bead welled up in response, and began to trickle down. The Wrangler noticed. He caught the telltale trace on his fingertip, and returned to Ford’s chest, resuming the circular motion over the sensitive peak, gliding smoother from the added slickness.

 

Ford’s face flushed deep, deep red. The humiliation made him livid. But the mirror didn’t lie. Its reflection caught every detail, every rise and fall of his chest, every seeping, glistening trail.

 

He strained and bucked in protest, twisting hard beneath the grip, his grunts muffled by the Wrangler’s firm hand. His pride clashed with the vulnerability of his current state, fighting to maintain control over unfamiliar feelings—ones he refused to accept.

The Wrangler released his grip and stood up. Ford rolled onto his side, his eyes following the outlaw from under a vicious frown. “I’ll die before I break,” he hissed.

“You don’t really believe that, sheriff,” The Wrangler said in a low voice, drawing a quirt from his belt. “Besides,” he added, stepping closer.

 

“You know that’s not be the relief you crave.”

With that came the first lash. A sharp snap against his chest. Ford’s breath hitched. Another one followed across his abdomen. Then his back. He clenched his teeth, tensing tight under the stings. Many more followed, indiscriminately—his chest, his shoulders, his flanks, his thighs. The quirt’s leather strips stuck hard to his skin with each strike. Steady, but relentless.

The Wrangler’s focus settled, as the next lash landed firmly on the defenseless curves of Ford’s backside.

It felt different—more pointed, more personal. Ford stiffened, a breath catching in his throat.

Measured strikes continued. Lash after lash across the same tender area. With each flick of the quirt, Ford’s tightly furrowed brow began to give in, steadily yielding into an expression of reluctant surrender. The heat across his skin deepened with every stripe, and soon, Ford’s rump was as red as his face.

The Wrangler shifted again. Ford tensed, unsure where the next strike would land—until he felt the first sudden flick across the soles of his feet. His entire body jolted in surprise. The sensation was completely foreign. His toes curled instinctively, muscles twitching against the bonds that held him firm. He clenched his jaw, swallowing back another sound. The precision of each lash, the way it landed just right, sent shivers up his spine. There was something uniquely vulnerable about it—exposing a part of him not used to attention, much less discipline.

Ford writhed on the ground, trying in vain to pull away from the relentless sting of the Wrangler’s strikes. The tender arches of his feet flushed a deep red. Not even his toes were spared attention, now turned a rosy hue from the calculated swats.

He couldn’t take another—he twisted, flipping onto his back for reprieve.

But the relief was short-lived.

Bound as he was, the position left him painfully exposed. The Wrangler trailed the tip of the quirt upward, slow and deliberate, from Ford’s ankles along the length of his thighs, stopping just short of the most vulnerable part of him—bulging against the tight ropes.

A shudder rippled through Ford's core.

And then, a quick flick.

Ford’s spine arched against the rope. His jaw locked shut, trying to stifle any noise.

 

Another quick flick. A sound—half gasp, half groan—nearly escaped.

 

The Wrangler reversed the quirt in his hand, and drummed the handle against Ford’s most sensitive spot with a rhythm that started slow, but gradually picked up pace. Ford fought the increasing sensation, a wayward warmth pooling in his gut. The speed increased, and with it, his rigid swell pulsed harder. As the pressure heightened, a strangled whimper broke free—uncharacteristic of Ford’s usual deep timbre. The Wrangler, quietly satisfied, tucked the quirt away. Ford rolled onto his side, breath ragged.

 

The Wrangler’s drew closer, each step louder than the last, and placed the toe of his boot just inches from Ford’s face.

 

“Make it shine,” he said with authority.

 

Ford was catching his breath. “Drop dead.”

 

The Wrangler had no reaction. He turned away in calm silence, unspooling another length of rope. Returning to Ford’s side, he flipped him onto his stomach with little effort. Ford grunted at the shift, feeling his weight pressing down on the floor. Before he could fully adjust, the Wrangler caught his ankles, already bound, and knotted a new rope to them. Then, with a steady tug, he drew Ford’s legs upward, threading the line through the central knot between his shoulder blades. With a sharp pull of the rope and a firm hand pressing down, the Wrangler folded Ford’s legs until his heels touched the backs of his thighs, securing the knot just out of reach.

Ford twisted, trying to find slack where there was none. He strained his muscles, but there was no give. His body was locked in place.

The Wrangler wasn’t finished.

From the shadows, he returned with something new in hand—a leather harness. At its center was a thick, bulbous mouthpiece. Ford had never seen anything like it before. His jaw clenched instinctively, unprepared for the size. He weakly shook his head once, but the Wrangler didn’t rush. He simply knelt, patient as ever, and brought the harness close.

Firm hands worked the gag into place, pressing steadily until it slipped past Ford’s lips. Thick and long, it pushed past his teeth, pressing down on his tongue and up against the roof of his mouth, and forcing itself into the back of his throat, filling his mouth completely. The shape kept his mouth stretched open, silencing him with the sheer size.

The harness buckled tight behind his head. Ford groaned behind it, a muffled, helpless sound.

Then came the final touch.

A final rope was looped around Ford’s toes, binding them tightly. The Wrangler pulled the rope forward, attaching it to the back of the gag’s harness. With a firm grip, he reeled steadily, pulling Ford’s head back, chin lifting, stretching him further into submission as his toes were forced to point directly toward the back of his head. Ford could feel every inch of the gag as it pressed even deeper into his mouth with the added pull.

With the hogtie complete, the Wrangler gave Ford a dismissive, almost patronizing pat on the head, and exited the cellar.

 

 

         Ford lay motionless for a long moment, his breath slow through his nose. Silence settled heavy around him, broken only by the faint creak of the ropes that hugged him firmly, pressing just right along his chest, his abdomen, his thighs… everywhere. Across the room, his reflection quietly mocked him.

 

He closed his eyes. Brief images flashed through his mind.

 

The town.

 

The people.

 

His wife…

 

The intrusive thought of his own reflection. He shut his eyes tighter.

 

The desert.

 

Strawberry.

 

…The Wrangler.

Arched as he was, Ford’s hips pressed into the floor, his aching arousal flattened under the weight of his body. It throbbed helplessly, straining against the tight coils. The pressure was maddeningly precise.

Ford groaned into the gag, muffled and low. He tensed every muscle in his body in an attempt to shift.

The movement was small, but the sensation it stirred was immense. The motion brought a slow grind against the floor—unintended, but impossible to miss.

Another movement. Another faint grind. It sent a pulse through his body that he hated himself for noticing.

Ford clenched his fists behind his back.

He moved again. Slow. Subtle.

The cellar door creaked open. Ford seized up as his captor entered the room.

The Wrangler stood at the bottom of the stairs. He drew a small pocket knife from his coat. With a casual flick, the blade opened, catching the dim light. Ford watched, tense.

The Wrangler sat down on the steps, extracting a dull red apple. He began to peel it slowly, the knife curling the skin in one long spiral. A drop of sweat trickled down Ford’s brow, as he observed carefully.

Once the apple was bare, the Wrangler lifted the peeled ribbon to his mouth and leisurely consumed it. He leaned back on the steps, casual in posture, taking a bite of the apple. His eyes traced Ford’s form, lingering over him with hungry intensity. Ford couldn’t help growing warm in the face under the heavy weight of the gaze.

The Wrangler sank his teeth again, not breaking eye contact. His hand drifted downward, settling on the curve of his crotch. With slow, idle motions, he rubbed along the seam, cupping the leather bulge tightly. A deliberate squeeze pressed the weighty outline boldly into view. Ford’s eyes tracked the movement, unable to look away. The shape beneath was unmistakable—pronounced and imposing even through the thick material.

Ford suddenly became acutely aware of the length of the gag that was filling his mouth, stretching it wide open. He tried not to think about it—tried to push the image away—but he couldn’t stop the connection from forming. The comparison struck him with humiliating clarity. He tried closing his eyes, but it didn’t help—he could feel every inch of the gag. It pressed deep down his throat, and with every sound of rubbing leather, Ford felt like it pushed even further. A telltale fluster colored his face deep red.

 

The Wrangler stood up. He took another bite, boards creaking beneath his boots as he approached. With a single nudge of his foot, he rolled Ford onto his side.

 

The motion exposed a slick trail of arousal, pooled on the floor—more than either of them might have expected.

 

The Wrangler let out a low whistle, admiring the copious amount. He crouched beside him, letting his hand trail down the hairy expanse of the sheriff’s bound torso. He started at the chest, moving with an almost predatory slowness. Ford was helpless to stop it.

With each inch the Wrangler’s hand descended, Ford’s heart began to quicken. He couldn’t help but imagine what might come next, holding his breath as the hand traveled closer to his throbbing ache. The thought of release, of some kind of relief, flickered through his mind, but it was tainted with confusion—he both craved and resisted it. As the hand continued its descent down his abdomen, Ford’s pulse raced. The touch was almost gentle, but still asserted control, as if claiming every inch of his body. The outlaw’s fingers traced the curves of his muscles, a touch that Ford felt as both possessive and strangely tender.

The Wrangler’s hand stopped just shy of the desperate member.

“Good boy,” he murmured, voice low. He gave a couple of firm pats against Ford’s abdomen, and flipped him back onto his stomach.

 

Ford groaned through his gag.

 

The Wrangler then retrieved the blindfold from his pocket, and tied it snugly over Ford’s eyes, leaving him in darkness.

 

The door creaked open, and shut again.

Quiet.

With sight stolen from him and the cellar dead silent, Ford’s focus turned inward—uncomfortably so.

He couldn’t say what kind of release he was desperate for anymore, but he needed it.

He needed release.

He began to rock his hips, rubbing against the floor. The friction was sending sparks of sensation through his body.

His breath came harder through his nose. He couldn’t stop. He was too far gone, too desperate. He wanted to hate it, to hate himself, but his body didn’t care. It only wanted more.

His hips moved faster, each press drawing him closer and closer to the edge. He felt it building deep inside. His breath turned into ragged gasps.

The tightness of the ropes against his body was tantalizing.

He knew he was close.

Sweat trickled.

Close.

His mind clouded.

So close.

“You don’t have my permission.”

 

Ford froze. The low voice cut through the silence like a blade. The Wrangler was in the room.

 

How could he have not heard the creak of the door? Unless… the door never opened.

 

Which meant that… the Wrangler never left.

 

And everything that Ford just did… he did under his gaze.

 

Ford’s stomach dropped.

 

The Wrangler’s boots echoed across the room, Ford recognizing the sound of unspooling rope. He approached.

 

He worked silently, reinforcing knots and adjusting tension. Minutes later, a sharp pull. With it, Ford found himself suspended—not high off the ground, but lifted enough that the floor was just out of reach. His hips, once pressed against something solid, now hovered in the air.

 

“This is necessary,” the Wrangler spoke, before exiting the cellar.

 

 

Time passed. Ford hung in silence. Ropes creaked above him softly. The weightlessness robbed him of the small relief he’d found earlier—no more floor beneath him to press against, no way to satisfy his arousal.

 

His hips instinctively tried to move, bucking downward in an attempt to find even the slightest form of stimulation—but the ropes held him aloft, denying him any relief.

Ford let out a quiet, frustrated sound.

A slick, glistening strand was the only thing that connected his body to the ground, pooling slowly beneath him with every drip. All he could do was throb uselessly against the bonds.

He felt helpless. From the ropes, but also from what the ropes were revealing about him.

He didn’t understand anything. He had a lot of questions. But there were no answers.

Only feeling.

Time passed.

 

         The cellar door creaked open. Heavy boots. They lingered. Ford’s breath was shallow. He didn’t know what kind of torment to expect.

He heard the sound of something soft drop to the floor. Then he heard the footsteps approaching.

Ford felt the Wrangler come in close, his breath warm.

 

It felt as though he was about to speak. But it never came.

 

Ford felt the Wrangler’s hand wrap around his own, easing it open. Something was placed inside.

 

The Wrangler left.

 

Ford felt the item.

 

A knife.

 

He hesitated. Was this a cruel game? For a while, he didn’t move. The cellar felt quieter than ever.

 

Slowly, Ford began to cut away at any rope he could reach. The slack began to give.

 

His lower half dropped to the floor. Followed by the upper, with a thud.

 

He continued to cut. Legs came undone. Wrists. Ankles. Thighs.

 

The bindings fell away, one by one, until he was free.

 

He unbuckled the harness and pulled the gag out, drawing a long strand of saliva. He spit on the floor, then undid the blindfold. Finally, he carefully untied his sensitive member.

 

He shakily stood up, eyes adjusting to the room. There was something on the ground by the exit. Ford picked it up.

 

A large weathered shawl. Rough wool. It smelled of smoke.

 

He clutched the knife, and slowly ascended out of the cellar, into the bunkhouse.

 

Quiet.

 

Ford braced for anything. He navigated slowly. The floorboards creaked under his weight.

 

He reached the door, nerves racked. He exited.

 

The dry desert air hit him hard. He squinted his eyes against the bright light, and scanned the area. No sign of life, except for one—Strawberry. Tethered where he last saw him, grazing peacefully. Looking no worse for wear. Ford wrapped the shawl around himself, untied the reigns, and mounted up. The two rode off into the canyon, leaving a trail of dust behind.

 

           

         Ford navigated in silence, the steady clop of hooves echoing off the rock walls as the late afternoon sun was starting to cast long shadows across the red earth.

 

By a bend in the canyon, he reached the creek. Ford wearily dismounted, the shawl slipping from his shoulders as he fell to his knees beside the water. He splashed the cold water over his face, a deep exhale unwinding out of him. He cupped his hand, bringing a sip to his mouth. He noticed the red impressions that wrapped around his wrist and forearm. His eyes trailed down to the water’s surface, and saw his reflection.

The rope had left deep marks over his skin. Long tracks ran across his chest, down his flanks, around his hips, mapping the ridges and valleys of his body like topography. Echoes of his restraints traced the contours of his muscles intimately.

And above it all, the brand. “W”.

Ford slowly brought his hand to his chest, and placed it over the marked flesh. It felt warm.

He continued to stare at his reflection.

 

The image stirred something within him. A growing response.

 

His hand trembled as he reached down, unable to resist the pull of his own body. He didn’t try to understand.

His pulse quickened, grip working his throbbing length over and over.

He began to pant as his hips drew into the rhythm. He shut his eyes, mouth hanging slightly open. The muscles along his thighs tensed with each stroke, as the pent-up frustration began to peak.

A brief gust of wind whispered through the canyon, skimming over his bare skin.

Silence followed.

Ford’s momentum faltered. His chest rose and fell. He stopped.

A beat passed.

Then another.

It was as if the wind had spoken. And Ford listened.

His hand loosened. He dropped it, and opened his eyes.

The water trickled gently.

Ford stared into his own gaze.

He sat there for a while.

 

         Night draped itself over the desert. The moon shined brightly in the endless sea of stars. The wind had settled into stillness, broken only by the occasional crack of the fire outside the bunkhouse.

The Wrangler sat motionless on a twisted log, hat low over his eyes, staring into the flames. The glow flickered across the dirt, casting long shadows behind him.

Then—hooves.

The Wrangler didn’t move at first, listening as they came to a stop. Silence followed.

He stood and turned.

There, just beyond the firelight, stood Sheriff Ford Beaumont.

 

Ford dismounted, his bare feet pressing into the earth with a quiet thud.

 

The two watched each other from afar. No words passed between them.

 

Ford approached.

 

His steps came to a halt, as he stood before the Wrangler.

They looked at each other. Really looked.

Ford’s expression was stern.

Without a word, he let the shawl fall from his shoulders. The firelight danced over his bare skin.

And Ford knelt.

Neither man spoke. The fire popped.

The Wrangler studied him.

After a long pause, he raised his boot,

 

and slid it forward.

 

 

 

The fire kept burning.

 

The wind sang low.

 

And the desert stretched on into the night.

~