Henry stumbled, reaching for a nearby post, the lantern rattling in his hand as faces came into the light. Human faces. All women, or girls, their clothing in disarray and filthy. Each of those faces had a deathly pall to them, cheekbones pressing against paper-thin skin. Those faces turned away from the light, scrabbling away as the lantern swayed in Henry's hand. Chains rattled as the women scurried as far back into the reaches of the barn.

Despite the horror of the scene, Henry found himself stepping forward, his hand rising to a mouth that threatened to expunge any food he had left within his stomach, not only from the sight of these pitiful people, but from the stench that rose from them. He crouched, reaching out for the nearest figure and drew it back as the girl flinched, wary of his touch. No more than fifteen years of age, if he were to judge, and held in depravity for The Lord knew what.

"I shall not harm you." His whisper carried within the barn, the clinking of chains and hushed moaning threatening to drown out his words. "My name is Henry and this is my friend ..."

He turned to indicate Annie, but the woman had vanished from sight. He could not countenance that she had left him with these poor souls, but, nevertheless, he could see no sign of the woman. That left him to calm the women alone and he feared they would not see him as a saviour of any kind.

The girl could not scramble back any further and Henry held up a hand, open and with as little aggression as he could muster. The girl stared at that hand, her entire body quivering, but she did not shy further away. Henry reached out for the girl's arm, so thin and dirty, tender with bruising, and lifted it to examine the chain that bound her.

The manacle had bitten into her skin, far too tight even for her malnourished form, the wounds weeping with pus that added to the stink of the place. He lowered the hand and placed the very tip of his finger beneath her chin, turning her head one way and then the other, finding a dirty cloth tied around her throat.

With the girl's wide, tear filled eyes staring at him the entire time, he tugged the cloth down to find a wound upon her throat. Not a bite, not from a Drifter, a Skinchanger, nor of a Murcie, but something that appeared more akin to a surgical cut. A cut that had opened and begun to heal a number of times, if his accompaniment of several surgeons gave him any knowledge.

Rising to his feet, he held the lantern high, casting the light over the other women within the barn and counted over a dozen. None older than thirty years of age, many appearing far younger. This ranch was not a farm for cattle, or any kind of acceptable livestock. It farmed people and Henry had never encountered anything so horrific in his entire life. Nor anything so evil. God, it seemed, had abandoned these people and Henry would curse Him for the rest of his days for that.

Laying the lantern down, Henry once again reached for the girl's manacles. His fingers scraped against the metal, trying to loosen the metal's hold upon the girl, but the bindings were not only locked into place, but riveted. He would have need of a hammer and chisel to affect the escape for these women.

He traced the chains back to where the captors had attached them to the barn's structure, but found that the ends, also, were riveted in place. In his frustration, he slammed a hand against the post, causing a ripple of fear-induced howling to emit from the imprisoned women. He had to take greater care, regardless of his anger. Should their captors hear a ruckus, Henry did not doubt the women would suffer greatly.

Were Annie here, he could charge her with helping him find some way of releasing these people, but still the woman had not returned. He cursed her, too. Cursed her singleminded obsession upon Arthur Shipton. She had not an ounce of care for others. Not these women, not the folks who had died in Simmons and certainly not for Henry. Travelling with her had brought Henry into contact with horror after horror and he could abide it no longer.

Where subtlety had failed him, Henry resorted to brute strength. Resting a foot against the upright post, gathering all the chains in his hands, he hauled against the plate, attached to the wood, that the chains ran through. With all his might, he pulled, arching his back, his head stretching so far back, his derby hat fell from his head. Still the chains remained stubbornly attached to the plate and the post and Henry had already exhausted himself.

"If you aided me, I believe, together, we can free you." Sweat dripped from his chin as he turned to face the women huddled in the shadows. "I know you are tired, underfed, abused, but I cannot do this alone. Help me."

Even in the pitiful light of the lantern, Henry could see heads shaking, turning away, burying into shoulders and chests of those beside them. He would find no aid here, yet he could not abandon them. He supposed he could attempt to reach Prescott, entreat Sheriff Earp to investigate, gather up a posse and return to this God-forsaken place, but these women could well die before he even rode half-way. Most looked little different from Drifters already.

Fingers pushed his spectacles up from the bridge of his nose and he rubbed his eyes. He could not falter. Not yet. He had to work out some way to help these women. When he felt a hand upon his arm, a touch so light he could mistake it for breath, he found the girl stood beside him, wide eyes staring.

In her hand, she held his derby hat and pressed it into his own. Her eyes flickered toward the doors of the barn before pushing him that way. He balked, holding his ground and planting his feet, unwilling to leave, but the girl persisted, her brow furrowing, her urgency increasing. A whimper escaped her lips. Not from pain, or fear for herself, but for him. She feared her captors would find him. He appreciated her kindness, but he could not leave her, or the others.

"Please, mister." Her voice cracked with her whisper, unused to speaking any longer and bereft of enough water. "You can't save all of us. Can't save any of us. Go, mister, and don't you look back."

"I can't. I have to try. I have to ..." A thought occurred to him. This was not the only barn. "How many of you are there?"

"Were another herd in here with us, but one died and turned Drifter, took t'others with her." Her eyes never stopped moving, her feet shifting, her shoulders drooping as she expected the return of her captors. "Don't know how many folks they got in the other barns. Lots, I reckon. We feed 'em in turns. Gives us time to heal. Some ain't so lucky."

Henry's mind became a whirl of curiosity and he added himself to those he had already cursed. If some of these women had died, turned into Drifters, that meant Shipton, or whoever, had chosen not to bite these women, but to exsanguinate them utilising modern medical methods instead, as though milking these women for their most precious commodity. A vile, but nonetheless fascinating thought.

No doubt many of those Drifters attached to the fencing of the ranch came from those that had succumbed to death through these inhuman actions. Had the Murcies bitten these women, they would not suffer further indignities by turning into Drifters. The one affliction precluding the other, as Henry had observed. He doubted that would serve as a welcome respite for these women. He doubted anything could.

The girl's surrender to her fate did nothing more than to gird Henry's desire to free them. Perhaps he could not free them all. Perhaps he could not even free all those in this barn, let alone the others, but he had to try. Even though he freed only one, it would salve a guilt that had already begun to gnaw at his guts. He would never forgive himself if he left these women to their grisly fate.

Collecting the lantern from the ground, Henry returned his hat to his head. He considered using the scythe, to chop at the wood surrounding the plate, but that would not serve well as an axe, nor would it even cause a blemish upon the iron links of the chains. Somewhere, within this barn, lay the tools he required. He doubted they would allow a Drifter to consume all within a 'herd' of these women, should one turn and they catch it early enough. Any sane man would endeavour to cut the diseased 'animal' from the rest of the 'stock'. That seemed only a reasonable business proposition.

The lantern rattled in his hand as he rushed around the barn, searching the corners, the other stalls, where he found the remains of gore from the Drifter the girl had told him about. Then, there, at the far end, he chanced upon a table and a wall of farming implements. His hand scrabbled among the tools upon the table, pushing and brushing aside those that would not serve his purposes.

He almost exclaimed in triumph as his fingers brushed the cold, hard head of a hammer and then, a little further along the table, a thin-nosed chisel that he did not doubt could aid him in his cause. As an afterthought, he gathered an old, ragged sack from the floor. With the tools in hand, he stood a chance of having the ability to look himself in the eye in a mirror, should he survive.

Returning to the girl, he guided her hand to rest upon the hard-packed dirt of the barn floor. She had a resigned countenance to her features, as though she could not muster any more sympathy for him. Not a sign of thankfulness passed across her face. Nevertheless, Henry folded the sack over the head of the hammer, placed the chisel against the rivet, and raised the hammer, ready to strike.

The sound of men talking reached his ears before he could let the hammer fall and Henry could tell by the reactions of the captive women, those voices were coming their way. His hand fell to the grip of the pistol, the other to the handle of the scythe. What he expected to do with either of them, he could not say.