“Dad!” Chet’s voice was loud in the quiet after the echoing of the gunshot.  He couldn’t believe his father had just shot someone!

“Stay with Joe!” John ordered as he approached the fallen man.

Muir was big, well over 6’5”, and he didn’t trust that even the 12-gauge would be enough.  He didn’t want to kill him; however, he did want to make sure he wasn’t going to be a threat.

Muir rolled over and looked up at him; his dark eyes simmered with rage as he held one of his arms with the other hand.

“Don’t so much as breathe the wrong way,” the senior Morton warned as he kept the gun pointed at him.  “Be grateful I changed my mind.  I was aiming for your chest.”

Behind them, he could hear Chet trying to rouse Joe, and hoped the younger boy wasn’t seriously injured.

* * *

“Joe!  Come on buddy, open you eyes, please!” Chet begged, as he couldn’t tell how badly he was hurt…or where.  Gently he shook his friend, and after a long moment, Joe stirred.

With a groan and a lot of effort, he managed to open his eyes, and saw his friend peering down worriedly at him.  But once Chet saw Joe looking back at him, the worry melted into relief and he grinned down at his friend.

“Man, you scared the crap out of me!” he admitted, and then asked, “Are you okay?  Where’s it hurt?”

Joe forced himself to concentrate on his friend, but it was difficult as he was exhausted and his leg was killing him.  Slowly and with great effort, he managed, “Ankle…hurts…this…”  He pointed to his leg.

“Okay, okay,” Chet soothed, “Let me take a look at it.”  Gently, he reached down to pull up the end of the pant leg and was surprised to see Joe wearing boots.  Long boots that reached to just beneath his knee.

And that was the first time he really noticed exactly what else his friend was wearing – a red, frilly blouse, and black pants that didn’t leave much to the imagination.

“Oh Joe,” he whispered sympathetically, wondering just what else his friend had been subjected to in the last 36 hours, other than these clothes!

Joe didn’t say anything, but he moaned and lurched up slightly when Chet carefully removed the boot so he could see the ankle.  Upon immediate inspection he didn’t like what he saw…it was badly swollen and bruised.

“Dad,” Chet called over his shoulder to his father, when Joe struggled to sit up and he realized his friend’s hands were handcuffed behind him, “Does that creep have a key on him somewhere?  Joe’s cuffed.”

Muir raised his eyebrows as the farmer fixed him with a look and asked, “Where’s the key?”

“I ate it,” the big man said and then smiled, “I can get it for you, if you don’t mind the wait.”

“Look, big guy,” John said, his tone leaving no room to think he was bluffing, “You, I don’t know….Him,” he indicated Joe, “I care about.  If I gotta kill you, to get those damn things off him, I will.  Your choice.”

John cocked the hammer again when Muir didn’t move, and then the giant shrugged, and moving slowly he pulled the key out of his pocket.

“Now was that so hard?” Mr. Morton asked.  “Toss it to me, nice and gentle-like.  You don’t want me to get startled, my finger might slip or something.”

“You’re enjoying this,” Muir commented, even as he did what the other man said.

John snorted.  “Yeah, this is my idea of fun.  Can you tell?”  And then he addressed his son:  “Chet, the keys are at my feet.  Release Joe and then bring the cuffs here.”

A soft groan a few moments later, told him Chet had taken the handcuffs off his friend.  Coming to stand beside his father, he held up the cuffs.  “What do you want me to do with them?”

John aimed the gun directly at Muir’s head.  He spoke to the stranger.  “Stand up.”  Muir did, with considerable agility considering he’d been shot.

Satisfied, the farmer continued, “My son is going to put these cuffs on you.  Slightest wrong move and you’re dead.”  The barrel was shifted to accommodate the giant’s change of position.

Muir shrugged and held his arms out towards Chet, compliantly.

Chet nervously approached the other man, awed by his size, and understanding how hard it must have been for Joe to get past this guy.  Quickly, he put the cuff on the first wrist but when he moved to fasten it, Muir moved….

* * *

Joe sat on the ground and slowly massaged his aching wrists.  He grimaced as he saw how torn up his right one was.

He heard John’s instruction to Muir and realized what he was going to do, and his heart lurched.  Chet would be too close….

The boy tried to struggle to his feet, even as he yelled, “NOOO!”

* * *

Neither John nor Chet were prepared for how fast this man was.  But before John could even get off a shot, Muir had grabbed Chet, spun him around and had the scalpel to his neck!

Lucky growled and John snapped, “Down, Lucky!”  The dog continued growling but backed off.

Muir glared at the farmer. “Put your gun down or the boy dies.”

John was torn; if he did so, then they’d be at the full mercy of this maniac, but if he didn’t….

“NOW!” barked Muir as he pressed the blade in just enough to nick Chet, who gasped but didn’t cry out.  His father’s eyes widened as he saw the blood.

Out of the corner of his eye John saw Joe trying to struggle to his feet and said softly but firmly, “Stay down.”  He didn’t want this to get any more precarious than it already was, as he slowly began lowering the gun to the ground.

“Good,” Muir said, easing up the pressure of the scalpel on Chet’s throat just a bit.  His eyes flickered towards Joe.  “Him for your son. We leave…you and your boy get to grow old together.”

“No,” John said immediately.  He couldn’t make that trade.

“Mr. Morton—” came a weak protest, but he repeated.

“No.”

The farmer locked eyes with the giant and moments became minutes.

They both knew that Muir was losing blood – if this stalemate continued, the big man would lose….

Without any warning, Muir suddenly thrust Chet towards his father, turned and raced into the cover of the woods!

John caught his son before he could fall, and held him tightly, assuring himself that Chet was indeed all right and out of the clutches of that man. 

Releasing him, he bent down to pick up the gun.

Swearing softly under his breath as he realized Muir had escaped, the farmer turned back and saw Chet kneeling down next to his friend again.

“Okay,” said the farmer as he smiled warmly at Joe, “let’s get you back to the house so we can get a better look at that ankle.”

Together Chet and his father helped the younger teen the rest of the way to the farmhouse.

As they settled him down on the couch, Joe caught Chet’s arm and whispered, “F-Frank…gotta…call…F-Frank.”

Chet smiled, squeezed his arm reassuringly and nodded.  “No problem, Joe, I’ll get the phone…and you can say hello yourself….”

Joe smiled, leaned back and closed his eyes as he waited for Chet to dial the phone and hand it to him.  His smile only faltered briefly when he realized that Muir had gotten away.