Roy woke up with a headache, a tongue bleeding from a bite of his own teeth, and a raging anger. Smitty and the five other riders that had accompanied him over the mountains were standing over him wondering if the blow from Dorca's club had plunged their leader into an irreversible coma. It hadn't.

His eyes took a few seconds to focus. "Jesus H. Ker-rist," he stammered, "my head fuckin' hurts!"

"Jeez," said Smitty, "we didn't think you were going to come to."

"Some fucking help you were."

"Aww c'mon Roy, there were fifty guns on us."

"I'm gonna kill the fuck. I swear I'm gonna kill the fuck."

"Boss, its almost light ..."

"There's time, there's time. Help me up." Roy staggered to his feet and brushed the filth of the street off his brown duster, an old raincoat that reached to his knees.

"Boss, that man Bonner has a fearsome reputation in this town."

"He ain't so tough ..." How many men had said that? How many of them had said it and believed it? How many of them were still alive? "Where does he live?" demanded Roy. "How the fuck should I know? It's a big town." "We'll find him," said Roy, striding down the broken street. They wandered a few blocks, all of them looking around as if they expected to see a sign:

TO BONNER'S HOUSE. They didn't find one, but they did stumble upon a street worker, one of the scavenging muggers that worked the dark streets, hoping for an easy bring down of a whore or a drunk rider. Street workers were the human rats of Chicago. They could take one blitzed rider, but they turned and ran when a group of heavily armed, sober men came their way.

Roy and his boys cornered a pasty-faced street worker in an alley. He faced them with a rusty gun, the barrel trembling as he held it in his shaking hands.

"F-f-fuck off, or I'll drill ya . . ."he said. "We ain't looking for trouble, friend," said Roy. "We're just looking for some directions." "Some what?"

"You know a rider name of Bonner?" Fucking weird out-of-towners, thought the street worker. Everybody knew a rider "name of Bonner." "Yeah," he said. "Where is he?"

The street worker shrugged. "I dunno."

"Where does he live?"

"Over there," he said gesturing vaguely.

"Good. You show us where. And don't lie to us, friend, or we'll blow you in two."

Just my fucking luck, thought the street worker. He has to run into a six-pack of nasties who are looking for Bonner. "Follow me," he said sullenly.

He led them around in circles for about twenty blocks, but he discovered that the outsiders weren't quite as dumb as they looked. "Hey," said Smitty, "we was here a minute ago. I recognize that pile of trash."

Roy drew a long-barrel revolver from the deep pocket of his duster. He placed it against the street worker's temple. "Say goodbye to your brains, friend."

"Okay! Okay! I'll show you for real." Roy hesitated a moment then removed the steel tube from the hapless SW's head.

"Lead."

The street worker took them directly to the tumbledown building that Bonner called home. He stopped in front of the door.

"Up there."

"Thank you, friend."

"Yeah, well fuck you, friend." Under any other circumstances the remark would have cost the street worker his life. But a bullet shot right then might have put Bonner on guard. Roy might have believed that Bonner wasn't so tough, but there was no sense in letting the man know he was coming.

"Get lost, scum."

The street worker took off, scrambling through the rubble that filled the streets. As he ran he prayed that Bonner never found out it was him that led the riders to his door.

Roy looked up the dark steps and figured that they were gonna make a hell of a racket even if they tried to creep up the stairs. Best to rush up, to break down the door, and to go in blazing.

The six of them drew their weapons and charged.

The thumping footsteps on the wooden stairs woke the girl. She had been dreaming, a warm, comforting dream of a clean place far away. It was quiet there . . .

But she was awake now. Her first thought was for Bonner. Where was he? Her second thought was for her shotgun. It lay on the floor next to the bed she shared with Bonner. She broke it, slapped in two cartridges, and held it against her shoulder. When the door crashed open she let the first intruder have it with both barrels. The man's midsection opened up wide, as if a big sack of guts had been sliced open. His viscera slapped out of his body and slid across the polished wood floor of the apartment. He fell into his own insides.

"Fuckin' A!" shrieked someone. The remaining four pulled back from the door. The girl reloaded and let fly again. This time the riders were covered and her shots simply tore up the old wooden bannister in the hall. They were ready this time for the second or two that it took for the girl to reload. The five of them rushed into the room. Unfortunately, they were unaware that the girl had discharged only one barrel of her shotgun on the previous round.

The gun spoke with a terrible authority. The couple of ounces of buckshot swept like a hot wind across the thuggy features of another rider turning his nose and jaw to a bony, bloody hash and his eyes to paste.

But they had her. It was only when they got into the room that they realized that they hadn't been fighting The Outrider at all. Two of their number had been taken down by the girl. "Its a fuckin' girl!" said Roy. "And she ain't got no clothes on!" observed Smitty. Roy slapped the girl hard on the cheek. "Where's the man?"

The girl's head snapped to the side and an ugly red palm print appeared on her pearly skin. She looked back at Roy, her gray eyes blazing with defiance. She pursed her lips and spat, her saliva washing a clean spot on his dirty face.

"Okay bitch, okay, you have had your chance." He tossed his gun aside and started fumbling with the belt of his pants. "First I'm gonna beat you black and blue, then I am gonna fuck you until you tell me where your man is."

"Wooooooeeeee," observed one of the riders. "Me too!"

"Plenty for everybody," said Roy, his face suddenly wine-red with anger and lust.

Two of his boys fought their way through the flashing nails of the girl. Her delicate fingers were curved like an animal's claws. She caught one of her attackers and scraped her nails across his face, slicing deep red furrows in his tough hide.

"Bitch, fuckin' bitch," the man yelped and grabbed one of her small, well-formed breasts and squeezed as hard as he could.

"You bastards!" she shrieked. But her scream was just another cry in the anguished Chicago night.

Roy lowered his weight onto her. She tossed back and forth, her legs squirming and kicking, trying to deflect his merciless onslaught. "Hold her legs, hold 'em," he gasped.

Smitty grabbed one leg and another of the riders grasped the other and pulled them apart.

"Pretty," said Roy, "very pretty," his eyes licking hungrily over her spread-eagled body. "Very nice."

He flopped onto the girl's pain-wracked body and dug himself deep into her. She tried to twist away so he slugged her with the full force of his hard fist. "Stop that," he hissed.

His lust was high, uncontrollable; fight as he might, he came almost as soon as he entered her. He was pulled away by one of his men. "You done? My turn."

The girl's head swam with pain, disgust, dread . . .With each successive attack on her body, her mind retreated further into some place far from the sordid scene in which she found herself the principal player. The shouts of lust and satisfaction of her attackers sounded very far off. She had no idea how many times they took her; she felt no pleasure, she felt nothing after the initial violation. Someone forced her mouth open and something foreign was thrust in.

"So where is he?" Roy yelled in her ear as he writhed on top of her for a second time. "Where is he?"

The hard piece of flesh in her mouth made her gag, but she tried to cough up some words.

"Take your meat out of her mouth," barked Roy, "she's gonna tell us." Still buried in her, Roy hiked himself up on his elbows. "So how 'bout it darlin', where is he?"

The girl spat a glob of something out her mouth. "Fuck you, you ..."

"Oh no darlin', I'm fuckin you!" And he thrust his powerful hips forward again.

They tossed her around, turned her over, whipped her with their belts, punished her with their fists until she was a bloody mass of bruised flesh.

"Hey, Smitty," said Roy, "don't you want a piece of this?"

The initial excitement had passed and Smitty felt ashamed of himself. He stood away from the action, watching sickened as the beautiful, lithe body of the girl was reduced to something like a broken doll. Her skin was covered in sweat and come and blood. In a matter of minutes he and his brother thugs had reduced a beautiful woman to a piece of human garbage. He wanted to cry.

Their exertions wore them out after a while. There wasn't much more they could do to her, so they stood up and put their clothing in order. The girl rolled over on her stomach and waited for them to leave.

"Gotta admit, chief, she's one tough little pussy," observed one of Roy's riders. He went by the name of Wilson.

"Stupid bitch. She coulda avoided all this," said Roy. "Now let's get the fuck out of here."

"Yeah," said Smitty. "Them riders are gonna be waiting ..."

The men filed out of the room, leaving the girl silent on the bed. They were half a block away when one of them, a rider called Jasper, thinking he wanted one more slice off the girl's body said, "Oh shit, I left my gun in the apartment with that bitch."

"Your gun's in your belt, asshole," said Smitty.

"No," said Jasper, "my other gun."

"You don't have another gun," said Smitty.

"Yes, I do. I'm gonna go back and get it."

"You ain't ready to go when we are then we're leaving without your ass."

"I'll be there."

"Make sure you is, because we ain't comin' to look for you," said Roy.

"No problem. No problem." He turned on his heel and figured he had about fifteen minutes worth of fun—maybe he could stretch it to half an hour and catch up with the gang. He was looking forward to a little private action. He couldn't come with all those other guys around. So maybe they messed her up and she wasn't quite as pretty as she was once, but he figured her pussy still worked. He sniggered to himself.

He took the stairs three at a time, walked through the door and found the girl still lying on the bed. He hoped she wasn't dead. "I may be bad," he thought, "but I ain't no necro, necro-corpse fucker ..."

"Hey honey," he cackled, "howsa 'bout a little more lovin'?"

He grasped the girl by the shoulder and turned her over. She looked at him, her eyes flickering in hatred. "You're okay. Now you just spread them legs again." He wrested his pants open.

The girl smiled through cracked lips. "Come on, lover," she said.

"Hot damn!" said Jasper, almost dizzy with lust. The girl spread her legs wide and he knelt between them. She stretched out her long arms invitingly. He licked his lips and flopped down on her body.

The girl's arm dropped to the floor and grabbed the shotgun she had reloaded after they left. She lifted it and rested the barrel against Jasper's head.

"Wassat?" he said. His cock was in her and she flexed some muscles and grabbed him tight.

"Its a gun, you motherfucker."

He pulled back, but he couldn't get free.

The girl's face twisted in hate. "Bye, lover," she spat. And yanked the trigger. Both barrels fired from point-blank range sprayed most of his skull and brains far across the room. Only a little blood and gray matter fell on her body. She hefted the headless corpse off her and staggered a few feet and then collapsed.

Bonner found her, naked and bleeding, crying in a comer.

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