Vin woke with a start, groaning in dismay when he squinted at the cloudy sky and realised that it was late afternoon. The long-haired peacekeeper’s head shot up, his sleep-encrusted eyes doing a rapid sweep of the immediate vicinity, even as he cursed his feckless action. He was supposed to be the one in control, a watchful guardian to his injured friend, but he’d failed in his duty. How could he have been so irresponsible?

Rising silently, and careful not to disturb the sleeping man tucked under the quilted suggan, Vin picked his way around the makeshift bed, ducking his head to avoid the woven leaf shelter still suspended above Chris. Once in the camp’s open clearing, the tracker cautiously stretched his lean frame upright to relieve the stiffness in his back, although he remained vigilant and his hand stayed close to his gun butt.

The Texan had reluctantly given in to Chris’ earlier ultimatum, accepting that his wounded friend was relying on him to keep them both from falling into Joseph’s hands for a second time. The fair-haired gunman had put forward a valid argument about the necessity of at least one of the pair being ably fit and rested enough to defend them. Ever a practical man, and knowing Chris was right in this instance, Vin had begrudgingly succumbed to the weariness battering his body. With the revolver clutched tightly in one hand and the knife in the other, the tracker had finally curled up beside his feverish companion to snatch a few hours’ much-needed sleep. He hadn’t intended to rest that long but utter exhaustion had overridden his normal wariness, and he had slept deeply for several hours.

However, now he had to be alert and on his guard and, in addition to caring for his sick friend, there were a few essential chores that had to be done before sunset. In an hour or so he would have the cover of darkness, so he could get a fire going and re-heat the remainder of the rabbit stew.

Glancing over at Chris’ still form, Vin allowed himself the luxury of a wry smile. "Damned bossy gunslinger! You always gotta have the last word or the final glare, don’t ya?" he whispered.

It never ceased to amaze Vin how easily his friend could make him do things he didn’t necessarily want to do. Not that the gunslinger’s powers of persuasion were solely limited to the tracker. People often said that Ezra had a gilded tongue, and could charm the birds from the trees, but Chris usually achieved the same results without uttering a single word. It was an annoying habit of Larabee’s, and one that Vin wished he himself possessed.

After a quick check on the horses, plus a more thorough survey of their surroundings, Vin went into the bushes to relieve his full bladder. Returning to the camp, he grabbed the two empty canteens and headed for the nearby stream. Squatting down by the small rivulet, the young Texan stopped, staring in disbelief at his haggard reflection in the water.

Vin jerked back in astonishment as the thought hit him. He couldn’t recall ever looking this filthy, not even when he’d hunted buffalo on the southern plains for months on end.

More than a week’s growth of golden brown whiskers covered his chin and upper lip, and his dirt encrusted hair was lank and straggly. With the exception of his hands, every patch of skin visible was filthy with ground in mud, and brown-black dust streaks caked his flesh in long downward lines. These physical attributes, coupled with the enervated gauntness of his strained features, made the tracker look much older than he was. Well that might be a good thing, although it didn’t stop his sudden wistful yearning to soak his grimy, sweat-coated body in a tub of hot water. Immediately dismissing that useless longing, he carried on with his task.

Clearly the time spent in Four Corners had made him soft, as the former bounty hunter had never allowed such cravings to affect him out on the trail. Living amongst decent folk had changed Vin. He’d become used to a few luxuries, and sometimes – especially after many days spent in the saddle – he hankered for the trappings that civilised life offered. Well that wasn’t strictly true. He only wanted to sample specific aspects of what the town could supply – which mainly consisted of whatever the saloon, restaurant and bathhouse provided.

"Hell, I must be goin’ loco! A bit of dirt never hurt anyone. Ezra would split his sides laughing if he knew what I was thinkin’! I’d never hear th’ end of it," Vin muttered to his mirror image in the rippling stream.

Thoughts of the fastidious gambler sobered him, and he suddenly wondered how his other friends were faring. Vin refused to think that Standish and Fiona Cummings might still be missing – or perhaps worse - after all this time. Having a steadfast belief in the abilities of his colleagues, he was convinced the five peacekeepers were together, although it was a high probability that they weren’t still in Four Corners. The other main worry eating away at him – despite his attempts to ignore it - was the whereabouts of his father. Was Will allied with Vin’s friends, and part of a collective force which at this very moment was tracking both him and Chris? Maybe. Or was there an element of truth in what Joseph had told him?

Slapping the water in angry frustration, Vin carried on with his job, trying to push away the troubled thoughts that kept nibbling at his mind. It didn’t happen very often, but the tracker’s gut instinct was at odds with his heart, and it was a disconcerting sensation.

Now that the peacekeeper had been miraculously reunited with his only surviving kinsman, he was determined to keep faith with his father, and wasn’t prepared to give up without a fight. They would prevail together, because there was no doubt they were family. Vin had come from Will’s loins, a God-given product of the love between a beautiful, sweet woman and an honourable, noble man. Or was that merely an idealistic notion derived from his fragmented childhood memories? The peacekeeper was no longer sure of anything he’d previously believed, which was why it was so important to make the trip to the Tanner homestead. He needed to find the truth about the past and confront the demons taunting him.

With a heavy sigh, Vin screwed the caps on the re-filled flasks. He was wasting energy he didn’t have on these counterproductive cogitations, so he doggedly turned his attention back to his current troubles. After quenching his thirst, he gazed at the crystal clear water and fleetingly considered stripping off to take a quick bath in the stream. No. That idea was rejected for a second time. The tracker’s current unkempt state would be an effective disguise, and could work to his advantage if he did come into contact with anyone – particularly if he crossed paths with an observant and proficient lawman while in his home State.

Still, that didn’t stop him freshening up a little. Vin’s head was pounding, and his eyes felt gritty, hot and sore so, dipping his hands into the stream once again, he splashed water onto his face. It helped relieve some of the tiredness, but the man knew it was only a temporary fix. The tracker wouldn’t get any proper rest until Chris’ fever broke. Climbing to his feet with a resigned grunt, he slung the containers over his shoulder, and made his way back to the camp.

Throwing another worried look at Larabee’s motionless and seemingly sleeping form, Vin quickly went to tend to their horses. It didn’t take long to lead the animals to the stream to drink, and returning once again to the campsite; he decided to re-tether the black and the roan in a different spot for the night.

"Here you are fellas. Fresh grass fer ya both, an’ at least y’ain’t steppin’ in yer own muck an’ mud," the Texan told Chris’ black gelding, as he affectionately slapped the horse’s neck.

"S…Sarah…. w… w… where…. you….? Sarah? Please… don’t… leave me!"

On hearing Chris’ weak, but plaintive call, Vin hurried over to his side, frowning in concern when he heard the gunman’s hoarse breathing and saw his flushed, sweat-slicked features. God, his friend was drowning in heat! Vin felt inadequate, helpless to stop the march of his friend’s malaise, and he secretly wondered how much more the other could take. Knowing he had to get some fluids into Chris, the tracker knelt down and cupped a hand behind the older man’s neck. Reaching for the canteen, he slowly tipped water into the other’s slack mouth, his own lips unknowingly mimicking Chris’ instinctive actions as the older man swallowed the liquid. A substantial amount of water dribbled down Larabee’s neck, but Vin was able to get almost a cupful into his friend. It was a victory of sorts.

Lowering his friend’s head, Vin bent over Chris and lightly ran his thumb up and down the man’s sweat-dampened cheek. The soothing contact seemed to break through the older man’s delirium, and he nuzzled into the other’s gentle touch.

"Sarah. Why…. did you… leave… me? Sar… rah? Come… home. I…. can’t go on… without… you. Come back… Sarah!" the gunslinger pleaded, his fingers scrabbling at Vin’s shirt.

The young peacekeeper captured the wayward hand, stroking and massaging the rough knuckles as he gave what comfort he could to his friend. "Shh, steady, Chris," Vin whispered, brushing damp tendrils of hair off the other’s forehead. "You ain’t on yer own. I’m here, I’ve got yer back, an’ I ain’t leavin’ ya," he drawled, in a voice raspy with emotion. Vin prayed the sick man could hear him.

Pouring cold water onto a large piece of cloth, the tracker deftly sponged the older man’s face, throat and neck. Vin had shaved him before they’d settled down to rest several hours ago, heedful of the practicalities of caring for his friend. It had been a small job worth doing, as the soft linen no longer caught and snagged on the older man’s spiky whiskers when Vin swiped it across the his skin. The Texan’s efforts with the damp cloth eventually had the desired effect, and the fretful man quietened. Chris’ body relaxed, although he hadn’t really roused from the fever-induced stupor.

The tracker once again cursed bitterly for having slept when his companion clearly required his constant attention. Vin had been a diligent nurse throughout the morning, but the older man’s temperature had obviously climbed to a dangerous level during Tanner’s few hours of stolen respite. Vin tipped fresh water onto the material, biting his lower lip worriedly when he glanced down and saw that Chris was once again restlessly thrashing around under the heavy covering. The younger man had rolled his friend onto his back, and he winced in shared sympathy for the additional pain those fitful movements must be causing the gunslinger’s flayed skin.

"Sarah? Why did… you go? Sarah… I can’t… find you!" Chris mumbled again.

Larabee was twisting around, his long legs kicking at the quilt as his hands reached out to grasp whatever they found in their path. He was whimpering and moaning piteously, although his eyes remained stubbornly closed. The delirious gunslinger was caught in the past, calling out continuously for his deceased wife, and didn’t seem aware of his closest friend’s presence.

It was this alarming infirmity that unnerved the tracker, and he wondered what steps he could take to pull his friend from the fever-driven dementia. Vin had seen his share of men in this condition during the War Between the States, and was fairly experienced in these matters. He knew that if Chris’ high temperature didn’t abate in the next few hours, he could begin having convulsions. If push came to shove, his ultimate gambit would be to immerse the gunman in the chilly stream. But that was a risky venture in itself, as the shock could kill his enfeebled friend. It was a hiding to nothing though if he didn’t break Chris’ fever soon. The Texan simply didn’t want to contemplate the next stages of such a critical malady - a febrile man in a weakened state would quickly fall victim to coma, followed by death. Vin was acutely aware how limited his alternatives were.

"Easy there, Chris. Jes’ try an’ rest," the tracker murmured, as he briefly felt the other’s hot forehead.

The gunman’s frenetic ramblings abruptly ceased, much to Vin’s relief. Moving his hand behind his friend’s neck, he supported Chris’ head and squeezed water from the cloth onto the man’s throat. The freezing liquid and the gentle contact seemed to penetrate through the other’s feverish struggles, and the spasmodic jerking and tremors gradually lessened. He’d never been much of a talker, but the tracker kept up a rambling dialogue as he carefully swabbed the material over the man’s papery, dry skin. Vin’s raspy drawl petered out after a while, but he still worked with the cold compress, smiling elatedly when Chris shivered and let out a long, breathy sigh. The older man went completely limp as he slipped into a deeper sleep.

Pleased with this result, Tanner soaked the cloth once again. Folding the cover down to the gunslinger’s waist, Vin started to gently wash the older man’s sweaty shoulders and stomach. There wasn’t much bare flesh showing as bandages covered most of the man’s upper body, but the tracker hoped the cooling water would do the trick.

Having finished with the cloth, Vin pulled the quilt up to Chris’ chin, and then folded back the bottom corner to inspect his friend’s leg. There wasn’t any fresh blood on the bandage around the injured thigh, but it was crucial to find the source of the infection – and he needed to act fast. The gunman didn’t stir or even flinch as Vin unravelled the bandage, and that somehow scared the younger man more than if the other had writhed around in agony.

Leaning closer to Chris’ leg, the tracker studied the swollen wound for a minute or two. Putting his nose almost onto the puffy skin, Vin sniffed the ugly scar. "It doesn’t smell too bad, but somethin’ ain’t right," he mumbled to himself.

Gently placing the back of his hand against the skin, Vin could feel the heat radiating from the inflamed area. Not liking the shiny redness around the tight-looking stitches, he knew he would have to cut through some of the sutures to relieve the increasing pressure. This was a potential problem that had been preying on the tracker’s mind from the moment he’d seen to his friend’s many injuries - although he was surprised that the source of the infection was Chris’ leg, and not his ravaged back. Clicking his tongue in irritation, the man knew he had no other option. The only way to get rid of the accumulating poison was to drain the wound. Vin needed boiling water and a sterile blade for the procedure, so he would have to take a chance and get a fire going while he still had reasonably good light.

It didn’t take long to coax some life into the small bundle of kindling the tracker had prepared earlier. Having emptied the leftover stew onto their solitary plate, Vin set water to boil in the pot before rummaging through the saddlebags for the precious supply of carbolic acid. Finding the bottle, the tracker gave it a quick shake, dismayed by the hollow sloshing he heard.

"Aw, no! Dammit all to hell! When am I gonna have somethin’ go my way?"

Glancing at Chris, Tanner couldn’t stop the frustrated curse and rhetorical question coming out. Despair engulfed him, and the tracker’s shoulders slumped in defeat as he wondered what else could possibly go wrong. There was barely enough carbolic left to bathe a serious cut, let alone an infected bullet wound! There must be something else he could use. Going through the bags methodically, the tracker found a small leather pouch, its plaited cord drawstring knotted tight. Of course! He’d forgotten about the small amount of salt Chris always carried with him. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to suffice.

Carefully scooping out a good measure of salt with the knife, he dropped the precious mineral into the boiling water, and then thrust the blade into the lowest point of the flames leaving its handle balancing on a rock. Vin found the last remaining supply of bleached linen bandages in the medical kit, and he also added these to the pot to sterilise.

Thirty minutes later, the tracker was ready to start. Picking up the knife, he plunged it into the cooling water, and took up a sitting position across his friend’s ankles. Glancing at Chris’ relaxed features, the Texan willed the other to remain unconscious, aware that he might not be able to handle Chris if the man began thrashing around again. Taking a deep, calming breath, and sending a fleeting prayer to whatever deity was listening, Vin carefully sliced through the first tight suture.

-7-7-7-7-7-7-7-

A lone rider, leading a spare mount, entered the town of Grendon as the timorous sun of the early spring day was sinking below the distant mountain range. It would be approaching dinnertime for the majority of families and the God-fearing townsfolk, so there were very few people on the wheel-rutted streets. But judging by the raucous laughter and the jangling music coming from a piano, the town’s only saloon was already open for business and doing a lively trade. Licking his dry lips in anticipation of a generous serving of gut-warmer, the travel-weary man continued to make his way through the town. Although he sat in a relaxed slouch in his saddle, the new arrival was alert for any sign of danger, and his keen, blue gaze missed nothing as he went down the main thoroughfare.

Grendon was similar to hundreds of towns dotted throughout the western frontier. The local ranchers and farmers scratched out a meagre living from the land, and the town’s civilians symbiotic fortunes waxed and waned in tandem with those few landowners who remained in the area. It was doubtful whether the place would still be in existence in twenty years time, as the railroad had bypassed the area completely, and fewer cattle drives were journeying from Southern Texas. The place had a sad air about it, one of apathy, dereliction, but a philosophical acceptance of its eventual decline. The halcyon days, when the discovery of tin in the surrounding hills had brought flocks of settlers, had ended once the rich veins of ore had dried up. It was the end of an era for the few residents who remained in this small township that was inexorably dying.

However, little had changed in the town since the traveller’s last visit, and most of the business premises were exactly as he remembered them. The uninspiring, ill-stocked stores still traded, although they clearly struggled to make a profit, and the bank had long since closed its metal shutters. The lone saloon still bore the same chivalric name on a weather-beaten board above the doors, although it was likely the ownership had changed hands many times during the stranger’s absence.

The tawdry-looking ‘A Hero’s Heart’ saloon – a misnomer if ever there was one – was showing its age and continuous use. Several of its windows were fully boarded, whilst the swing doors bore numerous bullet holes; a visual marker to the many gunfights and shooting contests the place had witnessed over the years. Decades of old paint clung tenaciously to the rotting timber frame, and the well frequented building was probably only standing upright because of its close proximity to the adjacent structures. Although, in reality, the undertaker’s office on one side and Grendon’s solitary hotel on the other looked just as rickety as the unkempt saloon sandwiched between them. As the blond, middle-aged man rode past, he swore that the same tatty curtains he recalled from his previous stay, were still hanging at the windows of the dilapidated hotel.

Puffing out a loud snort of disgust, Will Tanner headed towards the livery stable. Once he’d cared for his two lathered horses, he planned to go to the saloon. The additional mare he led singled him out like a blazing beacon, and he couldn’t afford to be that obtrusive, especially when travelling in this particular area. There was bound to be a rancher or landowner in the bar on this Saturday night. He needed to find someone who would be willing to swap the stolen thoroughbred for a less conspicuous animal, without asking questions about how he came by such a rare and valuable horse.

Following his impromptu departure from Robert Cummings ranch, the erstwhile security boss had ridden hard for several hours, before arriving at an unused Wells Fargo stopover cabin. Tanner’s injuries from his encounter with Joseph weren’t too severe and, once he’d crammed in more than ten hours’ sleep, the blond man was on the trail to Grendon. He’d continued his journey at breakneck speed, so he was fairly confident he’d arrived at his family’s home territory ahead of his mortal enemy.

It felt strange to be back in the town that held so many memories for him – both good and bad – but he doggedly thrust away the spectres that came to the surface. Tanner couldn’t afford to wallow in the past. Once he’d eaten, rested and made the exchange of mounts, he would re-stock his supplies and augment his supply of armaments. That was a vital exercise if he was going up against the wily, ruthless outlaw, for he knew his old comrade-in-arms would not give in without a battle – and the ultimate reward was high enough to ensure the fight was to the death. There was one important consideration that gave Tanner a morsel of comfort; his one-time partner believed him dead, so that must give the blond the advantage.

In the morning he would push on, and ride into the hills to await his quarry. The Texan had many personal scores to settle with Samuel Joseph, a fortune in gold to find and an innocent life to save. Rescuing Vin from Joseph’s murderous hands, would eradicate the memory of past sins from Tanner’s soul, make amends and wash away the accumulated guilt of previous misdeeds.

If the Fates were kind, the former security boss would have the money to make his dreams a reality, plus he’d have his sole heir with him to share the wealth and the good life it could provide. It was possible that even the outstanding warrant on Vin’s head could be taken care of – money was a universal language, and a corrupt lawmen or judge in Tascosa might be willing to annul the charge or grant a pardon, if the bribe was large enough. The smell of gold often turned the heads of even the most honest men. But first Tanner had to dispose of Joseph, along with any other cohorts the man may have engaged to help him. That was an undertaking he was most definitely looking forward to carrying out.

-7-7-7-7-7-7-7-

Streaks of gold, orange and purple danced across the eastern sky, ushering in the new day. The rising sun hadn’t yet graced the world with her full presence, but it was fairly light considering the time of year. Vin had been dozing lightly in the bed, but the life-long custom of rising early never left him – regardless of how tired he was - and his internal body clock had kicked in as usual. The cacophony of the dawn chorus could be heard all around him and, as the weary man sat up, he allowed a ghost of a smile to curve his lips at the normality of hearing the birds’ chattering calls.

Fortunately, there had been no rainfall during the night, but the pre-dawn air had a cold dampness to it, a tart reminder that the outgoing winter season hadn’t entirely passed. Wriggling out from beneath the heavy quilt, the tracker shivered uncontrollably as the change in temperature registered on his sleep-deprived body.

A sudden bout of sneezing took Vin by surprise, and his hand groped out blindly for the washcloth next to Chris’ head. He wiped his streaming eyes and blew his nose, but this triggered a paroxysm of coughing, which caused his chest to contract in an ever-tightening ache. His head felt like it was stuffed with wadding, the pressure making his cheeks, ears and neck hurt, whilst his throat felt like he’d swallowed a broken glass bottle. Vin had suffered colds, general illnesses and winter fevers aplenty throughout his short life – he’d also had influenza followed by pneumonia during his late teens - so he recognised these early symptoms. He was coming down with a chill on top of everything else. Well, he didn’t have time to worry about his own fitness; he needed to stay strong for Chris’ sake. After swallowing a few mouthfuls of water, he clambered to his feet, pulling his jacket tighter and slapping his arms around his midriff to try and warm up.

Tugging his hat further down his neck for any extra crumb of warmth, the peacekeeper luxuriated in a wide, jaw-cracking yawn. He wiped away the moisture from his red-rimmed eyes and wondered vaguely whether he’d be able to grab a short nap later. Not that he regretted for one moment the slumber he’d lost, as the Texan had got the result he’d been praying for. Vin smiled in satisfaction when he peered at his still sleeping companion. Chris’ face looked peaceful and relaxed, his breathing quiet and even. But more importantly, the injured man’s skin was a healthy colour and completely free of perspiration.

The singularly determined peacekeeper had waged a relentless battle throughout the last two days and nights to break the fever that held Chris in its grip. It had been a long, lonely and stress-filled fight, but eventually, in the early hours of that morning, Vin had won the desperate tussle. The wounded gunslinger had woken briefly not more than three hours ago and, to his younger friend’s delight, had been remarkably lucid and aware of his surroundings. The infirm man had downed a substantial amount of water – much to the tracker’s relief - before falling into a deep, healing sleep.

With one less thing to worry about, Vin needed to consider their next move. Chris was still quite weak and far from well, but now his fever had broken the pair might be in a position to continue their journey to Grendon. The ride would be difficult for both men – particularly Larabee - and fraught with danger, but while they were mobile they stood a better chance of staying one jump ahead of Joseph. Three days had passed since they had gained their freedom, but Vin knew they were sitting ducks where they were presently camped. Without adequate armament, they wouldn’t stand a chance if cornered on this densely wooded hillock.

Climbing to his feet, Vin walked over to the small fire and removed the coffeepot containing the remnants of the stew, before kicking dirt onto the dying embers. A sudden loud whinny from Chris’ black gelding made the tracker whirl around, all lethargy and sleepiness gone as he looked for any sign of danger. Hastily pulling the revolver from his belt, he took a step back towards his slumbering friend as his keen gaze did a thorough search of their camp and the perimeter beyond.

Tanner couldn’t see or hear anything to alarm him, but something had disturbed and frightened the horse. Glancing at the two geldings, he frowned when he saw the ears on both animals were flattened, and they had started to fidget, snort and nervously stamp their feet.

Gliding swiftly, but cautiously, over to the agitated animals, the Texan slipped his forefinger through the gun’s trigger guard, and grabbed the bridle on Chris’ mount.

"Whoa, boy! Take it easy, fella. What can you see, huh? Or can you smell somethin’?"

The tracker carried on with the quiet, soothing dialogue, hoping to settle the scared horses, although he continued his wary surveillance of the area and kept the revolver in his hand. Whoever, or whatever, was out there would have to come to him. Vin couldn’t, and wouldn’t, leave the incapacitated gunman in such a vulnerable position.

Releasing the gelding’s bridle, Vin sidled back to where Chris lay, not liking the eerie silence that had descended on the wooded environs. When the birds ceased their incessant chirping, that generally only meant one thing. Danger. So the possible threat might not be from a human foe.

A rustle of leaves and snapping of branches made Vin spin to the right, and a huge grizzly bear – the largest male specimen the peacekeeper had ever seen - suddenly crashed out of the thick undergrowth. The beast was surprisingly fast on its four legs, and hunger following its long hibernation had given it additional impetus. It lumbered towards the picketed, and now desperately struggling, horses. As it reached the nearest mount – which happened to be Joseph’s roan – the bear snarled angrily, rearing upright on its hind legs. This move was intended to cower and transfix the bear’s victim, and it worked like a dream.

The boar’s standing height was more than eight feet, and it towered above the trembling horse, growling the entire time. The grizzly’s large front paw suddenly swiped out connecting with the terrified roan’s neck, and the gelding squealed in pain as its attacker’s razor sharp claws raked into flesh. A hot jet of blood spurted from a ruptured artery and, picking up the strong scent, the bear grunted and barked in excited anticipation of its meal.

Taking up a defensive stance in front of the prone gunslinger, Vin sighted along the revolver’s barrel and waited for the opportunity to shoot. A forty-five bullet from a handgun fired into the body wouldn’t necessarily stop the blood-maddened animal in its tracks, so he had to hit the bear’s head or throat. There was no room for any mistakes either; the peacekeeper only had two rounds left in the gun’s chamber.

The mortally injured gelding’s screams filled the air, intermingling with the frightened snorts and stamping from Chris’ black, as it too tried to break away from the fearsome creature. Sweat trickled down the tracker’s face, and he firmly blocked out the pain-filled whinnies of the unfortunate roan, knowing he couldn’t be distracted from making an accurate shot. As the bear threw itself bodily into the bleeding and panicked gelding, the horse went down on its front knees, and its hind legs splayed out behind him at an impossible angle.

In that instant, Vin had the opening he needed. The initial shot blasted out, causing Larabee’s horse to renew its wild bucking and neighing. But the tracker only had eyes for the teetering body of the grizzly, which was now facing and dwarfing the armed peacekeeper. With no thought for his own safety, Vin darted forward. He coolly aimed the gun again, putting a second bullet through the beast’s head at close range.

Blood, bone and pieces of brain matter burst out the back of the bear’s skull. With an earth shaking thump, the beast fell to the ground, sprawling on its back close to the feebly struggling roan.

Vin sidestepped nimbly, puffing out a relieved sigh. The man momentarily dropped his chin on his chest, and muttered a fervent ‘thank, God!’ as he thrust the empty revolver into his belt. It had been a close call, but the tracker knew that his troubles were far from over. With the exception of the knife, the peacekeepers were now completely unarmed and, from the look of the fallen horse, the men were also down to one mount between them.

"Vin? What the… fuck… happened?"

Chris’ croaky voice dragged the tracker out of his reverie. The gunslinger had been startled from a deep, dreamless sleep by the first blast of gunfire. However, he’d quickly recovered his wits and, on seeing the huge bear rear up against Tanner, he’d wisely kept still and quiet as his friend dealt with the furry intruder. His lack of mobility hadn’t stopped his defensive instincts coming to the fore though – Chris clutched the knife in his right hand beneath the quilt, and he threw the other man a sheepish grin as he slowly drew it out.

"That li’l toothpick wouldn’t have helped you much," Vin snorted, when he spotted the knife. "A bullet’s the only way t’stop a hungry grizzly when he’s wrasslin’ a hoss."

Chris didn’t reply as he shifted into a sitting position in the makeshift bed. Now he was fully upright he could see precisely what had occurred. His jaw dropped open and he stared in utter disbelief at the mangled state of the bear’s skull, shaking his head mutely when he noticed the amount of blood pooling in the churned up earth by the mauled roan. It didn’t take much to figure out what had taken place before Vin had shot the bear. There must have been one hell of a fight between the horse and grizzly, but Larabee couldn’t comprehend why the noise of the fracas hadn’t roused him from sleep. Surely he wasn’t that badly off, was he?

"Shit! Even Nature’s got it in for us! Why the hell didn’t you wake me, Vin?" he eventually asked.

"I figured the gunshot ‘ud do that," Vin drawled. "An’ there warn’t exactly a heap of time t’do much other than shoot the darn critter!"

"Are you all right? It didn’t catch you did it, pard?"

"Nope. I cain’t say the same fer m’horse though," Vin replied bleakly, jerking a thumb at the hapless gelding.

"We out of soldiers now?"

"What d’ya think, Larabee!" the tracker snapped in response to the other’s quiet enquiry about their bullet supply.

"I’ll take that as a yes," Chris murmured dryly, sensing the underlying despair in his young friend.

Both men knew what he had to be done now, but it wasn’t a pleasant thought. This particular venture was hard enough to do in the first instance, but was even more difficult without a gun. Holding up the knife, the gunslinger’s hazel eyes snared Vin’s. "Do you want me to do it?"

The tracker shook his head, as he took the knife. "Nope. I’ll see to yer horse first, and then…"

Letting the comment trail off, Vin thrust the blade through his belt and strode over to Chris’ gelding. It took him a few minutes to calm the frightened horse, but finally the agitated animal ceased its crazed struggles. After securing the still trembling black to a tree well away from the scene of carnage, the tracker returned to the blood-soaked area. Pulling the knife from his belt, he gazed compassionately at the stricken roan. The young Texan had a westerner’s love for horses and, glancing at his sombre-faced friend, he resolutely swallowed back the hot bile that threatened to rise from his fluttering belly.

The dying horse emitted a gurgling, mournful whinny as Vin slowly approached it. Knowing it was within his power to end the animal’s suffering both swiftly and humanely, the peacekeeper squared his shoulders and braced for the gruesome deed. Crouching down and taking a deep breath, the tracker closed his eyes fleetingly as he accurately sliced the sharp blade across the main artery in the horse’s neck.

The long slash was deep and true, and a hot stream of blood sprayed upwards, steaming as it hit the cool air. The metallic smell of blood and gore ravaged Vin’s nostrils, and his innards cramped painfully, before doing several nauseous flip-flops. Hastily wiping the blade on the roan’s coat, the young man stumbled away from the sickening tableau. Grabbing hold of a moss covered tree trunk, Vin leaned his badly shaking body against the rough surface as he lost what little there was in his stomach. The violent retching and heaving finally ceased, but the corrosive bile had burned his raw throat and he coughed and wheezed, hunching up like an old man. Eventually the agonising spasms passed, and he was able to breathe normally again. Dragging his sleeve across his mouth, the tracker paused for a few moments to weigh up his options.

The first thing Vin had to do was break camp. Despite the earliness of the day and Chris’ condition, he was left with no alternative now. All the choices had been snatched away from the young peacekeeper. With two carcasses in the immediate vicinity, it would be too dangerous to remain in such close proximity to the dead animals. Other carnivorous predators would quickly follow the scent to a free meal, and the arrival of Mother Nature’s most basic of scavengers – vultures – would also give any nearby human hunters their precise position. If Vin had learned anything from Samuel Joseph, it was that the Texan outlaw had a multitude of tracking skills, comparable to the peacekeeper’s own outdoor talents. The knowledgeable and range-wise older man would investigate all abnormal signs and habitation markers. Therefore, the tracker needed to get him and Chris on the trail as quickly as possible.

A travois for the wounded man was out of the question, as speed was of the essence. Besides, the terrain was far too rocky, and Vin simply didn’t have the time available to construct one. So they would have to double up on Chris’ horse. But with Larabee’s severe leg injury, how was Vin going to get his friend onto the gelding? The younger man continued to dwell on the problem, until his racing thoughts were interrupted by a soft, sympathetic voice.

"You’re not alone in this, Vin, and I’m not completely helpless either."

Spitting out saliva to try and get rid of the taste of vomit, Vin skirted around the dead horse and the bear, and came back to where his friend was sitting. "Do you reckon ya can get up on yer horse then?" he wanted to know.

"I think so. Are we both riding?"

The fact that the older man made the question sound like a directive wasn’t lost on Vin. "I don’t know that we have a choice," the Texan sighed. "He’s bin well rested and fed since we escaped, so if we take frequent breaks, an’ don’t push him too hard, he should be able t’carry us both fer awhile. But it’ll be a slow going."

Chris nodded briefly. His heart clenched with empathy, when he heard the gruffness in his friend’s tired voice, and he stared critically at the younger man for a moment or two. There was no other way of describing it - the Texan looked awful. The bright, lively, quirkily tenacious man he knew had gone, and in its place was a weary, ill-looking and drained apparition who wore Vin Tanner’s clothes. It was frightening for Chris to acknowledge this transformation, particularly as it had happened over such a short period. Nor would things improve until they’d shaken off Joseph, or they were safely ensconced back in Four Corners.

The tracker hadn’t fully recovered from the operation to remove his appendix, and the gunslinger knew the other was reaching the limit of his physical endurance. The older man was under no illusion of how selflessly Vin had been caring for him – at the expense of his own well being – for the past few days, and guilt began to worm its invidious way into Larabee’s mind and heart. Vin was depressed, morose, and was suffering on many different levels. But there was nothing Chris could do to alter this. It wasn’t his fault he’d been whipped and shot, but it still felt like he’d let his closest friend down, had added to his friend’s difficulties. With an anguished sigh, the gunslinger picked up the water canteen, and offered it to the other.

"Here, drink," Chris commanded in his firmest ‘don’t fuck with me, because you’ll only lose’ tone. "You saddle him, and I’ll make it up there. But first take a minute’s rest to catch your breath."

Vin took a swift gulp of water, rinsing his mouth before spitting it out again. Then he took a long steady drink, thankful that the liquid seemed to be staying put in his unsettled stomach. Handing the canteen to Chris, he squatted down and placed the still warm stew in front of his friend. "The spoon’s in the pot, so get some grub down ya. Once we hit the trail, apart from resting yer horse, I don’t reckon we’ll be stopping afore nightfall."

The fair-haired peacekeeper peered into the vessel. "There’s plenty here for two. I’ll eat when you do."

"Don’t start that ag’in, Lar’bee, ‘cause I ain’t in the mood. Yer the one who ain’t filled his belly fer a few days…. an’ ‘sides, I’s not hungry right now." Vin’s eyes were drawn like magnets to the dead horse, and he sighed heavily.

The older man nodded mutely in resigned acceptance. After swallowing some more water, Chris started to eat the stew. He didn’t really have much of an appetite himself, but the gunslinger wasn’t going to add to his young friend’s burdens, and he kept a watchful eye on his companion. Out of habit, Vin was removing all signs of their fire, stacking the cooling rocks methodically on the bare earth in a pattern he always used. Every now and then the tracker paused, and glanced across at the gelding’s corpse. Chris understood how his animal-loving friend felt, and it tore the gunman up to see the other man looking so forlorn and despondent.

"I know you hated… doing that, Vin," the older man said around a mouthful of food, "but I’m just grateful it’s not you laying there in a river of blood. Rather the horse than either one of us."

Vin coughed and cleared his throat, as if he was ashamed by his reaction to destroying the fatally injured horse. "Yeah, I know," he replied at length.

The older man searched his friend’s weary, pinched features, not liking what he saw. "Mebbe I should find a town, wire Buck to send some extra money so’s we can head on ho…"

"I’m gonna finish what I started, Chris," Vin cut in. "This is worse than the murder charge hanging over m’head. The uncertainty… the questions… all this not knowing ‘bout m’family is eatin’ me up inside. I’m closest I’s ever bin t’home, so I cain’t stop now."

Vin paused, but his eyes never left the other man’s, although Chris said nothing. "You… you don’t have t’go on wit’ me," the tracker said, when it became apparent the gunslinger was waiting for him to speak. "I could get you to a fair-sized town, make sure yer leg’s seen by a real doctor, an’ contact the fellas. Once I’ve done that and got directions to Grendon, I can pick up another horse an’ head fer m’grandpa’s cabin."

The older man shook his head forcefully. "Ain’t gonna be happening, pard. I said it before and the same still goes. We ride together, or not at all. Not only that, once I’m back on my feet, I’ve got a score to settle with Joseph. That sadistic bastard’s mine."

Vin nodded gratefully and extended his right arm to Chris. Words had no place in their relationship when they clasped hands like that.

"Yer in a line behind me! It’s bin a while since I’ve used the tricks the Kiowa taught me, an’ I’m gonna enjoy givin’ Joseph some Injun-style pain afore he dies," Tanner stated grimly.

"I look forward to watching that," the gunman murmured, his voice glacial.

Vin nodded, and then shook his head to dispel the entertaining and very satisfying notion of taking out his enemy. Stooping down, he picked up Larabee’s saddle. "We need to get outta here as soon as we can, so I’d best get organised. Chris, yer pants ain’t lookin’ their best, but there ain’t another pair in our stuff. All I found was a spare shirt."

The other man had just finished rinsing the coffeepot of the remnants of food after eating his fill, and he nodded distractedly at the tracker. Chris lifted the quilt, smiling thinly when he saw the sorry state of his pants leg – nearly - covering the wounded thigh. "Yep, these pants are what you might call well ventilated! They were almost new as well," the gunslinger chuckled ruefully, hoping he could lift his friend’s spirits.

It didn’t work. Vin remained silent, scrubbing at his face wearily before walking away from the older man. He suddenly stopped, clutching his midriff, and rubbing his stomach carefully when he started to cough and splutter again. The tracker knew Chris was worried on his behalf, but he ignored the heavy sigh his friend let out, and once he’d got his breathing under control he made his way over to the horse.

Stretching his hand out to get his saddlebag, Chris silently watched as Vin readied the black gelding. His concern for his friend’s health was increasing by the minute, especially as the younger man appeared to be developing a hacking cough. But it wasn’t just Vin’s physical state that alarmed Chris. He was also worried about the emotional trauma that was affecting the Texan, and once again he found himself cursing Will Tanner. It was this uncertainty about his father that was affecting Vin the most. Even from a distance, the gunslinger could see the tension in the tracker’s stance, but knew better than to try and get the other talking about what was really tormenting him. Hopefully there would be time for that later. Finding the fresh shirt in his bag, the peacekeeper carefully shrugged on the garment, wincing and hissing a little as he manoeuvred his arms into the sleeves and eased the material over his bandaged torso.

Vin had finished with the horse and came back to gather the remainder of their supplies. "Was gonna help ya wit’ that," he told the injured man.

Chris gazed at his friend while he fastened the shirt’s buttons, jutting his chin at the few belongings on the ground. "I could say the same to you."

Vin shrugged. "I’m thinkin’ you need to save yer strength fer climbing onto the horse. Are you ready to do this?" the younger man enquired, as he tugged on the straps of the saddlebag.

"As ready as I’ll ever be I suppose."

The thick suggan, along with the saddle blanket from the roan, had already been bound up with string into a tight, long roll and would be balanced on the horse’s withers. The pair would need the coverings. Apart from the thin blanket beneath the black’s saddle, they had no other protection from the elements and neither man was hardy enough to endure the freezing nights of early spring. Their few other possessions had been crammed into Chris’ bag, and the tracker had left the dead horse’s saddle under a bushy mesquite tree.

Vin led the gelding over to where Chris sat on a large rock, and began loading their gear onto the horse. "Reckon, it’ll be easier if you sit behind me," he grunted to the other.

Chris nodded, and then prepared to get to his feet. Placing his hands on the hard surface for leverage, he pushed himself upwards, carefully balancing his weight on his good leg. The gunslinger panted heavily, biting back a groan as his shoulders and back protested the action, although his injured thigh seemed to be holding up to the movement. Once he’d got his breath back and his heart had stopped its rapid thumping, Chris beckoned his friend closer. There was something he needed to take care of before he climbed onto the horse, as he had no intention of dismounting again until they made their next camp.

"Vin… I need your help. I must take a leak before we go," the gunman declared.

"Oh…. right… umm… yep. Do you want… help… to stand… or…or…should I…?"

"I’m not asking you to hold it for me!" Chris snorted, letting out a short laugh. "Just support me to make sure I don’t fall. I’d hate to end up face down in my own piss!"

"’Kay," the Texan mumbled, his face suddenly awash with heat.

Vin hastened to the gunslinger’s side and held onto the injured man as the other fumbled with his pant’s fly. The tracker turned his head away in embarrassment while Chris relieved himself, although the older man was totally unfazed at urinating in plain view of his friend. After he’d finished his business, and with the younger man still supporting the majority of his weight, Chris part hopped, partly shuffled, to the patiently waiting gelding.

The pair couldn’t say how they actually managed it, but finally – after a lot of puffing, a few groans and barely suppressed cries from Larabee – the older man was perched forward of the horse’s rump.

Vin mounted and got settled in the saddle, grinning briefly when he felt Chris’ arms lace around his waist. "You doin’ all right?" he asked, turning his head slightly.

Chris leaned closer into the younger man’s back, paying no heed to the sweat that trickled down his face. He felt shaky and light-headed, but was determined to hide his weakness from his partner. "Not too bad," he murmured.

As the tracker nudged the black forward, the injured peacekeeper gritted his teeth when the motion re-kindled the pain in his leg and shoulders.

Vin had felt his friend’s muscles tighten, could feel the corded tension in his arms, so he knew how much pain the other must be experiencing. "Yeah, right! Yer a God-awful liar, cowboy," the tracker responded at length.

"Maybe, but it’s the reply I’d get if I asked you the same question," the gunman countered.

"Hmm, probably is. Stubborn bastards, ain’t we?"

"You only just figured that out?"

"Hell, no! I knew what kind of man you were when I first saw ya ‘cross that street. I reckon it was the way you clenched yer teeth ‘round that cheroot you was smokin’, like the thing had had the nerve t’make ya uppity or somethin’. I knew right there an’ then that we were birds of a feather."

"So did I. Birds of a feather, huh? Not just any old bird either, pard. We’re a pair of hawks, or eagles, and when we’re threatened, we fight to the death," the older peacekeeper stated.

"Yep."

There was a determined finality in that one word from Vin, which gave Chris some shred of comfort and hope. As the gelding begin to pick its way down a fairly steep decline, Larabee’s body tipped forward naturally. Resting his head against Vin’s shoulder blade, the gunslinger closed his eyes as he contemplated his comradeship with this man he trusted above all others. Josiah Sanchez sentimentally referred to them as ‘Brothers of the Soul’, and even Chris had to admit it was a pertinent analogy of their close relationship.

Disillusioned gunfighter and ex-bounty hunter had met by accident, but Fate and Destiny had taken power, and enjoined two fractured halves to make a whole. They had come together to make a stand, to heroically uphold a sentiment that had saved a worthy life. That initial meeting seemed a long time ago, but Chris had no regrets about the direction his life had taken after throwing in his lot with the young Texan and rescuing Nathan from a lynch mob. The two men were indisputably linked, fused almost, and neither questioned the connection that was stronger than a bond between actual blood brothers.

In addition, the respect and friendship the gunman derived from his association with the other five peacekeepers, made the bereaved widower feel like he’d been given another chance at life. This strong union had allowed Larabee to forget the horrors from his past, so he’d be damned if he’d lose all that he’d gained now. Samuel Joseph had tried to take that from both him and Vin, but he wouldn’t sit back and allow the man to get away with his crimes. He regretted not putting a bullet in Joseph’s head when he’d had the opportunity, but that was something Chris would rectify. The wily bandit was already a walking dead man in the gunslinger’s mind.

Vin smiled as he felt Chris slowly relax against him. He hoped the other would be able to sleep for some of their journey. The tracker knew the ride would be arduous on the wounded man, and sap what little strength he’d regained after fighting the fever. Vin hadn’t mentioned it to Chris, but he was desperate to reach civilisation – regardless of the risk to his personal freedom. The peacekeepers needed to hole up somewhere safe, with food and medical supplies close to hand, and put together a proper plan whilst licking their wounds. Vin sighed contentedly as he thought about retaliation. Once he and Chris had recovered from their recent hardships, the brutal outlaw from his family’s past would feel the full might of the vengeful duo.

There was no doubt in Vin’s mind about where Joseph would go. The older Texan was driven by greed and the thought of finding the missing gold, so all roads led to Grendon. But he’d made the biggest mistake of his miserable life by attacking Vin Tanner and Chris Larabee, and there was a costly penalty for this error. Joseph had messed with the wrong pair.

-7-7-7-7-7-7-7-

Several dark specks in the cloudy sky caught Jeb Randall’s attention, and he pulled his horse to a stop. The man was silent as he watched the distant birds slowly wheeling downwards, in ever-decreasing circles. Vultures were gathering to feast, and that could mean only one thing. Death hung in the air.

"Hey, Ian," Randall called to his partner, who was bringing up the rear. "Do you see that?"

The other rider had also come to a halt, and he stared in the direction his partner indicated. "That’s a whole slew of carrion birds, more than you’d expect t’see for a small animal. D’ya reckon we should check it out?"

"Yes, you moron! Unless you want to be the one to tell Mister Joseph we saw signs and ignored ‘em!" Randall spat out caustically.

"How far away are they, d’ya think?"

"Three miles, mebbe four. There’s a small range of hills below those birds, which ‘ud make a good hiding place. Don’t forget what the boss said yesterday. We found that trail of blood when they got away, so one of them might have been hit. Perhaps we’ll find us a half-eaten body. C’mon, we’d best catch up with that Benson fella, an’ let ‘im know what we’ve seen."

"If we turn up with Tanner’s or Larabee’s corpse, I wonder whether we’ll still get that five hundred bonus we were promised," Martin shouted to his friend, as he kicked his horse into a canter and followed the other man.

"I doubt it. The man wants ‘em both alive. C’mon Ian, get yer pet-makers working fer fuck’s sake! I’d like to sleep in a real bed tonight, and eat some decent grub," the burlier of the pair bellowed behind him.

Randall and Martin had had their fill of rough living on the trail. They’d covered a lot of ground during their unsupervised search for the elusive peacekeepers, riding in a grid pattern spanning an area of approximately twenty square miles. The pair had not had any luck though, as every fresh sign of horse tracks they’d followed had turned out to be a dead end.

The previous day, the young owl hoots had made the pre-arranged rendezvous with their leader, but were surprised when Joseph arrived with three men they’d not met before. No explanations were made to Randall and Martin and, wary of the Texan’s temper, the two men didn’t question this new development. After being told to join forces with one of the strangers – introduced as Tom Benson – they’d continued looking for their quarry on this third day of their hunt. The two separate groups had spread out in a parallel course and direction, with several miles between them, although they’d worked out a series of signals – six rifle shots to be fired in quick succession – if either party found their missing prisoners.

Joseph was riding with the other two workers begrudgingly provided by Ella Gaines. The extra help would make things easier for the Texan outlaw and his cohorts, but it rankled that he’d had to request assistance from his female partner.

The men from Gaines’ ranch were middle-aged, battle-seasoned veterans of the Confederate Army, and neither hand was a slouch with a revolver, rifle or knife. Obviously money wasn’t an issue for the woman, as she clearly believed in hiring the best available, and both men looked the type you would want at your back if it came to a fight. There had been little conversation between the three men, until they’d spotted the massing vultures on the horizon. After a brief discussion, the party had increased their speed to check out this telling sign.

The outlaw guessed Larabee’s injuries from the flogging would slow the pair down, so he was convinced they were still in the area. Also, he was certain that Tanner would make for his family’s homestead, which was the reasoning behind Joseph ordering his companions to head eastwards prior to them splitting up into two teams. Vin would assume the outlaw was making for Grendon too, but what the young peacekeeper didn’t know was that Ella Gaines’ property was lying roughly in the same direction. If the Fates were kind to Joseph, he and his men might be able to herd his prey into the woman’s ‘welcoming’ embrace. ‘Like a pair of spiders being kissed by a Black Widow,’ the stocky outlaw thought to himself.

The sudden crack of gunfire brought the three riders to a standstill, and Joseph hastily pulled a brass-cased spyglass from his jacket pocket. He said nothing as he surveyed the territory ahead, concentrating on the area where the flock of vultures were now dipping and flying around in confusion.

"I can’t see anythin’, but mebbe my two boys and Benson have found…"

Another volley of shots – six in total - echoed loudly around the hills, cutting off the outlaw’s explanation to his companions. Snapping his lens closed and shoving it away again, the Texan urged his horse forward.

"That’s our marker! It sounds close too, so I think we’re in business, fellas," Joseph crowed, as the other men galloped beside him. "I didn’t expect to find those bastards this early in the day. I’ll wager ya’ll be nicely tucked up wit’ some whiskey and a lively game of poker in yer bunkhouse before sundown."

This was the break he’d been waiting for, and the idea of getting back on the road to Grendon, with Tanner once again under his control, spurred Joseph on even faster. He was looking forward to renewing his acquaintance with the peacekeepers, and he owed the arrogant gunslinger for what he’d done when the pair had escaped. The outlaw was relishing the idea of beating Larabee into submission, and he would add to the man’s misery by doing it in front of the young tracker. After all, he hadn’t said what state the older peacekeeper would be in when he did eventually deliver him to Ella Gaines.

-7-7-7-7-7-7-7-

As the two peacekeepers crossed an open, grassy plain, a chilly wind whipped around Vin’s head, which brought tears to his eyes. He felt exposed, denuded, vulnerable, on this fairly long stretch of featureless land, so he clicked his tongue in encouragement to the horse, urging the black on at a faster pace. It was a chancy move pushing the already leg-weary animal on harder, but there was another wooded area straight ahead, which would give them the camouflage they needed. Small copses were dotted around the otherwise barren hills in front of them and, whilst traversing up and down the undulating terrain to seek shelter was more draining on Chris’ gelding, it was a safer option for the men.

The wind was strengthening and it was getting colder by the minute, which was an omen of wet weather at this month of the year. Vin shivered again as another icy blast stippled his face, and he hunched down lower in the saddle. It was only the front of him that was feeling the cold at present, an unexpected by-product of having to ride double. With Chris clinging tightly to Vin’s back, the closely pressed body gave the Texan some additional warmth and an element of protection from the gusting, spring breezes.

The gunslinger had dozed off and on for nearly five hours as the pair took flight from their hideout in the hills, but it was approaching noon, and Chris was now starting to rouse. Vin had heard his friend mumble and let out the odd groan over the last few minutes, and could feel Larabee squirming against him as he either tried to get comfortable or adjusted his position on the horse’s rump.

Vin coughed a couple of times, and his hand came up to gingerly rub his neck. The dry, painful stabbing in his throat had intensified throughout the morning, and his entire body ached. He tried to quell the shivers buffeting him, but knew from the way he kept having hot and cold sweats that he was also suffering from a mild fever. ‘Things jes’ keep goin’ from bad to worse,’ the tracker thought, as he took a long slurp of water from the canteen.

"You okay, Chris?" the younger man asked, when he heard his friend murmur ‘Vin’.

"Umm… yeah…. I think… so. How…. about you?" Chris mumbled haltingly.

"I’m fine. Do ya want a drink?"

"How about a beer?"

"That makes a change from whiskey," Vin grunted.

"Well if you’re buying whiskey, I’ll make do with that!"

"I’ll bet you would! Let me jes’ stop at this here saloon, an’ I’ll get th’ keep t’set one up for ya!"

Larabee deliberately ignored the sarcasm in the younger man’s witty riposte. "Only one? Some friend you are, Tanner! Don’t you Texan’s give a thirsty man a whole bottle?"

"Huh! Larabee, you got a one track mind sometimes! You’ll get yer bottle… as soon as we hit a town. Hell, I’ll be havin’ m’self a gut-warmer or six once we’s re-stocked an’ found us a safe, warm hidey-hole! But fer now, this is all I’m offerin’," Vin replied, as he passed the canteen over his shoulder to the gunman.

Chris took the flask and popped off the cap. "Miserly, skinflint, Reb sonofabitch," he muttered around the vessel’s spout.

"I heard that! You want t’be grateful this orn’ry sonofabitch let ya sleep."

"I’m more than grateful, pard. How far have we travelled?"

"’Bout ten miles or so, which ain’t as far as I’d ‘ave liked," Vin said, after a brief silence. "I ain’t seen hide or hair of anyone though, so mebbe things are looking up fer us."

Chris took a final gulp of water, and then handed the container back to Vin. The men were quiet as the gelding loped through the long grass, although both peacekeepers were constantly on the lookout for danger. The gunslinger wriggled forward to get a more secure position on the horse, and his breath hitched slightly as the movement caused his leg and back to throb mercilessly. Chris stiffened, and unconsciously tightened his grip around Vin’s slender waist.

"Yer getting kinda friendly back there," the tracker remarked.

"Don’t… worry, Tanner… you’re… not my type," Chris managed to get out through clenched teeth.

"Glad t’hear that. ‘Funny’ cowboys are more Buck’s thing, ain’t they?"

The hot, pulsating pain had diminished somewhat, and Chris relaxed against the other man’s body as Vin spoke. "Not by design," the injured peacekeeper replied. "But then sometimes even Wilmington struggles to find a friendly woman!"

Vin shuddered slightly, twisting his head around a little although he couldn’t make eye contact with the older man. "I’m tired, Chris, not stupid! Buck’s drawn into a woman’s arms like lice are to a mattress!"

Chris smiled, and rested his chin on the tracker’s shoulder. "Yep, there’s no denying that. But as they say, Vin - any port in a storm," the older man whispered in the other’s ear.

"Hmm. Are you talkin’ from experience?"

"Perhaps."

Vin grinned at the softly, seductive tone as his friend strung out that one word. He knew Chris was teasing him, and was willing to play this amusing game to its conclusion. "Now you really are worryin’ me, Larabee!" he growled.

"Quit panicking! I’m not that desperate."

"Why – what’s wrong wit’ me? Don’t you reckon I’d give ya a good time?"

Vin’s wickedly skewed sense of humour, along with his eager curiosity, got the better of him. He couldn’t resist needling his companion, and the loaded questions came out before the tracker could stop them.

"Well you probably would… if only to prove a point. But to be honest, Vin, I prefer getting cosy with someone who smells sweeter than the backhouse of a busy saloon in a trail-end town!"

"Are you sayin’ I stink?"

"That’s one word for it."

"Huh! There jes’ ain’t no pleasin’ some folk."

"Like you’d worry about pleasing me!" Chris exclaimed.

Vin made no reply as he concentrated on guiding the horse through the thick, coarse grass, although Chris could feel his companion shaking with mirth. Larabee smiled broadly, pleased that his attempts to cheer his friend had finally got a result. It felt good to forget their perils for a moment, and share a light-hearted interlude with the young Texan; plus the inconsequential, jocular banter had helped take the gunman’s mind off his pain, discomfort and general tiredness.

The pair rode in silence for a few miles, their pace decreasing to a slow walk as they capitalised on the cover that another small area of woodland offered. Vin was using every scrap of his tracking knowledge to disguise their passing, by avoiding any soft, un-grassed dirt, and deliberately riding off the used trails and bridleways. The countryside surrounding this copse had opened up, so the Texan was conserving the gelding’s strength whilst they were in this relatively concealed place.

"You got a plan, Vin?" Chris’ enquiry broke the comfortable silence.

"Of sorts. I figure our first priority is t’find a town – the bigger the better – pick up a livery horse, buy some weapons, boost our supplies, an’ then rest up for a day or two."

The gunslinger shook his head emphatically. "We’d cause a stir riding in like this. Once we see a regular track leading to a town, I’ll go in – alone - and get what we need. No arguments, Tanner," Chris added, when his friend started to protest.

"Yer getting fussier than a she-wolf wit’ pups," Vin grumbled, knowing he’d just lost that clash of wills.

"One of us has to be. So once we’ve got fresh supplies and such, what then?"

"Aside from tryin’ to pick up a lead on Joseph, I ain’t thought much beyond makin’ it t’Grendon."

"Do you think you can find your grandfather’s cabin after all this time?"

"Dunno. I’s hopin’ it’ll be a mite familiar as I reach the area, but…."

Chris heard the element of doubt in Vin’s voice before the sentence faded away. "We’ll find it," he said, with more confidence than he felt.

"Unless Joseph finds us first."

"That whoreson had the element of surprise before, but we’re on to him now, Vin."

"It don’t feel like that t’me. I must be getting skittish or somethin’, ‘cause I keep expectin’ him t’leap out on us at any second."

"That doesn’t sound like the Vin Tanner I know. You’re jumping at shadows. Don’t let him get under your skin, pard, because that gives him a power he doesn’t warrant or deserve."

Vin’s head jerked and his back tensed as he considered Chris’ statement. "Yer startin’ to sound like Josiah. Don’t go all Bible on me, cowboy," the Texan scowled.

"I don’t intend to. I’m just making an observation."

"Shit! Now you really have scared the pants off me – ‘cause yer talkin’ jes’ like Ezra!"

"Ah, hell! That’s got to be the most insulting thing you’ve ever said to me, Vin!"

"Ez ‘ud say his high-floot… high-faloot…. Dammit! He’d swear his fancy ways were rubbin’ off on his friends."

"Maybe they are – the Devil help us all!" Chris chuckled.

"We need more than the Devil’s help to get us through this."

"The man downstairs looks out for his own, so we should be fine."

Vin chuckled at the gunslinger’s implication of where the two were headed in the Hereafter. It didn’t matter to him where he ended up – as long as Chris Larabee joined him when the time came. That morbid thought actually gladdened the tracker’s heart and soul, and he smiled happily as the pair travelled on in companionable silence.

"We’ll need to rest the horse soon," Vin told his friend after a while.

"Are we stopping here?"

They had reached the edge of the woodland, and Vin pulled the gelding up to check the animal. He leaned forward to touch the black’s neck, pleased to discover the animal had cooled down considerably after his last canter. Sucking in a deep breath, the tracker’s head swivelled to the left and the right, his sweeping blue gaze penetrating through the trees and bushes to settle on the open land beyond. "No, he’s good fer a few more miles, even at a canter, but… Chris…. I’m not sure ‘bout..." Vin paused, as he debated what to do.

There didn’t appear to be any cause for concern, but Vin’s belly was fluttering like a leaf, and he couldn’t put his finger on the reason why. Were they about to ride into a trap? Rising up in the stirrups, the Texan stood to his full height as if looking for something. Shaking his head imperceptibly and settling in the saddle again, the tracker fiddled with the rein in his fingers. "Let’s push on to our next point of cover," he said at length.

Chris frowned, his senses at full stretch as he tried to read the hidden meaning in Vin’s words. He’d witnessed on many occasions the tracker’s eerie talent of prescience coupled with a warrior’s sixth-sense, and Chris had a fighting man’s respect for such inner warnings or portents. In addition, his own combative instincts were making their presence felt now, and the older peacekeeper didn’t like what he was experiencing.

"Have you got a bad feeling about something?" the gunslinger wanted to know.

"I dunno. P’rhaps I’m just getting spooked by this wind," the Texan murmured uneasily, as he gently pressed his heels into the horse’s flanks to walk him onward.

Neither man saw anything suspicious as they got out into the wide expanse of land. The large plain was devoid of all life, and the wind whispering through the grasses was the only sound that disturbed the peaceful tranquillity.

"It seems clear enough, but that doesn’t mean a thing," Chris commented.

Vin nodded in agreement as he encouraged the horse to trot. They’d only been going a few minutes, when the tracker suddenly pulled up. "Whoa! Dammit! I think we’ve hit a gopher colony or somethin’. We’ll have t’take it easy here," he told his companion, pointing as they passed a cluster of dark holes in the undergrowth.

Thirty minutes ticked by, but the pair hadn’t made much progress across the broad field. This particular segment of their journey was turning into a nightmare. Apart from the numerous burrows hidden in the grass, there was an abundance of sharp, flinty boulders - of varying shapes and sizes - scattered around, which added to the problem. The tracker couldn’t risk the black putting his foot down a burrow, or stumbling on a rock, so speed had been bartered in favour of Vin’s cautiously controlled horsemanship.

However, this was all forgotten when the whistling ping of a rifle shot suddenly flew past Vin’s head. Instinctively ducking, the tracker whirled the gelding around in a tight circle, and kicked him into a gallop. All fears about the hazardous terrain fled from the tracker’s mind, as he guided the horse back the way they’d just come. The peacekeepers’ only chance was to return to the comparative safety of the woodland, and hope they could lose their pursuers amongst the trees and shrubbery.

More shots rang out, and Vin felt an agonising thump to his left arm, followed by a stinging, burning sensation. Glancing at his bicep, he saw a long, horizontal tear in his sleeve. Blood oozed from the deep furrow and seeped into his jacket and the ripped shirt underneath but, although painful, the tracker knew the wound was superficial. Tanner ignored the injury, spurring the gelding on faster.

Chris was unaware that a bullet had hit Vin, as he was too busy dealing with his own problems. Yanking his hat off, the gunslinger crouched down lower, holding onto his friend’s waist for all he was worth. He didn’t have the security provided by a saddle and was bouncing crazily on the horse’s rump, which played havoc with his injured back and leg. Vin’s hat had been blown off by the wind but, held by its storm strap around his neck, the fairly rigid material kept banging into and masking the gunslinger’s face. So Chris never saw the three riders heading straight for him and Tanner at full tilt. The men galloped along at a right angle, on an intercept course, and were rapidly closing on the peacekeepers.

However, Vin had spotted the arrivals, instantly recognising two of the riders. He hurriedly steered the black sideways in a zigzagging manoeuvre, trying in vain to take evasive action. It wasn’t to be though. Larabee’s horse was hampered by the extra weight he was carrying, plus the gelding was far too leg-weary for any fancy moves or dodges.

"Shit! Nooo….!"

The young peacekeeper’s horrified cry was interrupted as one of the approaching horses – a powerful, well-muscled paint stallion – literally careered into the gelding’s right shoulder. The exhausted animal didn’t stand a chance. The black immediately lost its footing and foundered, letting out a squeal of pained fury as his legs went away from him.

Chris jolted as the seventeen-hand high stallion barged into his mount, his reflexes kicking in as his brain registered the horse going from under him. This all occurred in a split second but, fortunately, he managed to throw himself backwards and slightly to the right to avoid being caught by the falling gelding. That’s where the older peacekeeper’s luck ran out. Momentum, and a whiplash effect from coming off the fast-moving animal, caused Chris to hit the ground with considerable force.

Automatically relaxing as he was suddenly unseated, the injured man tried to roll into the fall. As Larabee’s slack frame rotated and tumbled across the ground, he cried out at the harsh treatment to his previous wounds. This rudely awoken pain was suddenly overwhelmed by a fresh hurt, when the back of Chris’ head connected with a jagged rock. Without a hat to cushion the blow, the gunslinger caught the full brunt of the impact, although the strike impeded and slowed the uncontrolled progress of his rolling body. Pain too intense to describe exploded in his head, and he groaned as thousands of red stars whizzed across his vision, temporarily blinding him. This dizzying brightness swiftly ended as the older man’s sight narrowed down to a white speck, followed by utter darkness. Chris was unconscious before his abused form came to a complete halt.

As soon as he realised what was about to occur, Vin had reacted and, at the moment of the collision, he’d fared slightly better than his friend.

Getting leverage from the stirrups, Vin pitched from the horse, although he was furious that there was nothing he could do to help Chris. The Texan staggered drunkenly when he hit the ground feet first but, by some miracle, he was able to stay upright and straightaway donned a defensive attitude. His knife was in his right hand as he spun around looking for his and Larabee’s attackers. With a sinking feeling in his heart, the Texan realised he and Chris – if his partner was still alive – were back to square one. But whatever transpired in the next few moments, Vin wasn’t going to give up without a fight.

The three riders had shot past the gelding but, as Chris’ black lurched to his feet and loped away from the scene, the assailants whirled their steeds around and returned to the lone peacekeeper. The men rode in a tight circle around their quarry, like a pack of coyote corralling a deer, although they were careful to keep a good distance from Tanner. The young man might risk all by lunging at one of them with his knife.

"Give it up, Tanner!" Randall barked, pointing his rifle at his prisoner.

"You want me, yer gonna have to take me," Vin spat out, as he sidestepped closer to Chris’ motionless form.

The tracker ached to reach out and touch the lifeless-looking gunslinger, but he couldn’t afford to take his eyes off the three on horseback. He knew the likelihood of beating the armed men was remote, but Vin came from a proud tradition of fighters, and Tanners had never been quitters or cowards. Maybe he could take one of them down with him.

"Oh, we want you right enough, because there’s money ridin’ on this," Randall sneered. "We ain’t bothered how marked up ya are either!"

"We’re wasting time, boys."

It was Ella Gaines’ foreman who spoke. Reaching behind him, Benson grabbed his lasso from the back of his saddle, and with a quick flip of his wrist, the rope snaked in Vin’s direction.

The peacekeeper hastily stooped as the rope swished over him, but it was to no avail. Like a thing alive, the lasso dropped accurately over his head and shoulders, giving him no opportunity to twist away from the twirling loop. He let out a pained grunt as the rope tightened against the open wound on his bicep, but could do nothing now his arms were completely immobilised.

"Now drop the knife," Benson ordered curtly, as he secured the lasso to his saddle horn.

Vin ignored the stranger who held him captive, and managed to sidle nearer to the fallen gunslinger. He only got to within a few feet of Chris when the rope tautened, as the rider moved his stallion forward a few steps to take up the slack. The tracker struggled against his bonds at first, but as the thin cord bit into him, he realised he was wasting energy. Vin was uncaring about his own situation, but he gnawed at his lower lip worriedly as his fearful gaze scanned his friend’s prostrate body. He couldn’t see any blood or visible injuries, but Chris had taken a bad fall, and Vin tried to push away his increasing horror when he saw no indication of life.

"You can’t win, Tanner. Let go of the knife," the older man commanded for a second time, his voice cold and hard. He was used to being obeyed, and he was fast losing patience with the wilful young man in front of him.

"Go t’Hell!" Vin snarled, doggedly clinging to his weapon, even though he couldn’t do anything other than flex his wrist. His obstinate stand was an ineffectual gesture, and the tracker had no idea why he didn’t just give in to the inevitable. Perhaps it was his stubborn streak coming out, or maybe it gave him a perverse satisfaction to flagrantly disregard his captor. Tanner didn’t know, didn’t care, and he was too tired, sore and heartsick to think about the reason.

"Martin, we need the black - get after him, and make sure he isn’t injured. Randall, you’d better check to see if Larabee’s still with us," Benson snapped out to the two younger men, paying no attention to the hostile looks Vin was casting his way.

Giving the rope a sharp tug, the foreman smiled mirthlessly when Vin sprawled to the ground, although the peacekeeper still determinedly clutched the blade. "Joseph said you were an ornery bastard, but you’ll behave for me," Benson stated. "I think you need a friendly taster of my hospitality." With that, he kicked his horse into a fast lope.

Vin closed his eyes as the rope jerked, forcing his body to relax as he was towed along behind the stallion. He tried to keep his head lifted from the rock-dotted ground, but there was absolutely nothing he could do to prevent his body being harmed as he bumped over several small boulders. The tight pressure on his arms was excruciating, and it becoming harder to breathe by the second.

As the stallion made a tight, swinging turn, Vin was catapulted sideways in a tangle of legs, the momentum from the opposing force causing a whiplash effect. The tracker’s head smacked into the hard ground, and he felt a sharp, burning agony as something jagged ripped through his pants to gouge into his lower leg. That was all forgotten though as he was suddenly dragged through a viciously spiky bush. Squeezing his eyes shut, he felt the stinging scratches on his face, neck and ears, adding to the pain that already throbbed through his entire body. The whistling whoosh of air as he was pulled along at speed, triggered a coughing fit, and Vin just couldn’t seem to drag enough oxygen into his labouring lungs. A blurry greyness clawed at his brain but, as his body bounced over a particularly large rut, the nagging darkness suddenly swooped and he was sucked into the blissful embrace of unconsciousness.

Benson glanced behind him and, when he saw his victim’s head drop and the battered body go limp, he brought his fast-moving horse to a standstill. "Well, I don’t think he’ll be causing us any problems for a spell," he remarked, as he dismounted to check on his captive.

Vin didn’t hear the man’s exultant statement, never felt the hands that roughly removed the lasso, and he was oblivious to the pain as rope was lashed around his wrists and ankles. Fat droplets of rain had started to fall from the dark, pregnant storm clouds, but the tracker knew nothing about this as he was prepared for transportation in much the same way a trussed-up animal carcass would be.

The three men spent the next few minutes loading the unconscious peacekeepers onto horses. Vin was unceremoniously slung over the back of Chris’ gelding, his dangling hands being attached to his tied ankles beneath the horse’s belly. Another rope was threaded through his belt and secured to the girth to stop his inert body from slipping sideways. The young Texan was given no additional protection from the inclement weather, and his hair, which hung down in a tousled, lank mass, was already soaking wet.

However, the injured gunslinger was treated with more deference by Tom Benson. The foreman was pleased that Joseph hadn’t found Larabee first, for he’d witnessed the Texan’s hatred for the younger man. He’d pondered on the reason, and during the ride from Gaines’ ranch, had wondered whether he’d have to protect his prisoner from the ruthless outlaw. Benson was only too aware of his boss’ plans for the older peacekeeper, and was reluctant to return home with his prisoner in a beaten or possibly in a life-threatening state.

After tending to Chris’ leg, which had started bleeding again, the foreman had wrapped his charge in a heavy blanket. With the assistance of his companions he’d positioned Larabee’s slack form onto his horse, and then climbed up behind him, cradling the unconscious man to his chest. Within thirty minutes of capturing their quarry, Benson, Randall and Martin had met up with the other three men, and the six plus their prisoners headed towards Ella Gaines’ property.

To say he hurt would be an understatement, because Vin honestly believed he’d gone way beyond that point. From the tips of his toes to the roots of his hair, the tracker felt pain, a pulsating throb that swathed his body in a breath-stealing inferno. He’d woken to darkness, although the lack of light was not helped by the uncomfortable position he was lying in. His face was pressed into a rank-smelling piece of material that covered a hard, slatted surface, and he was having difficulty breathing. He was also freezing cold and soaked to the skin, but regardless of the torture as each trembling spasm spiked through him, he couldn’t control the febrile shivers wracking his wounded and battered frame.

Carefully turning his head to the side, the peacekeeper ran his tongue across his dry, cracked lips as he attempted to eke some moisture from a mouth that resembled an arid desert. That didn’t work, so he sucked in some cold air instead, but that only inflamed his sore throat and set him coughing. His eyes filled up with moisture as the wheezing, gasping hack propelled fresh ribbons of molten fire directly to his chest, stomach and back. The violent fit of coughing also re-awakened the pounding in his aching head, and a whooshing noise began building in his eardrums, drumming out a staccato beat in tandem with his rapidly thumping heart. Vin’s stomach roiled queasily, and he groaned as the nauseous fluttering in his gut gathered speed and momentum. Dying couldn’t be more painful, could it? No, he didn’t think it would be.

The tracker must have lost consciousness for a few minutes, as the next thing he became aware of was the sticky warmth of vomit pooling around the lower part of his face, chin and neck. Vin shifted on the hard bunk, desperately trying to roll onto his side or back to get away from the sour-smelling mass he was lying in. Ignoring the jabbing barbs of pain that assailed him as he moved, the peacekeeper managed to wriggle further down the uncomfortable bed.

Even that tiny movement was a Herculean effort, and beads of perspiration ran down his forehead, the salty wetness leaking into and re-igniting the raw scratches on his face. Vin gasped raggedly as he carefully wiped the sweat off on the abrasive tarpaulin beneath him. The weight of his body was causing additional pressure on his chest and stomach, so he rocked back and forth until he was finally able to flip over onto his left side. A previously unnoticed hurt caught him unawares, and he hissed out a whistling breath as white-hot fire exploded in his left bicep.

That’s right, he’d caught a bullet and…. oh, yeah, he’d already figured out that he was firmly bound. Vin was unsurprised to discover the ropes, although it didn’t stop him trying to get free as he tested his cramped limbs. That was a waste of energy, as someone had done a thorough job of restraining him. His arms were behind him, with his wrists crossed and firmly tied, plus his ankles were also tightly lashed together. The knots didn’t budge when he tugged at them. Aside from the constrictive pain feeding up from his tied ankle, Vin’s right leg was smarting, and fiery pins and needles flared from his calf all the way up to the top of his thigh, although he didn’t think it was broken or fractured. That particular injury must have occurred when he’d been hauled along the ground, possibly after he’d passed out. Presumably his attackers had loaded him onto a horse while he was unconscious, although the tracker didn’t know how long ago that was.

"Shit! Where the hell am I?" Vin mumbled, as he peered through the inky blackness.

He couldn’t recall being dumped in here…. wherever ‘here’ was. It was as dark as a moonless night, with not even a sliver of light to be seen anywhere, and the place smelt musty and damp. The walls appeared to be made of stone or adobe, and the peacekeeper had no idea if he was incarcerated in a windowless storeroom, or whether it was actually night-time. It was eerily quiet, so perhaps he was in an abandoned dwelling or a cave – although he didn’t hear any sounds of human activity, nor could he make out the normal noises of any nocturnal animals. Had he been brought into a town at the dead of night and incarcerated in a house’s basement? Maybe that was the answer. Or was he still in the countryside, well away from habitation?

The last thing the tracker remembered was standing, knife in hand, making a challenging but futile, stand against his and Chris’ captors. Fucking hell! He groaned out loud as events of that afternoon came back to him with a channelled rush. Chris! Sweet Jesus, how could he have forgotten his friend? Vin’s heart plummeted when he saw in his minds eye Larabee’s motionless form sprawled on the ground. The older man had been injured in the fall from his horse, of that Vin was sure, but where was his colleague now? Was he close by? Were they both being held prisoner in this dank, icy prison?

"Chr… is!" Vin’s hoarse voice cracked on the first hesitant word, but he produced some saliva from somewhere and called out once again for his partner. "Chris! Are you there, Lar’bee? Hey, cowboy, can ya hear me?"

With ears straining to the limit, the tracker waited for a response, listening for anything that might offer him some comfort or hope. Total silence greeted his words and he dropped his head back in abject despair. Curling up as best he could, he hunched his knees into his midriff as he tried to find some warmth. The peacekeeper was unsure if Joseph – and he knew the barbarous outlaw was behind his capture again – would bother to see to his wounds or even give him any food, water or a blanket.

Vin didn’t know when he’d ever felt so miserable, lonely, or so sick and sore. The humiliation of defeat for the second time in two short weeks was a bitter blow to his pride, but the worst thing was his mounting concern for Larabee. Worry and anguish for Chris’ well being and safety was creeping over the tracker, and his closest friend’s unknown situation was eating away at his insides. That fear was like a canker, growing, increasing in magnitude in his brain, until the pain of his own injuries dwindled into nothingness. Was Chris dead? Oh, please God, no - not that!

"Quit feelin’ sorry for yerself, Tanner!" he told himself sternly.

A loud rattle and clunk at what had to be a door made Vin jump, and he twisted his head away, screwing his eyes shut as light from a lamp suddenly flooded the room. The tracker froze on the unyielding bunk, deliberating controlling his breathing, keeping it even and shallow as he feigned unconsciousness. But he could feel a pair of eyes on him, boring into him, studying him, and watching his every move. Maybe the new arrival would be put off guard if he played possum, and he might be able to break free.

"You ain’t foolin’ me, boy. I know yer awake, because I heard you moanin’ an’ callin’ out jes’ afore I came in."

Vin’s stomach lurched and his apprehension soared to a greater level when he heard the hated voice of Samuel Joseph, although he said nothing and remained perfectly still. The quiet rustle of movement and the soft footfalls getting louder made him tense, but he was helpless to resist when a hand dug into his hair and yanked his head upwards.

"Yer a mess, Tanner, an’ I see you bin a mite sick," Joseph observed, glancing at the puddle of watery vomit. The man’s nose wrinkled when he also detected the pungent smell of urine. "You pissed yerself too, ‘though that ain’t surprising after that long ride today. Don’t you fret that pretty li’l head of yers, son, I’ll be tending to yer needs in a while. An’ you can have a drink shortly, ‘cause I got ya somethin’ real special to wash away that bad taste."

The outlaw sniggered, as he thought of that strange green coloured draught stowed in his jacket pocket. The old Chinese medicine man, Xiang Ho, had prepared and given the bottle to Joseph not more than twenty minutes ago, although the outlaw didn’t have a clue about its ingredients. Nor was he unduly worried about the effect it would have on his prisoner.

The peacekeeper didn’t even bother giving the other the satisfaction of a reply, as he was sure the heartless man wasn’t going to give him anything to make his imprisonment more bearable. Oh no, Joseph would milk every drop of misery he could from Vin, just for the sheer hell of it! The tracker squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to pretend the outlaw wasn’t there.

"What’s wrong wit’ you, Vin? Yer belittlin’ all those noble Tanner traditions, ‘cause I expected a bit more spunk from you, boy. It looks like Larabee’s got more in him than you appear to have. Or did ya lose yer tongue when you were dragged behind that hoss?" Joseph asked, letting out a short mocking laugh.

Vin’s eyes flew open when the man mentioned his friend’s name. "What ‘ave ya done wit’ Larabee?" he demanded, grinding his teeth as a fresh onslaught of pain and feverish chills swept through him.

"Well now… mebbe he’s dead, or mebbe he ain’t. Or p’rhaps he’s a bit like you, son… wishin’ he wuz dead! I gotta admit, yer pard’s a mighty handsome fella. He r’minds me of a wild, black stallion, all sleek muscle, proud an’ full of fightin’ spirit. But I’ve broken many a fine stud over the years an’ that cock-teaser’s jes’ another notch on m’belt. Yer amigo’s a challenge, Vin, an’ I get a hard-on jes’ lookin’ at him. Now I prefer takin’ a man who’s got some mettle, because it’s more exciting when a fella puts up a fight. Larabee’s that kind o’ lover, I’m guessing, which is pure temptation itself. So p’rhaps I’ve got him wrapped up cosy an’ snug in m’bed, wit’ that sweet ass wide open and ready to be f…"

The peacekeeper’s scream of outrage filled the room, much to Joseph’s amusement. His goading remarks had hit pay dirt, so he had no intention of ending this taunting, and obviously for Vin, degrading conversation. Besides, making another Tanner suffer gave him a buzz, and he couldn’t recall the last time he’d had so much fun. The outlaw knew how to wear down and subjugate a prisoner, and he readily acknowledged that not all forms of torture involved physical abuse. The Indian warriors he’d ridden with in the past, plus the time he’d spent with the Mexican Army, had taught him that. Joseph had been eager to learn, and had proven to be an exceptionally talented student, and those arts had come in useful over the years.

"It’s no good you getting all worked up wit’ jealousy, Vin. You had yer chance to stake a claim on that purty, Yankee boy, an’ ya blew it. Although… while we’re on the subject of blowin’… if you behave yerself, an’ do exactly as I tell ya from now on in, I might let him give you head while I watch."

Joseph saw the red flush of shame brighten the tracker’s otherwise pale cheeks, and watched with glee as Vin’s shoulders slumped despondently. "Oh, don’t you like that idea?" the older man enquired sardonically.

The outlaw’s hand had reached out to stroke Vin’s bearded cheek, and he smirked as the younger man flinched from the feather-light touch. "Never mind, son, if ya don’t want Larabee’s mouth around yer dick, you can watch me pleasure m’self in him. I’ll wager that’ll get ya turned-on somethin’ fierce."

"An’ perhaps I’ll take you after I’ve finished with lover-boy, Vin. I’s a generous man an’ wouldn’t want you t’get all lonesome, or t’think I warn’t fond of ya," the outlaw added.

Joseph chuckled on hearing the younger man’s anguished gasp, and he laughed harder still when the peacekeeper jerked his head away from the intimate caresses he was dolling out. He was extremely surprised at Tanner’s continuing reaction to his provoking remarks. It astonished the outlaw that a man of the tracker’s age, and one who was clearly knowledgeable of life - plus battle experienced - was allowing himself to be affected by the jeering, and sexually loaded jibes. Obviously, Tanner’s sensitivity would work in Joseph’s favour.

"When I get free, I’m gonna start at yer toes an’ skin ya alive – an’ I’ll do it real slow," Vin spat out at length.

"You tried takin’ me down once already - an’ ya failed miserably. I figure it’s my turn to have a go wit’ some fancy games an’ frolics… an’ yer amigo’s top of the pile as a plaything. I like the idea of me being the first man t’have blondie, ‘cause I know damned well I’ll also be the last. I hope you ain’t too upset by that."

"Go fuck yerself!"

"Now that ‘ud be downright wasteful, especially when I’ve got a gorgeous an’ sassy young fella like you t’hand. Not that I’d jes’ use m’hand, you understand."

"You sick bastard!"

Vin’s recalcitrant curse made the older man fleetingly grin, but he was careful to hide his amusement. There was still some fire burning in this young man’s belly, but it was a flame Joseph was going to enjoy extinguishing. Tanner needed to be taken down a peg or two, and clearly required a demonstration of just who was in charge. In response to the peacekeeper’s continuing insolence, the outlaw tightened his grip on his prisoner’s long hair and dragged Vin’s face closer to his own. "Where’s yer manner’s boy? Didn’t yer folks teach you anythin’? That ain’t no way to talk to an old friend of yer pa’s. You need to learn some respect fer yer elders an’ betters," the older man growled, punctuating each word with a cruel shake of Vin’s head.

Vertigo re-visited Vin, but he tried to block out the bilious feeling that settled in his belly. His teeth rattled against each other, and a loud moan escaped the tracker’s lips as his scalp burned and tingled from the ill treatment. At last his tormentor released him, and the peacekeeper almost welcomed the sharp, but thankfully brief agony as his head was dropped back down on the wooden platform. Vin closed his eyes and wiggled away from Joseph, until the wall next to the crude bunk stopped his progress. He prayed that the other man would just leave him to his misery.

The door opening once more caught Vin’s attention. He could just make out the vague outline of someone as they quietly slipped into the room and, although the person never spoke, clearly Joseph was expecting this new arrival as he didn’t even bother looking up. The shadowy figure leaned against the far wall, saying nothing and making no sound at all, which somehow added to the newcomer’s sinister aura.

"I knew we’d be seeing each other again, Vin. It was only a matter of time afore I found you, an’ pretty soon we’ll continue our journey home," Joseph said in a conversational tone.

Vin paid no attention to the older Texan, pointedly turning his head so his face virtually touched the freezing wall.

"What’s the matter, son, ain’t you even a teensy bit curious ‘bout where ya are? Or are you wonderin’ what I’ve got in store fer ya?"

Silence greeted the outlaw’s patronising questions, and the man scowled at Vin’s rigid back. "Huh! I gotta admit, boy, yer a Tanner through and through. That whole clan were always stubborn, pig-headed fools, an’ it appears that you inherited the same helping of stupidity!" Joseph exclaimed sourly.

Turning away from the peacekeeper, the Texan addressed the other person in the room. "I told you he was a mite feisty."

Tom Benson had just come from the main house, after receiving specific orders from Ella Gaines, and felt he’d been more than patient by keeping in the background while the stocky Texan goaded their prisoner. However, knowing how testy his boss got if her instructions weren’t carried out promptly and to the letter, he was keen to get Tanner ready for the next phase of the woman’s scheme.

"Yeah, I had noticed, but that won’t last," the foreman answered. "Stop screwing around, Joseph. I don’t want to keep the boss waiting, and besides, you’ll have plenty of time to work on that boy when you leave here tomorrow. The Chink’s nearly finished with the other one, and I prefer a prisoner to be docile, so hurry up and give him some of that stuff. Remember Ho said it takes a while to work, but it’ll make our next job easier if he’s nice and calm. Miguel’s filling a tub out back, because I’ve got orders to bath and shave him. I dunno why – and I never asked – but the boss wants him clean and presentable before he’s taken up to the house."

Vin’s breath hitched in his throat, and he shuddered as he listened to the two men discussing his fate. What was this ‘stuff’ that would make him docile? Were they going to poison or drug him? The tracker was confused, and his whirling thoughts, plus the rapid hammering of his heart were making him feel light-headed. There was no point in fooling himself, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit it, but if he thought he’d been scared before, he was terrified at this strange development. He couldn’t fathom out why he was being cleaned up, because that didn’t tie in with what he knew of Joseph. Who was this ‘boss’ they’d mentioned, and what did the man want from him? The only thing that gave him a small sliver of hope was the remark about someone ‘finishing with the other one’. Were the two men referring to Larabee?

Vin was given no chance to linger over that small lifeline he’d been thrown. His worried and puzzled cogitation’s were rudely interrupted, when the Texan outlaw suddenly perched on the side of the bed and grabbed his shoulders. He hauled the startled tracker around and propped him into a sitting position on the bunk.

A bottle was suddenly thrust against Vin’s lips, and his mouth opened involuntarily when cold liquid was tipped in. His brain instantly screamed danger. The tracker’s fighting spirit immediately kicked in, over-riding all of his aches and pains as he launched a desperate offensive against this irregular attack. Despite his bound feet, Tanner lashed out with his legs, struggling like a thing possessed, and the peacekeeper gained a small victory by successfully spitting out the small amount of fluid in his mouth.

The unknown draught didn’t taste that bad – some of Nathan’s herbal brews tasted far worse - but it certainly wasn’t water, and Vin knew without doubt the substance spelled trouble for him. He writhed wildly, desperately trying to pull his head away as Joseph poured more of the liquid into his mouth. Once again, the peacekeeper twisted and squirmed to get free from the outlaw’s vice-like grip, frantically coughing and spitting to expel the fluid in his mouth. The tracker was able to spurt most of it out, some dribbling down his chin while the rest of the drink landed on Joseph’s hands and shirtsleeves. He bit down hard, valiantly thwarting his assailant as the older man tried to prise Vin’s jaw apart. This protective measure enraged the outlaw, especially when he heard Benson’s loud guffaw of laughter.

"Shit!" the outlaw cursed, as he captured the thrashing peacekeeper in a powerful embrace. "Some help wouldn’t go amiss," he yelled to the ranch foreman.

Tanner winced when a second pair of hands clamped onto him, and he couldn’t stop the agonised scream as the well-built stranger sat across his legs to immobilise them. This created the perfect opportunity for the older Texan. Thrusting the vessel into Vin’s open mouth, Joseph tilted his victim’s head back and pinched the tracker’s nose tightly, before clamping the younger man’s jaw shut around the bottle’s neck.

There was no escape now, and Vin couldn’t move anything apart from his eyes. The two men holding him murmured a few words the tracker couldn’t understand, but as the sour liquid started to slide down his throat, he realised he’d lost another battle.

"That’s it, just keep drinking. Attaboy!" Benson crooned, as Vin spluttered on the drug. The foreman gazed dispassionately at his victim, and began massaging the tracker’s Adam’s apple to encourage the reflexive swallowing.

Unable to resist physically any longer, Vin settled for glaring furiously at the stranger. It was quiet in the room, except for the tiny whimpering sounds coming from the younger man as he unwillingly drank the concoction. Tears streamed from the tracker’s eyes, shed partly in anger, but mainly from the underlying bitterness and acidic heat of the fluid as it coated his sore throat. The bottle was finally emptied, and Joseph pulled away from Vin and stood up, deliberately allowing the breathlessly wheezing peacekeeper to flop down on the hard bunk.

"You didn’t give him all of it, did you?" Benson asked, angry suspicion tainting his voice.

Joseph gave the bottle an experimental shake. "Yep," he replied smugly.

"You fucking cretin! Ho said to give him half the bottle, and no more!"

Vin choked out a coughing sob, and pushed his mouth and nose against the foul-smelling material under him. Perhaps he could make himself puke back whatever it was he’d been given. Several minutes passed, but apart from his previously empty stomach gurgling a few times, nothing else happened. Hell, he’d give anything for some of Nathan’s Ipecac syrup right now!

Joseph took no notice of the irate foreman. He was more interested in witnessing Tanner’s descent into the confusing maelstrom generated by the Chinaman’s mysterious brew. "He didn’t take it all, ‘cause a helluva lot got spilt," the Texan answered at length, disdainfully wiping his wet hands on Vin’s pants. "I don’t ‘spect it’ll do him any real harm," he added, with a dismissive toss of his head.

"You don’t know that! Dammit, Joseph! There’ll be hell to pay if he passes out completely! Plus it means we’ll have to drag his sorry hide out to the bath."

The outlaw puffed out a noisy snort of irritation. "Shit, I fergot ‘bout that!"

"I told you to let me handle it!" Benson retorted.

"Oh, well, too late now," Joseph shrugged. "He ain’t that heavy, but I reckon it’ll take the pair of us to get him in the tub and cleaned up."

"We’d…. started then," the foreman replied, with a heavy sigh. "God, he stinks! Take off… filthy rags… in here. Looks like… needs…. decent shave …Anna… him fresh clothes. Did you…. leg? It’s still bleeding… a few stitches…. his arm too. Take… ropes off…"

The two men continued talking to each other as they checked their subdued prisoner for injuries, but to Vin’s ears, the voices sounded garbled, and it was getting harder to concentrate. He knew he should be alarmed by the conversation he was hearing, but a muffled droning filled his head, masking the true intent behind the men’s words. Vin felt slightly woozy, and none of his limbs – not even his fingers – would obey the distorted instructions coming from his brain. The tension that had knotted him up inside was melting away, rather like thawing snow, and he was becoming drowsier by the second. He felt remote, indifferent, almost like this was happening to someone other than him, and the aches and pains that had been a constant distraction were receding. Something hot was gnawing at Vin’s gut, but it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, and heat radiated from this source, shooting out tendrils of welcome warmth to the rest of his chilled form.

‘I dunno, this is kinda nice,’ Vin thought, unaware that his mind was rapidly becoming as listless as his drugged body. The pain, worry and fear he’d experienced were fast dissolving, and he no longer cared about what was occurring around him. Most of his cognisant thought had vanished, and he had no strength or willpower to move. He was oblivious to the dispassionate hands that now worked to remove the ropes from his arms and legs, and he didn’t feel the painful tingling as circulation was restored in his freed limbs. The dull thud as his boots hit the floor, caused the tracker to turn his head, but he didn’t understand the significance of the sudden noise.

Someone pulled at Vin’s jacket, manipulating his flaccid arms from the sleeves and, when he heard an exasperated grunt, Tanner blinked and blearily peered at the figure hovering over him. A tiny part of Vin’s conscience acknowledged that this stranger was undressing him, and such a personal affront to his privacy should have sparked a violent reaction from the bashful and extremely reserved peacekeeper. But it didn’t. Vin’s inhibitions – like his clothes – were being stripped away by Ho’s strange beverage, and he was totally submissive, held securely within a hazy limbo from which there was no escape.

The tracker’s exhaustion and weakened state had sped up the chemical process of the palliative draught he’d been forced to consume, and his sick, abused and starved body quickly succumbed to the powerful drug. Vin had nothing left to fight with, so he closed his eyes, letting out a breathy sigh as he quietly slipped into the beckoning darkness.

Benson had struggled to get the sodden jacket and shirt off the slack, unresisting form, but he’d at last got down to Vin’s long-sleeved cotton vest when he felt the younger man’s boneless slump into unconsciousness. Without wasting any more time on getting the clingy garment off conventionally, he drew his knife and carefully cut the damp underwear off his charge. "Shit! He’s completely out of it!" the foreman ranted, as he slapped Tanner’s pallid cheek several times and got no response.

The Texan outlaw was concentrating on Vin’s lower body area, and he grinned in reply to the other man, a lecherous scowl that needed no interpretation. He’d already peeled off the tracker’s drenched socks, pants and drawers, and his eyes – along with his groping fingers – were centred on the helpless young man’s naked groin. "Yeah, he’s like putty in our hands! I cain’t remember the last time m’eyes feasted on such a beautiful set of jewels! This boy’s nicely hung, don’t you think?"

Tom Benson had guessed what Joseph’s sexual preferences were during their ride to and from the ranch, and his lip curled up in disgust as he watched the other man caress and stroke the supine peacekeeper. He wasn’t a squeamish man and admitted that he had few morals himself, but nonetheless, the foreman was sickened by the other man’s blatant act of gross indecency against their unconscious prisoner. "God, you’re a fucking pervert, Joseph! Just keep your filthy paws to yourself! I can’t abide sinning asshole dippers like you. It just ain’t natural," he muttered darkly.

"Ya want t’watch that mouth of yers, Benson," the Texan replied in a cold voice. "You ain’t no boss of me, an’ Tanner’s my prisoner, my responsibility. I’m gonna be denied Larabee’s cute ass fer a while, so if I want t’indulge m’self an’ have a friendly tinker with this one’s assets, then that’s down t’me. Comprende?"

"Suit yourself."

"I always do, mark my words."

"Yeah, I don’t doubt that! I’m done here. C’mon, the sooner we start, the sooner we finish."

As he spoke, Benson pushed aside Vin’s dirty and torn clothing, and then retrieved the blanket that he’d left by the door. The men were silent as they got the limp form bundled into the cover and, at Joseph’s grudging nod of agreement, the taller and more muscular foreman scooped up the insensate tracker. With Joseph holding the lamp and following close behind him, Benson strode to the door, cradling Vin in his arms like he would a sleeping child. There was much work to be done this night before either man rested, although the foreman was positive that Ella Gaines was going to be angry about the younger peacekeeper’s unconscious state. Well, he would make sure the woman knew who was at fault. He wasn’t prepared to take the blame, but hopefully she would be too preoccupied with Larabee to worry about Tanner’s condition.

-7-7-7-7-7-7-7-

"Are yo’ sure this is the right place, Josiah?"

Nathan Jackson’s critical gaze took in the poor state of the wooden buildings on the principal thoroughfare of Rojo Torre, as he and his two companions rode down the town’s dusty street. Josiah and Ezra flanked the dark-skinned peacekeeper on either side, and he could sense the mounting disbelief in the other men as they continued to make their way through this small, ramshackle Texan hamlet. This would be their final stopover before reaching the area where the Tanner family had resided, as the three had already worked out from the map that Grendon was just another full day’s ride to the south.

"Yep. You can see the Mexican influence, and I reckon part of the name comes from that," Josiah replied, pointing to the decrepit church at the far end of the main street.

The place of worship – although it was doubtful if it was still in use – was the only building in the badly rundown town that was constructed of stone. The church, complete with an ugly squat tower, was clad in red, irregular bricks, which had probably been locally quarried from the ochre-hued hills and mountains. The use of this indigenous rock obviously gave the tiny municipality a segment of its name.

"There ain’t a hotel from what I can see, so we could be scratchin’ around for someplace to stay tonight," Nathan remarked.

"Maybe that saloon doubles as a guest house," the ex-preacher replied, pointing to the seedy-looking bar they were just passing. He didn’t sound that hopeful, and Sanchez grimaced as he got a glimpse inside the filthy saloon over the batwing door.

"I’m thinkin’ that sharin’ a stall wit’ my horse might be more inviting," the healer muttered, having also had a quick peek inside the dingy-looking bar.

"Probably, but I’ve slept in worse places than that. At least we won’t have far to stagger to bed after a few whiskeys, if that’s the case. I have a hankering for some entertainment tonight, so perhaps we can find us a friendly game of poker too." Josiah glanced sideways at the silent gambler as he said the last part, hoping to elicit some kind of response from the uncommunicative man.

Nathan watched Ezra out the corner of his eye, but the younger man didn’t react to the big peacekeeper’s suggestion, and the healer wasn’t even sure if his friend had heard a word that had been said. "I hope they serve food, because I ain’t seen a restaurant…. an’ right now, m’stomach thinks m’throat’s bin cut," Nathan asserted, catching the worried look the oldest peacekeeper had directed at Standish.

"Yep, mine’s been growling so loud, Miz Travis probably heard it back in town!"

The healer grinned at his closest friend, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation. "That was yo’ belly? Heck, I figured we were being followed by a big ole cat or somethin’!"

"Well brother, I heard an angry rumble an hour or so ago, and thought we were in for a fearsome storm. But it must have been your stomach complaining!"

Ezra ignored the friendly banter going back and forth between the two older men, and said nothing. In fact, he’d said little beyond what was required during the three long days of travelling, and Nathan was starting to wonder if his friend would ever get over the death of the woman that he loved.

At the beginning of their journey the gambler had been acting almost like his old self, but as they got further from town, he’d become more remote and withdrawn. Ezra had taken to wearing Fiona’s ruby betrothal ring on the little finger of his left hand. He constantly caressed and twisted it around, staring at the gemstone as if his wish alone could bring back what had been so tragically stolen from him. Nathan understood that his friend probably needed that outward token as a focus for his grief, but he wasn’t convinced the ring was helping his friend come to terms with his loss. The only hope he clung to was that Ezra would find some peace of mind once they’d found and captured those responsible for Fiona’s brutal murder. Nathan knew from bitter experience how important it was to find closure.

The peacekeepers had been riding since sun-up, having spent the previous two days travelling in relative comfort by railroad. The men from Four Corners had disembarked from the train in a fairly major town late yesterday afternoon, and had straightaway procured horses. They had then purchased – from the gambler’s seemingly never-ending cache of money – a good stock of coffee and dry rations, a bottle of whiskey, plus at Nathan’s insistence, extra blankets and medical supplies. The healer hadn’t made any explanation about the additions to his pharmacopoeia to his two friends, but he hadn’t needed to elaborate. Ezra’s shoulder wound was still stitched and heavily bandaged under his silk shirt, so Nathan would have need of the supplemental medicaments.

The dark-skinned peacekeeper hadn’t voiced his other reason for topping up his supplies. Chris and Vin had been abducted nearly two weeks ago and, knowing how precarious the tracker’s health had been at the time they’d been taken, Nathan had serious reservations about his younger friend’s current physical condition. Also, from what they’d been told by Tanner senior before he’d bolted from Cummings land, Samuel Joseph had a blood score to settle with Larabee. So the vengeful outlaw wouldn’t have any qualms about mistreating the gunslinger to coerce Vin. The former slave was certain both men would require his healing skills when they eventually found them. It may have been a false optimism, but having the tools of his chosen profession to hand gave Nathan extra hope of finding his friends still alive - he just prayed he wasn’t being unrealistic.

"The livery’s down that alley," Nathan commented, pointing to a barely legible sign hanging crookedly on the side of a shabby building.

Josiah patted his livery mount’s neck. "Well, our horses will be reasonably comfortable, even if we’re not. Let’s get them seen to," the ex-preacher suggested, "and while you’re finding us some rooms for the night, I’ll go hunt down the Telegraph clerk. I’m praying Miz Travis has had a wire from Buck, telling us where to meet up. With five of us searching around Grendon, we have a better chance of finding Chris, Vin, Joseph and his men… and of course, Tanner." There was a steely hardness to the ex-preacher’s voice as he snarled out the last name.

Nathan nodded, seeing a brief flicker of emotion sweep across Ezra’s features as their oldest mentioned those responsible for Fiona’s death. It was quickly concealed though, and the gambler’s stoic, unreadable mask instantly shifted back into place.

The former slave emitted a heavy sigh. "Yeah, we do. It’s been three days since we heard from Buck and JD, so maybe we’ll get some positive news again," Jackson eventually replied with more confidence than he felt.

"Amen to that, Brother Nathan," Josiah intoned softly.

The oldest peacekeeper’s final declaration literally killed the conversation stone dead. The three men were quiet, lost in their own troubled thoughts as they made their way to the livery stable.

-7-7-7-7-7-7-7-

There was no disguising the excitement and the sensual desire on Ella Gaines features, as she gazed at the inert man lying in her wide bed. He was covered to the waist by the sumptuous coverings, but she knew what treasures awaited her eager hands and willing body beneath the silk sheets. She smiled elatedly, dreaming of the nights to come when she would be intertwined with her athletic and besotted lover, and their lovemaking would transform the tidy, neat bed into a tumultuous cauldron of unbridled passion. This wondrous moment had been a long time coming, but at last she had in her grasp what she’d always wanted. Chris Larabee.

The unconscious gunslinger had been carried into her luxurious private quarters, her inner sanctum, earlier that evening. With the exception of one person, everyone in her household had been banned from her bedchamber, and she had declared that she would attend to all of the injured peacekeeper’s needs herself. After cleaning Chris up, Gaines had reluctantly stepped aside to allow the Chinese herbalist, Xiang Ho, to tend to her lover’s wounds.

The old man had been quick to give his employer a report on the man’s condition. He’d assured Gaines that Larabee’s injuries were not life threatening or severe, and that the gunshot wound was healing, albeit it required a few additional stitches. But the best news was that the peacekeeper hadn’t suffered a concussion or any other serious injury from his fall earlier that day.

Once he’d completed his initial examination, Ho had cleaned, stitched and bandaged the gunslinger’s hurts, finishing his treatment by applying a medicinal, healing salve to the younger man’s numerous bruises. Before leaving to attend to the second wounded prisoner, he’d given Gaines a different jar of cream, with detailed instructions on where this particular balm needed to go.

The ointment was one Ho rarely used, but he knew the Acorus rhizome oil combined well with the other herbs he would soon be utilising, and the outcome would be both effective and spectacular. He was aware of the woman’s scepticism about employing these ritualistic herbs and powders, and the Chinaman objected about having to go through the same procedure with both men. He’d quickly capitulated though, on being confronted by the woman’s wrath, and had agreed to use the younger peacekeeper as a test subject solely for his employer’s peace of mind. However, he personally had no such misgivings about the effect that his skilful doctoring would have on the two virile young men temporarily in his care. Ho was well versed in the ancient practices from the Old Country, and was positive Gaines would be more than happy once she saw the final results.

Shortly after the Chinaman left to prepare Vin Tanner for the next phase of the plan, the raven-haired beauty perched on the mattress beside the sleeping gunslinger. Now that she had him, Gaines would not leave her lover longer than was necessary. As she reacquainted herself with every little feature and physical trait on Chris’ relaxed features, she couldn’t resist carding her fingers through his damp hair. Not content with this minimal contact, she leaned over the recumbent man to steal the kiss that she had hungered for from the minute he’d been placed in her bed. The peacekeeper never stirred, his steady breathing not altering at all, even when the woman pressed her lips down harder, and then thrust her tongue into his slightly open mouth. She prolonged the erotic – but totally one-sided - enjoining, delighting in the feel of solid muscle under her fingertips as she massaged the peacekeeper’s shoulder. Gaines felt a surge of possessive power ripple through her, and acknowledged that she was looking forward to bringing this man to his knees in the coming weeks.

Ho had assured the woman that the peacekeeper would sleep soundly for at least ten hours, so Larabee was oblivious to all of this. When initially placed in the warm bed, Chris had roused briefly, dazed and confused following the blow to his head, but had been unable to put up any resistance to what was happening around him. Prior to the Chinaman re-stitching his wounded leg, the stupefied man had been fed a cupful of passionflower with opium tea, and had promptly passed out again. Passionflower tea! Gaines had thought that to be very apt, and the exotic name of the medicinal plant had sent a shiver of desire through her. The culmination of her dream was in sight, and she had suddenly become anxious to put everything into motion.

An hour quickly passed, until a light tap on the door broke through the woman’s victorious musings. She looked up expectantly when Ho entered. "I take it you’ve finished with Tanner? Have you given him the Shizandra, Lycium and polyg… poly… What is it called?" Gaines demanded haughtily.

The wizened old man didn’t bat an eyelid, taking no offence at the open hostility of her tone. He wasn’t unduly worried by her aggressive attitude; Ella Gaines needed his skills to achieve her goals - and he knew it. "No, I have not given him the Yin tonic as yet," he said patiently. "Your worker gave him too much of the Huang Quin, and his life energy – in the Old Country we call it a person’s qi - was already unbalanced and dangerously depleted. I have begun the other treatments and started the Ginseng burner but, like Mister Larabee, he will also sleep deeply for many hours."

Gaines pouted in annoyance at this unexpected delay. This was Joseph’s mistake and, although she’d already given the outlaw a severe tongue lashing, she felt like taking a horsewhip to the man for a more satisfying flogging. "Why have you started burning the hemp? Isn’t it a waste using it now?"

The man shook his head. "No. These things cannot be rushed, and it is better to build up the dosage in measured stages. I will keep the lamp alight, and also use the special ointment again just before I give Mister Tanner the Yohimbe tea. I assure you, madam, it will have the reaction you are seeking."

When the woman shifted impatiently and crossed her arms, he carried on relating his findings. "The cool bath helped to extract the majority of heat, but there is still evidence of fever in his body, and his strength is suppressed by sickness and injuries. Also, the young man has recently had surgery. I believe his appendix has been removed. Whoever did the procedure, was a skilled medical practitioner."

"I’m not interested in hearing Tanner’s medical history!" Gaines retorted in a tart voice. "This won’t interfere with my.… little experiment, will it?"

"No. In fact, his weakened state may make him more… receptive to your… overtures. But he will need nourishment. The herbs and powders I use have greater potency if taken after food."

"What do you suggest?"

"I would like your permission to prepare a thin, meat broth. In eight hours or so he will begin to recover his senses, so I should be able to make him drink before he becomes too aware of his situation."

"Do it."

"As you wish, madam," Xiang Ho murmured, giving Gaines a subservient bow.

"This had better go the way I want it to, Ho. My future happiness with my husband is resting on these results from Tanner. The cruel march of time is stealing my womanhood, so I have to take what I can now."

"I understand, Mrs Larabee."

The woman rose from the bed and strode over to a closet. There was silence as she rummaged for something in a drawer. Coming over to the old man again, Gaines dropped two sets of iron shackles into his hands. "When you’ve finished, make sure he’s secured to the bedstead – hands and feet. He escaped once before, and I won’t have it happening again."

The man nodded, frowning when he saw the stout leather strap in the woman’s hand. He said nothing as she looped a short small-linked chain through the collar’s D-ring.

"Mangy curs like Tanner need to be kept on a short leash."

This was all Gaines said by way of explanation as she handed the diminutive oriental the demeaning leash. "I want it put on him, and the lead attached to the bed," she instructed Ho. "I shall stay with my husband tonight. I’ll expect to see the fruits of your labours in the morning, and if everything goes well, then I will allow you to return to your family the following day. If any of this fails, Ho, I will not be very impressed."

These directives were spoken in a voice that could freeze the widest ocean, and even the serene Chinaman couldn’t repress the shudder of terror that coursed through him. He knew what the penalty would be for failure. One of Gaines’ men was staying in Beresford, Ho’s hometown half a days ride away, ostensibly to keep a ‘friendly eye’ on the immigrant’s only surviving granddaughter. But the wise old man was only too aware of what that really meant, and he was careful to follow the woman’s orders to safeguard his beloved grandchild. Without replying to Gaines, Ho bowed meekly for a second time, and hastily left the room to complete her orders.

-7-7-7-7-7-7-7-

The muted and ineffectual glow coming from a strange lamp was the first thing that captured Vin’s attention, as he slowly opened his eyes. He took a deep breath, his nose twitching when he caught a whiff of an unidentifiable aroma, and his brow furrowed in puzzlement as he distractedly wondered what the unusual and acrid smell was. The peacekeeper remained passive in the bed, although his eyes roved disinterestedly around what looked to be a small, and plainly appointed, bedroom. Apart from that tiny light beside him, it was fairly dark, and heavy curtains covered a window, so it was difficult to judge what time of day – or night – it was. Not that Vin was overly bothered. For the first time since being snatched from the Cummings ranch, he felt warm, comfortably content, and free from hunger and pain. The tracker’s whole body felt paralysed, lethargic, and he didn’t believe he could summon the energy to think, let alone move.

Vin yawned, relaxing tiredly as a few fragmented and abstract memories drifted sluggishly through his mind. He had some sketchy images rolling around in his head, plus a weird vision of an odd, wizened-looking old man bending over him, doing something to his arms and legs. These dreamlike recollections caused him no alarm and he licked his lips, tipping his head to one side as he sought out something to drink. He noticed a white china cup on the bedside table, and it triggered a brief flicker of curiosity and enquiry in his muddled brain.

The peacekeeper recalled an arm around his shoulder, and someone supporting him as they held that cup to his mouth. A softly accented voice – with a sing-song lilt to it - encouraged him to drink and, still firmly ensconced in the clutches of the strong sedative, the tracker had obeyed without hesitation. He’d gratefully gulped down…. Water? Or was it soup? Maybe it had been both. Another memory of something bitterly cool and glutinous sliding down his throat returned to him, and he inexplicably shivered in reaction. Vin’s tongue and gums felt swollen, and he detected a sour, medicinal aftertaste in his mouth, one that was vaguely familiar. The lingering taste reminded him of something he’d been given during periods of injury or illness in Nathan’s clinic. Was this a residual symptom from the brew he’d been given during those dazed episodes of partial awareness? If it was, what did it signify? The peacekeeper had no answers and it somehow didn’t seem that important. He was utterly exhausted, so he closed his eyes again, his thirst completely forgotten as he swiftly dropped back into restful slumber.

The next time Vin surfaced, brightness filled the room, although it was impossible to gauge the exact time from the filtered sunlight coming through the lace drapes. The tracker’s head seemed a bit clearer, and he didn’t feel the expected soreness or discomfort from the injuries he’d picked up during the second ambush. That baffling thought arrived with the realisation that his movement was restricted, and he frowned in bewilderment.

"What… th’ hell…?" he muttered, as metal rattled close to his ear.

The tracker was lying flat in a bed, covered with a sheet but minus a pillow. Vin’s bare arms stretched above his head, and his handcuffed wrists were fastened to the frame of the iron bedstead. A quick tug at his outstretched legs revealed that his ankles were manacled together too, and they were also attached to the footboard of the sturdy bed. As Vin tensed and squirmed against his bonds, he became aware of a tight pressure against his throat. Unable to touch the thing encircling his neck, he opened and closed his mouth a few times, wincing as the movement of his jaw caused something rigid to gouge into his skin. Fucking hell! He was wearing a dog’s collar! Impotent rage filled him, and he bounced angrily on the bed, clenching his fists. He pictured Joseph’s face, venting his fury as he viciously beat the outlaw to a pulp in his imagination.

Vin took a few deep breaths to compose himself and to try and work out some type of strategy. He wriggled on the bed, as it suddenly dawned on him that he was wearing little else. ‘Oh, Lord, please don’t let it ‘ave bin that sick bastard Joseph who stripped me nekkid!’ That humiliating and embarrassing thought popped into his head unbidden, but Vin forced himself to keep calm. There were far greater things than his modesty to worry about, the paramount one being the whereabouts of Chris.

The young Texan managed to lift his head a few inches from the mattress, and spotted the foreign-looking lamp that he’d seen earlier on the side cabinet. It contained something that was slowly burning, and the tracker flopped back down, watching in mute fascination as black curls of smoke plumed lazily upwards and hung like fog in the recesses of the ceiling. His eyes were riveted to that billowing cloud of smoke. There was something mesmerising about it, and he inhaled deeply again, breathing in and out as he savoured the sweet fumes. He had no idea how, or why, but the scent of whatever was smouldering in there was acting like liquor, easing away the distress he’d experienced since waking. The tracker felt a wonderful tingling sensation ripple through his body, and he closed his eyes, savouring the peacefulness that suddenly enveloped him. Vin didn’t know it, but it was only the sound of the door opening that dragged him from the trance-like state he was unwittingly slipping into.

"Hello, Vin."

The former bounty hunter’s form jerked, and his eyes widened in stunned disbelief as a woman suddenly appeared in his line of vision. Not just any woman either. Things were immediately put into a worrying and truly frightening perspective for the tracker, when his gaze locked with that of Ella Gaines. Panic and terror had all of a sudden gained a foothold, and Vin’s slack mouth dropped open in mute astonishment. He was rendered totally speechless with shock.

"What, no angry, smart-mouthed retort? No word of greeting for the woman you tried to shoot? Have you got nothing to say, not even a single word of apology for ruining my life? How very disappointing. I expected so much more from you, Vin," the woman stated.

"What have you done wit’ Chris? Tell me, ya twisted bitch!"

"Bravo! Now that’s what I expected to hear!" she exclaimed, ignoring the hostile glare the tracker aimed her way. "I hate to be proven wrong, and you didn’t let me down, with your uncouth behaviour and language. I knew you probably hated me as much as I detested you, so we both know precisely where we stand, and honours are even – for the moment. And please don’t worry about Christopher. A physician has taken care of his injuries, the fever has almost left him, and he’s sleeping peacefully in our bed. He hasn’t asked after you, Vin, but then the Chris I know and love wouldn’t bother with someone as insignificant as you. Not when he has me beside him. Although… I’ve no doubt he’ll thank you one day for bringing him back into my open and loving arms."

"Yer plumb crazy! Chris ain’t got feelings fer ya, an’ he won’t stay wit’ no murderin’, lying bitch. You destroyed his family – you kilt his wife and son - an’ he’ll see ya strung up fer that! That’s if I don’t shoot you first m’self."

"I’ll not waste any time discussing inconsequential things that happened in the past with you, Vin. But I’ll do something for you right now that will make you eat those very words," the woman said, as she tenderly stroked his clean-shaven cheek.

Vin tried to pull away, the veins cording in his neck and arms as he tensed against the restraints. He desperately tried to catch Gaines with his knee but, although she’d sat down on the mattress, she was careful to keep a reasonable distance between them. "It’s pointless struggling, because you can’t get away from me. The men in my employ are loyal; they follow my orders to the letter and know how to secure a prisoner."

As she spoke, her hand travelled down Vin’s immobilised arm, her fingers tarrying for a few seconds amongst the curly hair at the man’s armpit before trailing along his uncovered shoulder. Gaines smiled rapturously when the peacekeeper held his breath, and she chuckled as he twitched and shivered under her suggestive caresses. "Soon you’ll understand why I’ve gone to all this trouble to bring you here. That’s very good, Vin" – her voice dropped to a low seductive whisper – "just lay back, relax, enjoy yourself and let me see to your masculine needs. I always get my own way, so you’re just wasting energy by fighting me. And believe it or not, the last thing I want is for you to be tired. That wouldn’t do at all."

The tracker felt slightly dizzy and he guessed this, plus the odd feeling of detachment he’d had since waking, was caused by whatever plant was burning in that lamp-holder beside him. A dark, fearful concept suddenly skittered into Vin’s brain, but he dismissed that idea as being far too fanciful and grotesque – even for someone as deranged as Ella Gaines. He’d thought that Joseph was the main threat to him, so he continued to ponder on the woman’s motives for holding him captive in this particular manner. What did she want with him?

Unfortunately, he soon got his answer. The peacekeeper flattened into the mattress, and he just wanted the ground to swallow him up when Gaines suddenly yanked the sheet down to his waist. Oh, God, she was studying him like he was some kind of insect, or a captive animal in those zoo places that Ezra insisted he’d visited in the large cities. Vin had never experienced this kind of vulnerability before, and he prayed he never would again.

"Get… th’hell… away… from m… me, ya b… b… bitch!" the tracker stammered in a small voice, his cheeks suddenly flaming pink in embarrassment. Jeez, was that really him speaking? It didn’t sound like him at all!

"We never really saw much of one another when you came out to my other ranch, Vin, so I hadn’t noticed how lovely your eyes were. What a deep shade of blue. They remind me of the ocean on a summer’s day. And who would have thought you’d scrub up so prettily? You’re a fine specimen of manhood, with wide shoulders, strong muscles and a nice, trim waist. Of course, you’re not quite as handsome, or as well endowed as Chris, but I imagine some women would be attracted to you…. if they were really desperate. Have you been with many women, Vin?" Gaines asked, in much the same tone that someone might use if enquiring about the weather.

"Prob’ly… not as… many as you, ya whore!" the man ground out thickly, immediately regretting his pithy comeback. God, what had possessed him to play into her hands like that? Vin swallowed, shaking his head to try and clear his chaotic thoughts. It was a pointless exercise though, as the soporific vapours had virtually peeled away the last vestiges of his resistance, making him totally compliant and open to suggestion.

Gaines didn’t react or reply to the young man’s choked out curse. Licking her fingers, she then gently brushed them across one of Vin’s nipples, her circular motions gathering pace as the peacekeeper’s brown nub hardened under her fingertips. She smiled thinly when the tracker shivered again, watching with avid interest as he tried to hold back a groan. It came out eventually as a discordant squeak of ‘stop’, but the woman kept up her ministrations by squeezing and teasing both of the man’s raised nipples.

"Ah, good, I see you enjoy some little bedchamber games of the flesh, Vin. That’s just as well, since I have a whole repertoire at my disposal. That’s the problem with the majority of men, they always believe they’re the ones in control in affairs of the heart, when in fact, it’s the woman who holds all the trump cards."

Vin had no words left, so didn’t even deign to reply to her deriding remarks. He gulped noisily and screwed his eyes shut, willing his body to ignore what was being done to it. The long-haired peacekeeper could feel his heart hammering in his chest, heard a loud roaring in his ears, but these initial signs of panic were overwhelmed by the intense heat fermenting deep within his gut. It was inexplicable, unbelievable, but his sexual appetite had been prodded into life, and was multiplying, strengthening, with each touch this venomous woman conferred upon his firmly bound form. The tracker was like a marionette, with his strings being manipulated by a lustful and persistent puppeteer.

The woman continued with the erotic action, chuckling lightly when she heard the guttural panting coming from Tanner as one of her hands journeyed down to the Texan’s sheet-covered groin. That was a basic and primeval instinct that she recognised in any man – whether they be young or old. Despite his efforts not to submit, her mildly tranquillised, but sexually primed quarry was getting aroused, and would soon be hers to do with as she pleased. She felt exultation at the success of Ho’s therapy, pleased that her money, time and patience hadn’t been in vain. The total domination she had over her victim was more of an aphrodisiac for her than the potions the Chinaman was using to achieve her aims. This conquest of Vin Tanner was simply divine, and the woman was greedily feeding off the bedazzled man’s mounting fear and helplessness.

Gaines could sense the ignominy in her captive and, wanting to make her enemy suffer the torments of hell, she intensified the stimulus by caressing and lightly pinching Tanner’s bulging manhood. "Oh, my! What a gift to offer a lady! Or is that a weapon you’re aiming at me under there, Vin?" she asked in a girlish, sugary voice. She giggled when the man’s upright shaft lifted the sheet a little higher.

The woman traced a sharp fingernail along the tracker’s length, and with the lightweight material amplifying her salacious touches, Vin couldn’t help the soft moans falling from his lips. Nor could he control the tremors shuddering through him as Gaines carried on with her plundering sexual foray. His body didn’t belong to him now; it had been stolen, despicably violated, by this evil temptress. Vin was unable to look at her, was too scared his eyes might convey the same message his treacherous body was transmitting. Against his will, the flame of passion had been coaxed into life, a fierce, yearning need that he’d not had for some considerable time. And there was little he could do to quash the burgeoning desire.

The tracker turned his head to the side, twisting away from the fresh embarrassment as he felt the thin cover slide across his skin. He was completely naked, and he groaned loudly, tugging ineffectually at his chained limbs as Gaines started to ply his rampant cock with sure, even rubs of her enticingly warm hand. Time had no meaning, and Vin tensed as his traitorous body writhed, revulsion and pleasure vying for supremacy as the woman’s fingers tempted his artificially inflamed libido. The tracker felt nauseous, humiliated and desperately ashamed, plus the instinctive movements of his hips sickened him as he began to thrust rhythmically into that hand. His mind was telling him to halt this disgusting act, and an inner voice cursed his weak-willed flesh, but his perfidious body had other ideas. It was no use fighting; Vin knew he was spiralling haphazardly towards a repulsive conclusion.

"Oh, you’re certainly not disappointing me now!" Gaines purred ecstatically, as several droplets of pre-cum leaked from the man’s penis.

Bending over the tracker, she rested her upper body on his chest, and studied his stricken features, although she kept the regular, pumping motion going on his rock-hard erection. "Didn’t I say you’d enjoy this, Vin?" Gaines asked sweetly. "Oh, but please forgive my manners. Let me just explain why I’m bothering to give you my undivided attention. This little exercise is all for Chris’ benefit, because I needed a demonstration of the effectiveness of Mister Ho’s love potions and herbs. I think we can both agree the results are quite impressive. You should be flattered that I’m spending this time with you, and honoured that I’m giving you such delightful satisfaction. This is such a thrill, and I can hardly wait to try it with Chris! Of course, he will have his pleasures of the flesh in a vastly different way to you, Tanner."

Sweat poured from Vin as he tried to block out the woman’s gloating voice, and he whimpered in total horror when he felt her hot, wet mouth latch onto his right nipple. An exquisite pain lanced through his chest and, when she spitefully bit the rigidly tender nub, a searing rod of agony travelled south to spike his distended balls. Gaines’ needle-like teeth chewed cruelly on the puckered skin, and tears, both from pain and self-loathing, trickled down the tracker’s face. But, even as Vin’s maltreated form begged for the torture to end, the wanton lust consumed him and his groin ached for completion.

Gaines straightened up once again, and noted with amusement the beads of crimson welling around the man’s gnawed areola. She licked her lips, tasting the metallic saltiness of Tanner’s blood on her tongue. Chris had always enjoyed her enthusiastic foreplay, and whenever they’d made love, she’d revelled in giving him pain to boost his pleasure and performance. "If I didn’t already have Christopher, I might – although that is a very big might - consider making you my permanent bed-mate, Vin. You are just as responsive as my beloved, and I’m certain we could…"

The woman paused, her lips curling back into a wolfish smile of triumph. She felt Tanner’s manhood tense and tremble, and knew that the man’s ultimate degradation was about to be finalised. "Oh, yes, come along, buffalo man. Don’t hold out on your mistress - give me your manly release!" she urged in a clipped voice. Her hands quickened on Vin’s straining member, and she gazed with clinical detachment at the engorged, purpled head.

Vin’s gravelly cry of anger and denial filled the air, and he quivered in pent-up ardour, even as his brain berated the objectionable actions of his disloyal body. But a primordial control held sway now and the over-stimulated man groaned once more, his back arching stiffly as semen suddenly spurted onto his bare thighs. There was no jubilant contentment in Vin’s coerced ejaculation - all he felt was shamefaced wretchedness. His fists were clenched so tight he’d made his palms bleed, and his heart was thumping so loud and so fast the tracker was convinced it could be heard outside the room. If the Texan had thought his situation had been horrendous before, he now knew it was a hundred times worse. Gaines had blithely ripped away his pride, used, humbled and abased him, deliberately robbing him of all dignity. She had exerted her twisted and perverted control over him, and his hatred for her was like nothing he’d ever felt before.

"Why thank you, Vin. You’ve been very accommodating for me and of great help to Chris. I’ll be sure to let him know whom we owe for our nights and days of loving. I’ll let you recover from all that exertion, and if you’re a good doggy, I may bring you a treat later on."

Gaines wiped her hand on the sheet as she spoke, and then patted the man’s sweaty stomach consolingly. Hooking a finger through the leather collar Tanner wore, she shook his head back and forth to prove to him who was in charge.

Vin attempted to thwart the woman’s belittling action, and was able to turn his face towards her hand. He suddenly lunged at her, his teeth snapping shut on the appendage closest to him. It was Gaines’ thumb, and he clamped his jaw down on the digit with as much power as he could muster.

Gaines shrieked in agony, and her other hand instantly came up to strike the peacekeeper’s face. "You ungrateful bastard!" she hissed, as the force of her savage slap made Vin relax his hold.

Snatching her hand away from the tracker, the woman cradled the bloodied thumb to her chest, and glowered evilly at the unrepentant-looking man. Furious hatred marred her beautiful features, although she was sensible enough to take the precaution of backing further away from the bed.

"You’ll pay for that, Tanner! Dogs that bite their owners get punished, and you heed my words, reprisal will be painful," she vowed.

The tracker rubbed his stinging cheek against the lower sheet, saying nothing as Gaines stared dispassionately at his naked, sweat-lathered form. There was nothing else she could do or say now to hurt him, and he watched her guardedly, easily seeing the lack of humanity in her face. The woman showed absolutely no emotion, whilst her dark eyes glittered like twin orbs of hard Jet and, if he hadn’t realised before, Vin knew now that he was in the company of a madwoman. Facing down a heavily armed and desperate criminal was less risky than confronting this unstable woman. On the surface, she appeared to be no different from any other female, but her unpredictability made her an extremely dangerous foe.

As Gaines broke eye contact and flounced out of the room, the Texan relaxed on the mattress, relieved that for the moment she’d finished with him. That thankful thought immediately brought an agonised groan from the man. If Gaines had achieved her goals with him, then Chris was definitely going to be her next target, and Tanner knew only too well what that meant.

"Oh, Lord! Chris… I’m sorry, cowboy… I’ve let y’down... I’s failed you again."

Despair engulfed Vin, and he trembled violently in reaction to the woman’s callous molestation. His voice cracked on the murmured words, and he squeezed his eyes shut to block out the afterimage of his vengeful captor. He didn’t need to die and go to Hell – he was already there. And escape seemed impossible.

-7-7-7-7-7-7-7-

Buck and JD had ridden hard and long on this day, leaving their overnight camp as the first fingers of light stroked the eastern sky. It had been another fruitless and frustrating ride during the morning and, the two friends had started to doubt that they would pick up any fresh signs – especially meaningful indicators – to tell them whether the missing peacekeepers had passed. But after stopping for a meagre lunch of jerky, hard biscuits and water, they’d spotted the carrion birds in the sky, dipping and wheeling, as they attempted to land in what was most likely an enclosed locale. Both peacekeepers knew what this meant, and with sinking hearts the pair had headed towards the area. An hour had quickly vanished, and then stretched into a second, when the men approached a steep, densely wooded hillside. The vultures could still be seen overhead and, although they were worried about the significance of the birds, the two colleagues knew they had to investigate.

"It’s probably just a dead animal, Buck," JD remarked, as he warily guided his horse through the thick undergrowth.

The moustached peacekeeper was riding several feet behind the young sheriff, but he didn’t reply to his friend’s comment. He knew the other was trying to boost his flagging spirit, and also give some kind of reassurance. But Buck’s hope had taken a severe beating over the past few days, as the pair had found no further sign of the five men they’d been tracking. It was like the countryside had swallowed up the small party of riders.

"Perhaps Chris and Vin managed to escape, and killed someone in the process."

"Perhaps."

The sheriff glanced back at his closest friend, hearing the desolation and weary despair in the older man’s voice. "We’ll find ‘em, Buck. I’ve got this really strong feeling that we’re getting somewhere."

"I wish I shared your faith."

"It’s all we’ve got for now, so I’m working on the basis we’ll find something, anything, to lead us to them."

"If Tanner’s riding with that stinkin’ bastard Joseph, I want ya to leave him to me. You hear me, kid?"

"I heard! You keep saying the same thing day in day out, so how the hell can I forget, Buck?" JD grumbled, although his main concentration was fixed on the treacherous terrain. The peacekeepers were still climbing, ascending the steep face of the hill, but the going was slow as they steered their horses past yet another partially hidden ditch.

"Ah… jeez…. don’t pay me no never mind, JD. I ain’t fit company for a family of jackals at the moment!" the ladies’ man replied, throwing his young friend a wry grin of apology.

"It’s all right, Buck. I understand, and it ain’t a crime to be worried."

"I know. I guess worry ain’t somethin’ I normally equate with Chris. When we were younger, an’ I gotta tell ya, kid, we were wild an’ woolly in those days, we got ourselves into some dangerously tight situations. But I think this has got to be one of the.…"

A loud cracking noise – rather like a sun-dried twig snapping - interrupted Buck’s rambling anecdote, but he had no chance to react when three long, flexible branches that appeared to be plaited together, suddenly lashed across JD’s body. They struck, with a whiplash effect in a horizontal line, catching the unsuspecting rider both with deadly accuracy and considerable force. The sheriff howled out a surprised yelp of pain, as the wickedly barbed sprig whipped across his torso and knocked him backward off his equally as startled mount.

"JD!"

Having dropped back a few more feet behind his friend, Buck had managed to avoid the dangerous trap. The ladies’ man leapt from his own horse as he yelled his friend’s name, although he took the time to grab the other’s gelding and secure both their mounts to a bush.

Rushing over to his fallen companion, the tall peacekeeper sank to his knees and gently turned JD over. "Are you okay, kid? JD? Talk to me, boy!" Fear and trepidation overwhelmed Buck, and his urgent queries came out as a loud roar.

"Ow! Shit! What the hell…. was that, Buck?"

Wilmington glanced at the lethal, ten-foot long twine, now lying innocuously on the ground. The three connected branches were springy and snappy, perfect for this type of snare. The ladies’ man could see some bare areas of bark where smaller shoots had been trimmed off the limbs, so he knew this had been set-up and arranged as a deliberate trap. Whoever had engineered it had been an expert, and knew how to construct a weapon that would cause the most damage to an unwary rider.

"Someone went to a lotta trouble to set up that nasty surprise," Buck supplied as he helped the younger man sit up.

JD glanced at the spiteful-looking branches, and then turned his attention to his bloodied torso. "Ah… oh…! Ouch! Oh, Gawd, I’m all spiked… an’… an’ I’m bleeding! Help me, Buck!" he exclaimed, on seeing a dozen or so woody thorns protruding from his chest. The youngster had taken off his jacket a few hours earlier, and his shirt – whilst made of stout cotton – had provided little protection from the swiping impact of the stinging mass of branches.

Buck hurried over to his grey mare and pulled out a pouch from his saddlebag, before snagging the water canteen from his saddle’s horn. Kneeling beside JD once more, he rummaged for a clean cloth and the bottle of carbolic acid that Nathan had put in their supplies. Wilmington watched his friend closely, unsure whether he could aid the other. The sheriff had begun to pull out the two-inch long thorns that had gone straight through his plaid shirt and imbedded into flesh, but such a fiddly and painful job was probably best left to the younger man. Buck hissed and winced in sympathy when JD slowly, and very carefully, teased out a barb that had plunged into his navel area.

"Hellsfire! That one was stuck in deep. It really hurt!" Dunne muttered as he flung the ragged, blood-coated splinter away in disgust.

"Let’s have your shirt off, kid. I need to clean those wounds properly, else they may get infected."

"Oh, jeez! Ain’t I suffering enough for you, Buck? You’re startin’ to fret an’ fuss as bad as Nathan!"

"JD, don’t argue, just take it off," the ladies’ man ordered tersely.

The younger man sighed heavily, but did as he was told. He’d managed to pull out all the sharp splinters of vegetation he could find, but blood now oozed from the small puncture holes dotted around his upper body.

"Are you doing okay?" Buck asked, as he gently washed away the smears of blood from his friend’s chest.

JD nodded gamely in response, but Buck noticed how pale his companion was. The ladies’ man placed a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder, but wasn’t surprised to feel tremors shuddering through the young sheriff. Even the most trail-hardened man would be shaken by such an insidious attack. "Did you hurt anything else when ya fell?" he wanted to know.

"I…. don’t think so…. Ow...! But it’s hard to… Ouch...! tell with…. Argh! Buck, that’s sore dammit!" JD groused, when the other man poured neat carbolic on a particularly deep and bloody tear on his stomach.

"Sorry," the moustached man murmured, "but I have to get all the crap out."

The older man finally finished with the medical lotion, and handed his friend a clean square of linen. "Here, hold this over your chest for awhile. They should stop bleeding soon, and then I’ll take another look just to be sure nuthin’s still in those wounds."

Wilmington deliberately kept his tone light, not wanting to un-nerve his friend. Although the injuries appeared superficial, he was a little concerned about how shaken the younger man seemed. Buck studied the fallen branches once again. Apart from the obvious array of thorns, they looked innocent enough, but he couldn’t dispel the worry niggling deep within his memory. Why did that particular variety of tree look familiar to him? He couldn’t work out why he felt uneasy about that specific plant.

JD’s eyes followed the older man’s concerned gaze. "It’s only a stupid tree, Buck! I’ve had bigger holes in me after I’ve shaved!" the Bostonian protested, gingerly peeling away the cloth to examine the raw-looking marks on his torso.

"It doesn’t cost anything to be doubly sure, kid. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt over the years, it’s that ya can’t be too careful when out on the trail. Dust an’ dirt get everywhere, so it pays to keep any open wounds clean."

"I thought Nate always said if a cut’s bleeding that’s a good thing, because it flushes out any dirt. Well, these must be really clean now!" the sheriff retorted, showing the other the blood-spattered cloth.

"Yeah, but let me have another look anyway, just to be…." Buck paused, when he saw JD start to climb to his feet. The older peacekeeper clicked his tongue in disapproval, glaring angrily at his colleague when the other opened his mouth to protest.

The sheriff huffed out a growling sigh of annoyance but, when his friend crossed his arms and stood waiting expectantly, he dipped his chin in a brief, resigned nod. Settling back on the ground, he allowed the ladies’ man to check his bare torso again.

"It looks clean enough to me," the older man declared at length. "You might want to wear a different shirt though."

JD clambered to his feet, and Buck packed away the medical pouch as the younger man changed his shirt. After brushing off the dirt and twigs from his pants, the sheriff made his way over to his horse.

"I figure it’ll be safer an’ easier going if we walk for a while," Buck suggested, stopping JD as the other prepared to mount.

"That’s a good idea. The ground’s getting more rugged and tricky – so I think we would’ve had to lead the horses soon, anyhow," the other asserted.

The pair cautiously carried on traversing up the hill, although they encountered no problems and saw nothing to alarm them. Suddenly Buck’s grey mare snorted, digging her heels in stubbornly even when her owner tugged against the rein. The man slid his hand through the bridle and whispered a soothing litany of nonsense to the agitated horse. Grabbing the bridle firmly, he sniffed in a long, deep breath. "Can you smell that? I know why my horse’s getting the jitters now. That’s the stink of rotting flesh. She won’t walk any further, so I reckon we should tie the horses up here and go the rest of the way on our own," he told his companion.

JD nodded, shivering a little at the thought of what they might find. After securely tying their mounts to a nearby tree, the two men continued walking up the slope, gingerly picking their way through the thick undergrowth.

"Shit!" Buck whistled, as the peacekeepers got into a small clearing.

The loud drone of insects was an accurate pointer to the carnage that greeted the two men. Thousands upon thousands of flies swarmed over the remains of a horse, and what looked to be a bear of some type. It was hard to tell exactly but, as Buck yanked off his bandanna and covered his nose, all he felt was relief that they hadn’t found a dead human being.

JD grimaced at the stench, irritably swatting away a few insects that buzzed around him. He wasn’t too keen on examining the animal corpses, so he wandered around the area, squatting down when he noticed a blackened, charred mark in the soil where a campfire had been lit. "That’s strange…" he mumbled, frowning at a pile of smoke and ash darkened rocks nearby.

As Buck approached the rotting horse carcass, a black cloud of flies dispersed into the air, and he swirled his neck cloth around his head to prevent himself from getting bitten. Looking at the unholy morass on the ground, the older man saw, from what was left of the tail and mane, that the horse had been roan-coloured. That was a common enough hue in the west, and it didn’t look familiar or ring any bells for Wilmington. The bridle that was stuck to the ravaged flesh of the beast was plainly adorned, carrying no distinguishing marks of ownership, but there were no other riding accoutrements nearby. It was hard to gauge exactly but, from the rate of decay and the amount of fleshy matter still on the bones, he estimated the two animals had only been dead for a couple of days.

"Hey, Buck, come and look at this!" JD called out to his friend.

The older man was only too glad to get away from the pair of stinking and maggot-infested bodies. Dropping down next to the sheriff, Buck stared in the direction his friend was indicating. "It must’ve come off that dead horse," he said, on seeing the abandoned saddle lying under a bush.

"But why leave it behind? A saddle’s real expensive, and a necessity out here…. Unless…"

"Unless you have no choice in the matter," the moustached peacekeeper finished.

"What d’ya think it means, Buck?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, kid."

"Yeah, that saddle’s got me baffled too, but it ain’t all that I found," the younger man said triumphantly.

Buck frowned, casting a quizzical look his friend’s way, when the other man pointed to some rocks by his feet. "You’re gonna have to lay it out for me, kid," he growled.

JD rolled his eyes expansively. "Take a real good look at those rocks," he instructed, tapping the stone perched atop the neat pile of boulders.

"They’re just a stupid pile of stones, JD!"

"I know that!" Dunne scoffed. "But it’s the… precise positioning… umm… it’s the way they’re laying that made me look twice. Ain’t you ever noticed how Vin always heaps up the rocks after he’s used ‘em to ring a campfire? It’s like some sort of… like a habit, I s’pose. Or perhaps it’s a ritual or somethin’. Maybe it’s to do with how the Indian tribes do stuff, but he always places the used stones in this sort of pyramid shaped stack. I’d bet my wages for the next year that this was done by Vin! That’s a piece of helpful information, isn’t it?"

The taller man studied the tidy arrangement of smoke-blackened rocks, admitting that his colleague had made a valid point. Now that JD had stated it out loud, Buck recalled the normal routine the tracker always followed whenever breaking camp on the trail. In the past, the ladies’ man had just accepted the Texan’s odd custom, without asking or speculating on the reason why Tanner did it. It had never seemed that important. Until now, that is.

"I’ll grant ya - it’s information of some kind! But it only tells us that Vin may have been here, and that he probably dismantled a campfire. Just how does that help us, JD?" Buck enquired.

"Well, if he were being help prisoner, it’s unlikely he’d be doing chores around an overnight camp. I reckon he’d be tied up good an’ tight, and kept well away from his captors. This implies that Vin set things up here… and… and… Jeez, that’s the answer!" JD grinned, punching the air as another idea occurred to him

"Buck, who do we know that’s got the kinda outdoor and defence skills to set traps like the one that got me just now?" the sheriff asked excitedly.

A spark of hope illuminated Buck’s indigo eyes, and his mouth curved into a smile as he came to the same conclusion as his younger friend. "Yes! Trust Tanner to come up with somethin’ from nuthin’! This whole area cries out from Vin’s touch, an’ if he and Chris were hiding from Joseph – without much in the way of weaponry – then our ever practical tracker would’ve set defences around the camp’s perimeter. I think your instincts were bang on target, kid – we are getting somewhere at long last. Let’s have a good scout around and see if we can pick up any tracks or markers. If that dead horse was ridden by one of them and they’ve had to double up, then we might be able to find some prominent hoof prints."

JD nodded and started to wander around the area, scouring the earth for anything that might give them any clue to say which way the camp’s occupants went.

"Here’s a set of fairly deep-set tracks, going back down this hill," the dark-haired youth informed his companion. "Buck, from what I’ve learnt from Vin, I’d say we’re following just the one horse. That’s… that’s a good thing, ain’t it?"

There was a note of pleading in Dunne’s question, which ripped the ladies’ man’s heart apart. He knew how disconsolate and depressed the sheriff was becoming after losing their missing colleagues’ trail – hell, he was traversing that road himself! But it was a lonesome journey, and one he didn’t necessarily want company with. Buck hated seeing his young and normally carefree friend in this frame of mind, so he attempted to provide as much reassurance as he could to the other.

"Well, things must have improved for the better if Chris and Vin were able to get themselves free. Plus, if it is them sharing a ride, then we should be able to catch up with a single horse carrying double."

The Bostonian smiled brightly. "There’s nothin’ else here to see, an’ we’re wasting time jawing, Buck! Let’s grab the horses and follow those tracks. We may not be that far behind ‘em."

There was a lighter spring in both men’s steps, as they hastily made their way back to the horses. At last they had something definitive to go after, and any thought of revenge against Tanner senior had been pushed from Buck’s mind. He was utterly focussed now on finding his two missing friends, safe and well.

TBC.... sorry about those three hated letters, but I will endeavour to update this story as soon as possible.