The vast expanse of wasteland could be harsh and unforgiving, a veritable prison of emptiness and sterile solitude, yet for some reason, the unlikely home to prey and predator alike. The scorching, breath-stealing heat of the day, the bright glare of the relentless sun, the arid desert countryside, the hot dusty wind; all lay silently in wait for the chance to suck a man dry. A traveler left on foot could walk for days with no sign of water, no sign of life, no living soul to break the numbing sameness. The scattering of bleached white bones across the barren landscape gave mute witness to the many who had fallen victim to its malevolent splendor.

The shadowed nights weren't much better, a biting cold stinging the flesh and numbing the senses, wearing on a man, driving him crazy with just trying to keep warm. For the broken earth was wasted, mostly dying, barely enough tinder to be found to make a decent fire, let alone hold back the bitter chill. Those who knew better said if a man didn't freeze to death first, he was bound to fry in the searing heat of the noonday sun. Or more likely, meet his Maker chasing a vision of shimmering, black water that was always and forever just out of his reach. The desert could drive a man senseless that way.

It was untamed and unforgiving, home to the coyote, the scorpion, the tarantula and the diamondback rattlesnake. A harsh, bitter land that gave nothing away but took all a man had, forced him to earn his place there, to pay for it by the sweat of his brow and the strength of his back, in the work of his hands. Words like grit and determination only scratched the surface of those who endured, but failure was the ever ready victor, death the one true companion. It was a hard way of life and not many survived it long.

The cattlemen hated it, men like Lucas James and Guy Royal whose spreads lay to the east. With their large herds and hired hands, they spurned it, the mesquite thorns and creosote bush that weren't fit for decent grazing. The harsh land took more than it gave, every head of beef lost into its deadly arms meaning more money out of the greedy cattle barons' pockets. They favored the rich grasslands and lush meadows, the trickling streams and spring-fed ponds. Their cattle grew fat and the herds multiplied with a flood of new life arriving every spring. Grazing rights were protected fiercely, often violently, and newcomers who dared to cross their lands found they had neither the strength nor the resources to defend themselves, oftentimes paying for their trespass in blood.

King Cattle ruled the grasslands while the Serpent Queen reigned absolute upon the hostile desert.

But every now and then, the arid wastelands offered up a surprise, something wonderful and unexpected within its barren midst. A place where a thirsty man could find refuge and relief, where there was respite from the merciless heat and shade to cool his brow. An oasis, considered a miracle by some and a gift of God by still others. A place given birth by water nourishing the thirsty ground from below, set forth with an abundance of trees, cacti and green grasses, a haven for the weary traveler, the desert lark and cactus wren.

Here, in this place, life could flourish, establish a foothold and even somehow manage to grow. And it was here that three years earlier, Gunter Larsen brought his small band of sheep, the herd steadily increasing in number and size as well, all under the Dutchman's watchful gaze and the guardianship of his faithful collie dog, Shep.

Knowing full well that he wasn't far from the cattlemen's alert eyes and ears, Gunter kept to himself, his caution a natural consequence of the prejudice and animosity he'd endured, the consequences of not only being an immigrant but a sheep farmer as well. The deep lines on his sixty-something year old face bore testimony to the hard life he'd lived, the salt-and-pepper coloring of his thinning hair offset by the ruddy tan of his skin. As such, Gunter thought of himself as a loner; he needed no one, desired no company, was completely sufficient unto himself.

But all of that changed one dark, almost moonless night as he sat inside his small cabin, quietly sharing dinner with the dog.

The herd outside was restless, the bleating of the lambs and ewes far more noticeable than usual above the trace of wind whispering in the trees. Twice, Gunter went to the door, Shep beside him, gazing out into the darkness and listening to the sounds of twilight. Twice, he shook his head, gazed down at the old dog, then with a quiet word, closed the door and returned to his place before the stove. Finishing his meal a few minutes later, his belly satisfied, he sat back in his chair, pulled out his tobacco pouch and rolled himself a smoke.

Lying on the floor beside him, the large head resting between thick paws, the black and tan collie suddenly growled deep in its throat. Glancing down, Gunter noted the pricked ears, the sharpness of the ancient, film-covered eyes, the tensing of that big, solid body. When Shep gave a short bark, lifted to his feet and padded to the entry, the man needed no further urging. Grabbing his rifle, Gunter got up and carefully moved to stand beside the dog. He listened hard, then reached for the latch, easing the wooden door open with a squeak and a tiny rasp.

Too silent. Tense. Expectant. Waiting.

Then the dog exploded from his side as the harsh screams and cries of the sheep suddenly filled the night. Stepping out into the light spilling from the doorway, Gunter cursed his failing eyesight, blinking rapidly as he peered into the inky darkness. Rough growls and snarls and the sound of snapping teeth charged the air, Shep's deep bark of anger layered with the frightened bleating of lambs and ewes.

The herd was under attack and Gunter's heart raced wildly with sudden fear. He couldn't see but a few feet past the doorway, but his ears brought him the din of the fierce battle now being waged somewhere out there in the darkness. He listened, turned his head in that direction, squinted into the night, then shuddered with horror at the high-pitched squeal of pain he knew could only belong to Shep. The big, loyal dog was trained to protect and defend the herd with his life; Gunter knew his faithful companion had most likely paid a heavy price.

Trying to salvage what he could, Gunter lifted his rifle and fired three times into the air, heard the sudden scrabble of hooves upon rocks and then the padded thud of paws that represented the hasty retreat of the mysterious attacker. He waited, silence settling in, hearing only his own heartbeat and the heavy rasp of breath inside his chest. Retrieving a kerosene lantern from the cabin, he lit the wick and went to inspect the carnage.

Six of his best ewes lay dead with their throats ripped out; four young lambs were motherless and his devoted friend and partner lay bloodied and badly wounded. Gunter settled the rest of the herd as best he could, then carried Shep back into the house. He tended to the dog's injuries, ran a gentle hand over the large head and in response, received a single thump of the thick and heavy tail. Settling in for the night, the old man spread his blankets on the floor beside his wounded companion. But sleep did not come easy.

In the full light of the morning, Gunter surveyed the damage, trying to figure out what had attacked his herd and then resigning himself to seeking help. There was a fairly small settlement a few hours' walk to the north and over the last two years, he'd heard rumors of men-for-hire there, seven peacekeepers paid by a territorial judge to protect the town and keep the peace. It was also rumored that these same hired guns weren't afraid of Lucas James and Guy Royal and other men of their kind. Gunter figured that was a good sign. For if what he suspected was true, they were precisely the kind of men he needed to help him protect his sheep.

---

"Stage comin' in," JD called out from where he stood on the porch of the sheriff's office. Stretching out his long legs, Buck lazily pushed up from his chair, yawned loudly and moved to stand beside him. Twinkling blue eyes regarded the dusty red coach with a hint of playful amusement. The day had been decidedly quiet and boring so far. Perhaps the early arrival of the afternoon stage might just liven things up a bit.

A cloud of dust billowed out behind the moving conveyance as the thunder of horse's hooves and the jangling of harnesses filled the air. The groan of leather and the cries of the driver as he called out to his team joined in to drown out the usual hum of everyday conversation and commerce. With a final shout and a jostling of brakes, the stagecoach rattled slowly to a halt in front of the town's single hotel.

"Four Corners," the reinsman called out as the shotgun rider clambered down from the box. Setting a small, square step on the ground, he opened the door and indicated for the passengers to disembark. Helping hand extended, his gruff voice could be heard giving them instructions to the hotel, the nearest saloon and coincidentally, the sheriff's office. That had JD's eyebrows lifting as he turned to glance quizzically at the taller man beside him.

Grinning beneath his thick mustache, Buck just shrugged his shoulders and continued to peer across the street. A soft, low whistle issued from between his lips a moment later as a pretty, dark-haired woman in a light blue traveling dress alighted. Always one to appreciate the finer aspects of the opposite sex, the ladies' man was instantly intrigued. But his grin of interest quickly turned to a frown of disappointment when a man appeared from behind her, a proprietary hand gaining hold of her elbow to escort her up onto the sidewalk.

*"Damn!"* Buck cursed silently. The lady was either married or at the very least spoken for. Not that he'd ever paid much mind to that in the past but these days, he'd learned to be, as Ezra would say, more... circumspect. Yeah, he chuckled, that was the word the fancy gambler would use.

Circumspect.

Buck's easy grin reappeared, an acknowledgment of how much he'd changed over the last couple of years. Ever since he'd been hired by Judge Travis to protect one small, frontier town and taken up with the six other men who were now his closest friends. He'd bought himself into at least a degree of respectability, not something he'd ever had cause to worry about before, but there were certain duties and privileges that came with that position. Oh, he still enjoyed a good, lusty romp between the sheets with a willing woman to warm his backside afterward. He'd just learned to be more...discreet...yep, he sighed, another one of Ezra's fancy words...he'd learned to be more discreet about it and avoid getting his butt shot full of rock salt for his troubles.

He shook his head, his grin widening, white and toothy as memories of his younger days spent riding side by side with Chris Larabee flashed through his mind. They'd been a wild pair, the two of them, riding hard, drinking and fighting even harder, chasing after anything in skirts that flashed a smile in their direction. No risk too great, no woman too ugly, at least as long as she was willing and a bottle of whiskey was close at hand. Hell, Buck reflected, truth be told, he was amazed they hadn't gotten themselves killed.

Not that there was a lack of folks willing to try, especially with Chris's reputation with a gun. Nobody slicker, nobody meaner, nobody faster. A cool hand, a cold mind, an even colder heart. At least, that's what everybody had thought.

But all that changed the day Sarah Connelly had walked into Chris's life. It changed even more the day she'd been taken away. She and Adam...and the man Chris used to be.

Buck sighed, fighting back the dark thoughts that came from remembering the tragedy that had befallen his oldest friend. He'd long ago resigned himself to the fact that nothing good ever came from dredging up the past. Nothing good for him and certainly nothing good for Chris. Not that either of them ever forgot. There were just some things that stayed with you no matter where you went, what you did or who you became. Sarah and Adam Larabee's deaths were one of them.

And even though it still gnawed at his gut on occasion, Buck had learned to let it go. He couldn't change the past, couldn't bring them back and had therefore resigned himself to moving on. And for the longest time, he'd wished that Chris could do the same. But the man had been driven by his need for revenge, his quest for answers. Answers the tall, angry blond hadn't found until recently, answers that Buck wasn't sure his friend could deal with, even now, some three months later.

Ella Gaines's treachery, her obsession with Larabee and the "execution" of Chris's wife and young son by Cletus Fowler still left a sour hole in Buck's stomach. It made him almost physically sick every time he thought about it and about the bullet her hired hand had put into Chris's chest that nearly ended the gunslinger's life. They'd almost lost Chris then, not only to his physical wounds but to the unseen ones buried deep within Larabee's fractured soul.

‘Still waters run deep' was what Josiah would say and Buck truly believed it. Ever since he and Chris had returned from Mexico that day, he had known that somehow, deep down, Chris blamed himself for the deaths of his wife and son. But always at the back of the blond's mind, there'd been a niggling doubt that somehow, some way, maybe it was just possible that it wasn't...and it had been hard that day at Ella's, seeing all of Chris's fears and doubts swept aside, confirming once and for all that the reason Sarah and Adam had died was so that Ella Gaines could finally have Chris Larabee for herself.

It didn't matter that the woman was crazy, deranged, obsessed, out of her mind and had apparently killed other innocents before. No, it hadn't mattered one damned bit. Chris had all too easily tried, convicted and sentenced himself as guilty, acting as defendant, prosecutor, judge and jury, all in the court of his own damned conscience. The verdict was still written in the harsh lines of Chris's gaunt face and the unnatural thinness of his already too lean frame. Wilmington had wondered on more than one occasion if perhaps his friend was simply willing himself to die, the unhealthy pallor surrounding the blond reminding him all too clearly of the stench of approaching Death.

They had all tried, even JD and then Ezra, the least likely among them to breach that impenetrable wall. God knew how all of them had tried, but particularly Nathan and Josiah, one man seeking to heal Chris's physical wounds, the other offering his spiritual help and guidance to deal with a sickness that invaded the mind as well as the soul. Buck had tried too, only to be met with a stony silence, a passive resistance, his very presence seeming to hurt more often than it helped. In retrospect, he supposed that he reminded Chris too much of what had been and all that he had lost, their shared history coming back to haunt them. And so he withdrew, not wanting to cause pain, letting Chris have the time and space he needed, hoping the man would heal.

Then there was Vin.

For a time, Buck had hoped that Vin, their reserved and nearly silent tracker, would find a way to reach Chris, to help him in his grief. The two of them were close, closer than he and Chris had ever been, best friends in a way that allowed them a communion of souls not often seen between two such disparate men. But Vin, well, these days the tracker seemed to be wrestling with his own internal demons, ever since he'd returned to town having failed to track Ella Gaines down. It was as if he blamed himself for what had happened to Chris, hadn't warned him strongly enough. As if he'd personally let the gunslinger down by not finding that bitch and killing her, an opportunity missed to exact Larabee's long awaited revenge.

Buck shook his head, his dark, shaggy hair a bit long and in need of a good cut. Life went on while you weren't looking, continued with or without you, one day spilling into the next until one morning you woke up and realized nearly three whole months had passed.

Damn.

So here they were now and where did they go from here?

Chris was mostly absent, hiding out at his cabin in the hills, avoiding the town and anything and anyone even remotely connected to it. Vin oftentimes couldn't be found, disappearing God knew where for days on end and showing up at the strangest times with nothing much to say. Not all that unusual really as the man never spoke more than a handful of words in a day to start with, but at times it was downright spooky, the way he slithered in and out of the shadows. Josiah spent even more time than usual working on rebuilding his church while Nate was gone for longer and longer periods of time, visiting with Tastanagi and his people on the reservation.

To all appearances, it seemed as if only JD and Ezra had escaped the growing tension that signaled the rift between the members of their hired band. JD, possibly out of youthful ignorance...and admittedly, exuberance...and Ezra, well, because Ezra was Ezra and looking out for himself was second nature to him. But outward appearances could be deceiving and Buck knew that the gambler's jaunty façade was just another instance of Josiah's ‘still waters running deep.' Truth be told, all of them had been affected by the tragedy Ella Gaines had wreaked upon their lives. They'd all suffered from it, been deeply influenced by it and even now, were still struggling to get past it.

It was a sorry state of affairs and Buck was beginning to wonder just how much longer the Judge would let it go on before deciding to fire all seven of them. Not that the town needed a whole lot of protecting lately. Seemed that the reputation of seven hired guns alone served to drive off most of the unruly riffraff or at the very least make them think twice about deciding to ride in there. Yeah, all in all, it was pretty quiet lately and Buck was beginning to regret not feeling that itch of excitement scratching at the back of his neck.

Then, almost as if he'd conjured the man up simply by thought alone, Buck's eyes narrowed, his body straightening, a grim line replacing his wistful smile. "JD," he called, his gaze never leaving the arriving passengers across the street. "Did Mary Travis say anything ‘bout the Judge comin' ta town?"

"No, why?" the younger man replied, his hands resting on the butts of his twin Colts as he peered across the way. His brown bowler hat rested lightly atop his head; his hazel eyes were bright with interest.

"Well, if I'm not mistaken, I do believe the good Judge has just arrived ta pay us a visit."

JD scowled, eyes narrowed as he recognized the imposing figure in the gray suit with the salt-and-pepper hair. The young man chewed thoughtfully upon his lower lip. "Guess somebody'd better go get Chris," he offered, knowing the Judge would want to speak with their acknowledged leader.

Stepping down into the street, Buck replied over his shoulder, "Send Vin after him, then meet us in the saloon," and kept moving across the way, his long legs striding quickly across the ground. "If ya can find him," he muttered under his breath of their oftentimes errant tracker. He didn't look back to see if JD obeyed, just trusted his young friend to get the job done while the ladies man carried out a bit of a diversionary tactic.

After all, he reasoned, a man was sure to be thirsty after a long ride spent inside a stagecoach eating nothing but heat and dust.

---

Chris Larabee raised his head, glared up at the hot sun and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of one arm. Glancing briefly at his right hand, he cursed the painful calluses there before bending to resume his task. His left hand held steady while the rasp of metal on wood echoed in the small clearing around the cabin. Then with a final snap, the sapling pole dropped to the ground, landing on the growing pile collected at the gunslinger's feet.

Breathing deeply, Chris put aside the hacksaw and reached for the ladle sticking out of the water bucket he'd set nearby. Filling it, he drank thirstily, letting the cool liquid spill over the edges of his mouth so that it washed down the column of his throat, soaking the front of his sticky, gray undershirt. Filling it again, he closed his eyes and dumped it over his head. The water ran through his matted blond hair and over his chiseled face, washing away traces of the collected sweat and grime from his flushed and heated skin. Droplets flew in every direction as he then shook his head, green eyes opening before he swiped his hair back off his forehead with a careless hand. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a bandana and ran it over his weary features.

Glancing around at the collected tools and materials, Chris sighed heavily, wondering sometimes why he even bothered. It wasn't like his horse needed a larger corral, wasn't like the roof on the cabin had any holes that needed patching, wasn't like the front porch needed new support posts. It was just something to do, something that kept him busy. After all, idle hands were the Devil's playground as Josiah was wont to say.

And God knew Chris Larabee had spent enough time in the Devil's playground lately. He'd gotten himself burned and burned badly in the process. Adding fuel to the fire was the knowledge that his foolish mistakes had almost gotten six good men killed, had nearly gotten him killed as well, not to mention the poor young woman who'd died in the ensuing gun battle.

Hilda. He didn't remember her last name, just her face as she sang that day in the parlor of the ranch house and the look on Buck's face as he listened, enchanted, lost.

Chris sighed deeply, his breath gusting between his lips as he raised one hand to rub at the ache in his chest, the healed scar from Handsome Jack Averill's bullet a permanent reminder of his stupidity, of just how close he'd come, of how close they'd all come. Of how he'd wanted to die once he'd learned the truth of what that bitch had done to his family...and why.

Swearing softly, Chris ruthlessly pushed those morbid thoughts aside. He didn't want to think of her, didn't want to see her face, hear her words, feel the cold rage swelling inside of him. He didn't want to think of what he'd done with her, in her room, in her bed.

Self-hatred then reared its ugly head.

*"You're a pathetic, stupid bastard, Larabee!"*

Angry yet again, Chris bent down and picked up a freshly cut pole. He dragged it over to the corral and with pieces of rope secured it to the thick posts. Taking up his hammer and a handful of nails, he began pounding away, taking out his fury and frustration on the hapless piece of wood. A few minutes later, he went back to retrieve another one, working relentlessly, without pause, driving his barely healed body to the very edge of physical collapse. It was the only way Chris could sleep, the only way to keep himself from thinking, from remembering, from feeling. He pushed himself to the very edge of his limits so that when he blew out the lantern late at night, he fell instantly into a blessed oblivion.

It was the only thing he had left. The only thing he could truly control.

The tormented blond paused to catch his breath, leaned against the post and laughed coldly at himself. Hell, maybe he was just trying to find a way to atone for his sins, to pay penance, like Josiah and his efforts to rebuild the town's neglected church. God knew he had a lot to answer for, a lot of people that he'd betrayed, not to mention the memories of his wife and son. The mere thought of it was enough to make him sick.

His self-recriminations were interrupted by a warm breath against the side of his neck and a soft black muzzle pushing against his shoulder. Without thinking, Chris batted it away, grumbling with irritation, "Get th'hell away from me!" The last thing he wanted or needed was the steady-natured gelding pestering him for a handout.

Puzzled by his master's rough treatment, the big horse snorted, took a step back and eyed the human with an accusing brown gaze. Receiving no apology, Pony lowered his large head, shook it a couple of times before emitting what sounded suspiciously like a grumble. Turning, the black slowly wandered away, finding things more to his interest on the far side of the corral than the bad-tempered, ornery human who had swatted him in the nose.

Chris watched him go, smiling grimly to himself as he realized that he'd even managed to piss off his horse. Hell, at this rate, he'd probably end up alienating the one living thing left on the face of the earth that still gave a damn whether Chris Larabee lived or if he died. Damned horse definitely knew which side of the bucket his sweet feed came from. Just his luck the big gelding would probably follow him to his grave, fussing at him the whole time for not leaving a ration of grain sitting in his feed bin. Chris wasn't surprised when the big animal turned his haunches toward him, swishing that long black tail in a manner that was decidedly irritated.

Funny how even his horse communicated without words. Sort of like him and Vin...

Chris ruthlessly squashed that thought before it could even be fully born, not wanting to think about the younger man and the friendship that he'd thrown away. But some things he couldn't so easily control no matter how hard that he tried. With a heavy sigh and an even heavier heart, Chris turned back to hammering away at the fence, feeling the guilt and pain wash over him once again.

He'd treated Vin badly, treated all of them badly, been ready to run out on them the first chance that came along, the first golden opportunity that presented itself. Ella Gaines's golden opportunity, he snorted derisively. Chris winced inwardly at that, admitting he had more in common with Ezra than he realized, remembering back to when they'd defended the Indian village and the smooth-talking gambler had disappeared. But at least Ezra had found the courage to return, to face the rest of them, whereas he...

Well, Chris couldn't say the same for himself, could he? Technically, the army would consider him ‘missing in action,' possibly even a deserter. He'd been neglecting his duties as peacekeeper, avoiding Buck and the others and anything remotely to do with the town. Truth was, he acknowledged, he was hiding out. Hiding from them and hiding from himself.

And Chris hated himself all the more for being such a weakling and a coward. Sarah and Adam had deserved more than that from him. His friends had deserved more too.

On the other side of the corral, the big black horse suddenly whinnied a loud greeting, the sound of an approaching rider drawing Chris from his disparaging thoughts. Lifting his head, he turned and out of habit inched closer to his gun, relaxing a moment later as he recognized the silhouetted, buckskin figure.

Vin Tanner.

What the hell did he want?

But even as irritation flashed through him, Chris felt guilty for his uncharitable mind-set. The man was supposed to be his best friend after all and yet Chris had been deliberately avoiding him as well. Had been avoiding those all-knowing blue eyes of his, those keen eyes that with one glance could cut him to the quick. Those same eyes that had tried so desperately to warn him of Ella Gaines's treachery.

Chris felt like a damned fool.

A few minutes later, Vin reined his horse to a halt in front of him, sharp eyes sweeping the immediate area and taking in all the materials scattered about and the unfinished portion of the corral. Then, looking back, one hand lifted to the brim of his hat in greeting as he quietly nodded his head.

"Vin," the blond returned, his voice a soft rasp. "What brings you out here?"

Leaning forward in the saddle, Vin crossed his forearms over the horn and rested his lanky frame before answering. "Buck thought ya might wanna know...Judge Travis come in on th'stage today."

That was it. That was all the tracker had to say. And Chris found he couldn't hold the look the younger man leveled at him, so he settled instead for glancing down at his grimy, sweat-stained clothes. Running one hand down the front of his undershirt, he grimaced at the dirty streak it left behind. He'd have to bathe and get cleaned up first before heading into town. There was no way he could face Travis looking like he'd just plowed forty acres of barren field.

Sighing resolutely, he replied, "I'll be there directly."

The gunslinger wasn't surprised when Vin silently nodded his head, straightened and tugged on the reins, urging his horse around as he headed back to town. Chris stood there a moment, watching him go, regretting, wondering just how in the hell things had gone so wrong and whether or not he should try to make them right.

It was a question he'd asked himself many times over the last few weeks. Sighing tiredly, he admitted he was still no closer to finding an answer.

---

The town saloon was noisy, boisterous even despite the lingering heat of the dying day. Loud male laughter floated through the slotted wooden doors, the click and chime of piano keys and the clank of glasses drifting in the air along with the smell of tobacco, whiskey, sweat and stale beer. One table in the back corner seemed louder than all the others, not because of the men gathered around it, but because of the wealth of their raised voices engaged in lively conversation.

To the outside observer, the five men there were simply sharing a cold beer, slaking their thirsts while idly passing the time of day. But to the keen eyes of Ezra Standish who watched them from across the room, there was an underlying current of tension that belied their easy camaraderie. His green gaze narrowed, the gambler's lips pursed in silent contemplation as he absently shuffled the deck of cards he held in his left hand. Strange, but for once the booming mirth that poured from Buck Wilmington's mouth grated on his nerves.

Something was decidedly off here and it irked Ezra as well as piqued his insatiable curiosity. The southerner prided himself on knowing these men well, better than even they realized, and the fact that something was definitely amiss could not fail to go unnoticed. A master at reading faces and in the fine art of body language, Ezra found himself perturbed by the tight lines at the edges of Buck's mouth, the tense set to JD's shoulders and the way the large, hazel eyes kept flittering across the room to seek out the weathered doors of the busy saloon. Even Josiah, who sat beside the younger man, seemed more somber than was his customary manner.

Only Judge Orrin Travis and his traveling companion appeared to be at ease, the older man's imposing figure leaning forward in the chair so that his elbows rested on the table. A mug of beer was cradled between his hands, a tolerant expression covering the lines of his weather-beaten features. Collar length salt and pepper hair was slicked back from his craggy brow; his dark eyes were lit with intelligence and an inner fire that reflected the strength of his personality. In contrast, the slightly shorter man beside him remained somewhat of a mystery.

Introduced briefly as Arnold Davies, a friend of Judge Travis', Ezra couldn't quite get a read on the man. There was something about him that seemed to defy the gambler's skills, a smoothness in his manner and appearance that was just too slick, too glib, too artificial, as if the friendly outward demeanor was hiding something sinister. As if, Ezra realized, the man were perhaps a charlatan or a con artist like himself, and it set his teeth on edge, watching as his friends socialized with the recent arrival.

"JD, you couldn't tell a good joke if yer life depended on it," Buck asserted with a big, indulgent smile.

"Aw, come on, Buck!" JD protested, his youthful face brimming with outrage. "I tell great jokes and you know it. Just ‘cause you didn't get the one about the three-legged dog is no reason to..."

"Oh, I got it all right," the scoundrel assured him, nodding, his blue eyes twinkling as he glanced to Josiah for support. "It just wasn't funny, right, Josiah?"

The gray-haired man's face screwed up in an expression half way between a smile and a grimace. "A jest's prosperity lies in the ear."

Scowling, JD puffed his chest out, full of righteous indignation. "All right then, why don't we let Judge Travis decide," he declared, certain he could prove his point. "I'll tell a joke, then you tell one, Buck, and then we'll let him decide which one of us tells it best."

"JD, son..." Buck sighed, shaking his head sadly, "when it comes to competin' against ol' Buck here, well, you just ain't even in the same race, kid."

"What's the matter, Buck? Scared?" JD taunted, grinning from ear to ear. He had a whole passel of new jokes and was just itching to share them. "I'll even go first," he volunteered, one hand slapping the slick wooden table.

"Gentlemen, I think perhaps..." Travis began only to be interrupted by a restraining hand on his forearm. He turned an inquiring gaze to the man beside him and subsided as Davies indicated that he was interested in the ongoing friendly debate.

"You're gonna love this one, Judge," JD predicted, his eyes glowing with excitement. "Here goes...A string walks into a bar and asks for a shot of whiskey. The bartender says ‘Sorry, we don't serve strings' so the string leaves. The same string comes back the next day and asks for a shot of whiskey. The bartender says ‘Sorry, we don't serve strings, you'll have to leave.' The next day, the string comes back and decides to try something different. So he ties himself in a knot and unravels one end. He goes in the bar and asks for a shot of whiskey. The bartender says ‘Hey, ain't you the same string that's been comin' in here all the time?' and the string replies...No, I'm a frayed knot!"

Silence spilled around the table as JD held his breath, waiting expectantly, obviously disappointed when not even a single one of them laughed.

"Get it? I'm a-frayed-knot... afraid not..." he encouraged, hazel eyes gleaming.

Feeling a bit awkward, Josiah harrumphed softly and then took a sip from his beer while Judge Travis' face remained absolutely impassive. The dark eyes gave no clue to what he was thinking, the man's expression completely unreadable.

"JD, son..." Buck began, shaking his head again, his exasperation obvious.

"Aw, come on...that's a great joke!" Frustration clouded JD's gaze and he seemed to deflate, sinking back into his chair with a loud and obvious sigh of disgust. Sticking out his lower lip in a pout, he muttered, "You guys just don't have a sense of humor."

"Actually," Josiah contradicted, his deep voice rumbling and smooth, "I've been told I have a great sense of humor...when I hear something funny."

JD shot him a dark look and would have made a scathing comeback except for the firm hand that landed on his forearm. "Mr. Dunne...JD, if I may," Arnold Davies interjected politely, "I happened to enjoy your little story, however, it's hardly fair to ask Orrin for his judicial opinion when he has yet to hear from the other side."

And as easy as that, JD's ruffled feathers were quickly soothed. He leaned forward in his chair, took up his mug of beer and crossed his arms on the table expectantly.

"All right, Buck," he nodded his head. "Let's hear what ya got!"

"JD, I dun tole ya..."

"Might as well put up or shut up, Buck." The big ex-preacher decided to play a bit of the Devil's advocate himself, his merriment showing in the wide grin that twisted his features. Leave it to JD to put a burr under Buck's thick hide and who was he to pass up the God-sent opportunity to watch the ladies' man squirm?

"All right," Buck finally nodded, one finger stroking his dark mustache thoughtfully. "All right, I got one...There's this Mexican bandit who was always crossing the Rio Grande an' robbin' banks down in Texas. He was pretty good at it fer awhile but then somebody got smart an' put a price on his head. Along comes this ol' bounty hunter who decides ta track him down. Now, it took awhile but he finally caught up with the fella at his favorite cantina havin' a shot of tequila. He sneaks up behind him an' puts his trusty six-shooter to the man's head and says, ‘Yer under arrest. Tell me where ya hid the loot or I'll blow yer brains out.'"

A loud snort interrupted his tale as JD exclaimed, "Shoot, Buck, that ain't even funny!"

"Hush up, kid," Buck ordered, his eyes narrowed. "I ain't done yet...Now the problem is that this bandit, see, he don't speak English an' the bounty hunter, well, he don't speak Spanish, so neither one of ‘em knows what the heck the other is sayin'." He edged forward in his chair, clearly warming to the story. "Now here's the good part. There's this judge passing through town an' he just happens to speak English *and* Spanish so he offers to help ‘em out. He tells the bandit what the bounty hunter said an' then the bandit gets so scared, he tells the judge the loot is buried under a tree out back of the cantina."

Smirking openly now, Buck paused and took a sip of his beer. He casually eyed his audience, making sure he had their full attention. "Well, after the bandit says something in Spanish, the bounty hunter asks the judge, ‘What'd he say?'...Well, the judge being a smart man ‘n all, he answers... ‘He said—Get lost, gringo. You ain't got th'balls ta shoot me!'"

The punch line delivered, Buck sat back and plastered a wide grin across his face, soft chuckles escaping from between his lips as he waited for their reaction. The twinkle in his blue eyes faded however, as one after one, the four other men failed to even crack a smile. Finally, it was JD who broke the pregnant silence.

"Is that it? That's your joke?" he quizzed, eyebrows raised. "It's not even funny, Buck."

"No, now wait, JD," Buck objected, one hand waving in the air. "You obviously don't get it. See, the judge speaks Spanish so he tricks..."

"I get it, Buck," JD assured him, his face twisted into a grimace of annoyance. "I get it and it ain't funny."

"Is too!" Buck shot back. "Josiah?"

The older man raised both his hands in protest. "I'm just an innocent bystander." He gave them a toothy grin and went back to enjoying his beer.

"Hah!" JD exploded. "See, I told you. My joke was better."

"Says who?" the other man challenged.

"Judge?"

All eyes at the table turned to regard Orrin Travis who, so far throughout this battle of wits, had kept his own counsel. They waited a bit impatiently as he appeared to ponder the matter. The keen eyes flicked from one man to the other then back again, weighing each in appearance as well as in words, finally reaching a decision as the wise head slowly nodded.

"Gentlemen, I think there is insufficient evidence for me to render a fair and impartial ruling. I, therefore, declare a mistrial and announce that this court is hereby adjourned." With that, he tapped his beer mug heavily on the table in a fairly good imitation of banging his judge's gavel on his desk. "Now, if you don't mind, I believe I'm going to go see my grandson and hear all about his day at school."

Having said that, Judge Orrin Travis set down his mug and pushed back from the table. The scrape of the chair legs seemed overly loud despite the noise still filling the saloon. A quick glance to the Judge's left showed him that Arnold Davies was in the process of doing the same, the two men moving to stand up as one. Travis anticipated the words of complaint that teetered on the edge of JD's tongue, silencing the younger man with an imperious wave of his hand.

"My decision is final," he stated firmly, straightening his shoulders and standing tall.

"Aw, come on...Mr. Davies?" the dark-headed youth implored even as Buck sniggered into his glass of beer, his broad shoulders shaking with mirth.

"I'm sorry," came the polite reply that accompanied a wide, gracious smile. "Like your friend, Mr. Sanchez here, I'm just an innocent bystander. I'm afraid I really can't afford to become involved in local territorial disputes."

JD frowned, his dark brows drawing together in confusion, while Josiah guffawed loudly behind his hand. What in the heck did territorial disputes have to do with who could tell the best joke? The young man's frown deepened, a touch of irritation mixed in with the hazel of his eyes as JD decided that once again, his friends were laughing at him and he wasn't sure why.

"I'll say good evening now, gentlemen," Judge Travis saluted. "And if you happen to see Mr. Larabee, would you please ask him to join me for dinner at the hotel. I have some business I'd like to discuss with him at his earliest possible convenience."

"Sure thing, Judge," Buck asserted, already mentally calculating the time since Vin had ridden out after the wayward gunslinger and reckoning it was pretty close to being long enough for both men to be returning some time soon. And as for the Judge's request for Chris to join him for dinner, Buck wasn't a fool. He knew better than to suppose it was anything less than an order. His mouth twitched slightly, wondering just how Chris would react to receiving such an order from the Judge, let alone one that was delivered secondhand. Larabee's temper was testy at best these days, he admitted silently, ever since Ella Gaines rode into town and sent Chris to hell and back again.

Quickly shrugging off those dark thoughts, Buck grinned and exchanged good nights with the Judge and his guest who then moved away towards the exit. JD, however, had to try one last time to win what he still considered the ongoing contest.

"Hey, Judge?" he called out, garnering more than his fair share of attention. "Why did the trail boss fire the bow-legged cowboy?"

Travis stopped and half turned in his direction, one eyebrow lifted, an indication that the older man was at the very least listening. Davies stood quietly beside him, brown eyes directed at the brash young man, an indulgent look upon his features.

When the Judge didn't answer, JD supplied, "Because he couldn't keep his calves together!"

There was a general chorus of loud hoots and catcalls as the two older men then turned to leave. But JD never saw them go. He was too busy ducking the large hand that swung across the table at him. Buck's palm slapped him on the side of the head and sent him reeling directly into Josiah's broad shoulder. JD's cry of protest was weak as he laughed and grinned good-naturedly while trying to regain his balance. He ran one hand over the dark strands of his hair to smooth them back into place, hazel eyes lifting from beneath the veil of his bangs to find blue eyes smiling fondly back at him.

The approval he saw written there warmed his heart and JD nodded, accepting Buck's silent thanks for keeping Judge Travis...and his friend...distracted while they waited for the errant Larabee to show.

At his customary table across the room, Ezra Standish watched as the two men left, a wisp of a smile on his lips at the clownish antics of his friends. Releasing a held breath, he slipped the deck of cards back into the pocket of his favorite red jacket. The gambler then downed the rest of his whiskey in one smooth swallow, rose to his feet and slipped quietly from the room. A slight grimace twisted his mouth as Ezra melted into the night, knowing Maude would be absolutely appalled by this sudden indulgence of his curiosity.

---

It was after dusk by the time Chris rode slowly into town and the night watch fires were burning softly. Dancing flames threw flickering shadows of orange and yellow light against the wooden walls and reflected warmly off smooth panes of leaded glass. A thick layer of gray haze hovered above the dusty street, the tangy smell of wood smoke carried and lifted by the hint of an evening breeze. The town itself lay silent, calm and sleepy, its sidewalks and alleys nearly deserted. It was the time of evening when most folks were having dinner or gathered in the saloon for drinks and a bit of friendly conversation.

The tall, dark figure on the black horse that appeared out of the shadows would have been cause for concern if the silhouette of the rider were not so immediately familiar, the black clothes, the long duster, the distinctive hat brim and the pale features hidden just beneath it. Sighing with obvious relief, Buck rose from his chair in front of the sheriff's office, stepping forward into the light to acknowledge his oldest friend. The two men exchanged a nod of greeting as Larabee approached, a quick grimace crossing Buck's face when he realized the gunslinger was alone.

Where in the hell was Vin?

He then shrugged mentally, just barely restraining the urge to shake his head, knowing the missing tracker would show up whenever and wherever the man chose. But lately, there was no way of telling exactly when that would be. Damn scrawny, long-haired cuss had a habit of just turning up, appearing out of thin air like something out of a magic show he'd once seen or maybe one of those Indian spirits Tanner was so fond of telling them all about. Damned if he knew how the sorry sonuvabitch did it too.

Pasting a small smile on his face, Buck answered Chris's question before the other man could even ask it. "Hotel...wants ya to join him for dinner...said it's business..."

Chris didn't speak, didn't even slow his horse; he merely nodded his head again and tapped his heels against the dark flanks. The gelding broke into a slow trot and moved off down the street, Buck's worried gaze following the stiff length of Chris's spine. This time, the ladies' man did allow himself a shake of his dark head, having seen all too clearly, in spite of the shadows, the gaunt features and the deep circles of exhaustion etched beneath Chris's eyes.

"And God said: It is not good that the man should be alone." Josiah's voice resonated in the quiet air as the large figure stepped up beside him. Buck turned to regard the older man, a curious light in his eyes at his choice of solemn words.

"More Bible philo-so-phizin', J'siah?"

"Yeah," the ex-preacher scoffed, his own gaze fixed on the solitary shadow moving down the street. "Genesis...Old Testament...when the good Lord first created Man and Woman..."

"Yeah, well," Buck intoned softly, "I don't reckon ol' Chris listens much to the good Lord these days. Reckon he figgers God has turned a deaf ear to him fer so long, he's just returning the favor."

A tempered disquiet was evident on Josiah's face as he replied, "Amen to that, brother. Amen to that." Sighing then, he stepped down into the street and headed across to the saloon, leaving Buck standing alone in the shifting light and play of shadows.

Reining in his horse beside the doors of the livery, Chris slowly dismounted, all the while aware of the watchful eyes following his progress. He knew his friends were worried about him, appreciated their concern, but some things...some burdens...were best carried alone. They weren't meant to be shared, didn't deserve to be shared. Especially when he had no one to blame but himself for the recent set of circumstances that had nearly gotten all of them killed. If only he hadn't...if he had just...

Swearing softly, Chris ruthlessly cut off the downward spiraling thoughts that had ruled his days and nights for the last three months. Three months since that bitch had ridden back into his life and...goddamn it! Why the hell couldn't he think of anything else? Why couldn't he let it go?

Why wouldn't she leave him be?

"Evenin', Mr. Larabee."

With a terse nod of his head, Chris handed the reins of his horse to the large bulk of a man who greeted him. As the hostler led the black gelding away, one of the gunslinger's hands snaked out and retrieved his saddlebags. Tossing them over his shoulder, he spun on one booted heel and stalked across the empty street towards the town's single restaurant. The chink of his spurs was muted in the thick gray air, small puffs of dry dust ghosting behind him as he walked.

Climbing the rough wooden steps, Chris slipped through the half open door of the boarding house and walked across the lobby to the desk. Virginia's rented out rooms to boarders but it also doubled as a hotel and boasted the only decent eating place left in town other than the saloon. Hefting his bags off his shoulder, the gunslinger deposited them on the polished mahogany surface, nodding a polite greeting to the clerk who took the leather bags even as he retrieved Chris's room key from its usual resting place.

"I'll take these upstairs for you, Mr. Larabee," the young man offered. "Judge Travis is in having dinner and asked that you please join him."

Frowning, the gunslinger turned away, sparing a brief thought for the trail dust covering his clothes and then deciding he didn't particularly care. If Orrin Travis was so all-fired anxious to see him that he'd told half the town his business, then who was he to keep the older man waiting?

Sighing, Chris stepped across the lobby, the rich smells of fried chicken and baked beans, homemade rolls and apple cobbler wafting in the air. His stomach rumbled noisily, but he didn't really feel like eating. Truth be told, he didn't have much of an appetite these days, not since...

Damn it.

Green eyes narrowed in irritation as Chris clenched his jaw, a muscle ticking in the side of his face. Shoulders squared, back straight, he fought to contain his errant thoughts.

"Chris, glad you could join us," the Judge called out as he spied the tall blond standing in the doorway. The older man was seated at a table on one side of the entrance, his daughter-in-law, Mary, beside him and another man sitting just opposite. Resigned to the inevitable, Chris pasted a slight smile on his face and moved to join them. Orrin Travis gained his feet as the gunman approached.

"Evenin', Judge." Chris extended his right hand and shook the one offered. "Mary," he nodded, not quite meeting her eyes.

"Arnold," the Judge continued. "This is the gentleman I was telling you about, Chris Larabee." The smaller man gained his feet as well, one hand extended to grip Chris's as introductions were made. "Chris, this is a friend of mine from Santa Fe, Arnold Davies."

"Mr. Davies," Larabee politely acknowledged.

"A pleasure, sir," the man returned. "Orrin has told me quite a bit about you. I've been looking forward to making your acquaintance."

Chris wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that and settled instead for pulling out the remaining chair. Removing his hat and duster, he set them aside and lowered his lanky frame into the seat. Grimacing slightly, he ran one hand through the length of his blond hair, unconsciously straightening the tousled strands. After they were all seated again, an empty plate was set before him and a platter of fried chicken inserted itself into his field of vision.

"It's good to see you again, Chris," Mary Travis murmured.

He could feel her pale blue eyes searching his face and was thankful that she added nothing more. However, Chris was certain he detected a note of censure in her voice. A bit embarrassed, he nodded his head, refusing to look up, not wanting to see the gentle reproach he knew resided in her gaze. It was bad enough he'd made a fool of himself in front of this woman, not to mention an entire town, but to be the object of her pity, her disappointment, was more than he could bear.

Even though he wasn't really hungry, Chris helped himself to a couple of pieces of chicken then took the platter from Mary and passed it to Arnold Davies. An awkward silence ensued while plates were refilled, dishes passed and coffee poured. Orrin Travis then cleared his throat, smiling slightly as he resumed their conversation.

"Arnold was just telling us about his trip to Washington. It seems there are certain parties there who are very interested in seeing this territory finally become a state."

Chris paused in taking a sip of coffee, a small frown quirking his lips, his brows slightly furrowed. Statehood, state's rights, cattlemen's rights, farmer's rights, becoming a part of the Union. Yeah, that was a pretty hot political topic at the moment and it was not that long ago that those very same issues had almost gotten Ezra Standish and Mary Travis killed. All compliments of one Governor Clayton Hopewell and his bid for re-election.

For himself, Chris couldn't have cared less. He had no feelings about the matter of statehood one way or the other. But when it threatened the lives of people he cared about, the fight became something a bit more important, more personal. And there was still the matter of the unclaimed ten thousand dollars that Judge Travis was holding in trust, all of it blood money paid to a hired assassin who had failed in the performance of his duty. An assassin Chris knew for a fact was hired by Clayton Hopewell though he had loudly denied it with all the braying confidence of a Missouri mule. It was just too bad they'd had no hard evidence against the man, proof positive that he was guilty of the crime of murder as well as murder for hire. Letting that one go still burned in Chris's gut, the battle left unfinished...much like his own even more personal battle with that lying, deceitful bitch, Ella Gaines.

What little appetite Chris had completely deserted him at the thought of the woman who had made his life a living hell. A heavy knot, more painful than any punch to the gut he'd ever endured, then settled in his stomach, the food on his plate turning to wet sawdust in his mouth. Chris chewed slowly and methodically, uncaring of what he ate, tasting little, simply going through the motions that were obviously expected of him.

"The capital is absolutely beautiful this time of year," Davies added, oblivious to the gunman's silent discomfort. "If I didn't love Santa Fe so much, I could probably be tempted to move back there."

The rest of the conversation then centered around the weather, the heat out west and the cooler temperatures back east, and all the wonderful and exciting places to see and visit in the thriving metropolis of Washington, D.C. Chris listened with only half an ear, responding just enough in all the right places to make it appear as if he was interested. Apparently, the Judge was content to discuss their business after the meal was through and Chris sighed internally, resolving himself to wait.

Finally, dessert was finished and another round of coffee poured and Chris glanced up in surprise as Mary Travis excused herself to put her son to bed. The three men stood, bade her goodnight and then resumed their respective seats. There was a moment of difficult silence before Judge Travis lightly cleared his throat.

"I think, gentlemen, that perhaps something stronger than coffee may be in order before we discuss our private business." Turning, he signaled to the proprietor and a bottle of good whiskey was swiftly procured. Hefting his full shot glass, Travis leaned back in his chair and continued, "A toast if I may...to good company, a fine meal...and an even better glass of whiskey."

Davies gave a hearty chuckle before touching his glass to Orrin's and tossing back his drink with a satisfying belch. And while Chris appreciated the fiery burn that made its way down into his gullet and warmed him from the inside, he was much less obvious in his enjoyment of the good liquor, sipping it slowly as he bided his time.

Travis's eyes appraised the younger man impassively, his dark gaze betraying nothing of his thoughts. "Arnold is a lawyer in Santa Fe, Chris. He's very interested in what you can tell him about that business with Clayton Hopewell a few months back."

Larabee was a bit startled by the request. Eyes narrowed, he very carefully set down his whiskey, all the while chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek. He eased back in his chair, one long leg crossing lazily over the other as his index finger scratched at the fabric of the tablecloth. A few moments passed before finally, Chris murmured, "Why is a lawyer from Santa Fe so interested in Clayton Hopewell?"

He didn't miss the silent exchange between the two men, suspicion tickling down the length of the gunslinger's spine, his gut telling him something more was going on here than met the eye. What was it that he didn't know? What weren't they telling him? Was Hopewell planning a second attempt on the life of Mary Travis? Or was something even more sinister going on? It gave Chris a decided feeling of unease, made him noticeably uncomfortable, something that not even Judge Travis' trusted presence could soothe.

Finally, Davies gave a short laugh. "An excellent question, Mr. Larabee—Chris—if I may?" then continued before the blond could answer. "Let's just say I have a vested interest in Governor's Hopewell's affairs and I'd like to hear your version of the events that transpired."

Pensive green eyes narrowed, measuring, before Chris softly replied, "Why not ask Mary? She was the intended target." There was also the fact that she was the daughter-in-law of his good and trusted friend, Orrin Travis.

A smile, clearly meant to pacify, appeared on the older man's narrow face. "Well, no insult intended to Mrs. Travis but..." The smile grew, pale gray eyes turning in Travis's direction, "...after all, she's just a woman. Last time I checked, this is still a man's world and I need to hear a man's point of view...from you."

Chris didn't much care for the condescending tone that Davies used when speaking of Mary Travis. After all, he considered the blond newspaper woman to be a friend. Mary was smart, bright, well-educated, with a quick intelligence and a keen sense of justice. And given how she'd ridden into the hellhole of Purgatorio to find him not all that long ago, she had more guts than just about any man Chris knew. To have her thoughts and feelings so easily discounted simply because she was a woman grated harshly on the gunslinger's nerves. It bothered him as well that Travis, her own father-in-law, said nothing in her defense. Chris chose his words carefully, keeping his account clear and concise.

"Hopewell wants to stay governor but he's dead set against statehood. He hired Long-Range Lucius Stutz to kill important people like Mary Travis who support it. Problem was, Stutz died before earning his blood money. His boy tried to finish the job but Hopewell's people killed him before we got proof. The Judge has the ten thousand dollars we found."

Davies thought for a moment before asking, "What about Hopewell himself? What were your impressions of him as a man?"

Chris thought the question a bit odd and the look on his face must have betrayed his thoughts.

"I'm asking, Chris, because like yourself, I don't believe in going into a fight without knowing what I'm up against. If I take on Clayton Hopewell for the job of territorial governor, then I need to know everything there is to know about the man and his private business *and* the people who work for him."

Quick green eyes flicked to Travis's face, searching, reading next to nothing behind the impenetrable granite features. The man might as well have been carved out of stone. Finally, Chris replied, "He's smart, ruthless, won't let nobody or nothin' stand in his way. You go up against him, you'll have to be quicker, smarter, slicker. And you'd better have somebody you trust to watch your back or he'll put a bullet right through you."

Arnold Davies seemed momentarily taken aback by the gunslinger's harsh assessment but the cold expression on the younger man's face gave truth to the bluntness of his words. Davies mulled them over, one hand rubbing absently back and forth beneath his nose. He reached for his glass of whiskey, scowled when he found it empty, his fingers noticeably trembling as he lifted the amber colored bottle. Pouring himself another drink, he sat back, deep in thought, weighing his options as he sipped the tepid liquor.

Finally, decision reached, he spoke in a somber tone. "Well, then...I guess I'll just have to do my best to be prepared, won't I?..." then glanced at the man to his right as Travis solemnly nodded his head.

A distinct, pungent smell then wafted over the three men, Larabee's nose wrinkling in disgust before a thickly accented voice said, "Excuse me, please...Mr. Larabee?"

The gunslinger looked up, noticing right away the disheveled appearance of the older man now standing beside their table. The newcomer's eyes switched back and forth between the trio, clearly not knowing which was the man he sought.

"That'd be me," the blond responded cautiously, doing his best not to back away from the man and the nauseating smell that emanated from him. The small amount of food in Larabee's stomach seemed to roll over in silent protest.

"De tell me you are da law, yah?"

Chris couldn't help the faint scowl that marred his features, aware of the curious looks from Davies and Travis. "Not a lawman," he replied evasively. "Just paid to keep the peace ‘round here. Somethin' I can do for you?"

"Yah," the man replied, his relief obvious. "My name is Gunter Larsen...and I need your help, please."

---

Outside beneath a heavenly body of softly glittering stars, Vin Tanner pulled out his battered harmonica and gently blew a tuneless melody. The easy notes soothed his nerves and brought a sense of peace to fill his restless soul. Perched atop the roof of Potter's Dry Goods store, the tracker sat relaxing his lanky frame against the painted wooden sign. From this spot, he could see the comings and goings of the entire town and yet still remain out of sight, all the while letting his keen eyes survey the street and mostly deserted sidewalks below.

Whether it was man, beast or Mother Earth, it never ceased to amaze Tanner just how much a man could learn by simply letting himself watch. His sharp gaze had seen Judge Travis heading for the town's only restaurant with his daughter-in-law, Mary, and another man beside him. He'd smiled to himself a few minutes later as Ezra slipped in unnoticed behind them, sparing a bit of curiosity as to why the fancy gambler wasn't at the saloon rustling up his usual evening game of poker.

The dark figure of Chris Larabee rode in not long after and Vin had watched the nearly wordless exchange with Buck, seen Josiah's larger presence step forward as Larabee moved on. The ex-preacher had then made his way across the street and into the brightly lit saloon. JD was already inside; he'd seen the younger man skitter across the street just before sundown, backing away from Buck while grinning and laughing at something the older man said. Vin also knew that Nathan was nowhere to be found. The former slave was still out at the village, tending to Tastanagi's people, spending time with the young woman who had so obviously captured his interest.

Sighing quietly, Vin couldn't help but wish for some time away himself. Things were getting too close, too crowded, too many folks pressing in on him. He was getting that itch to move on, the feeling of wanderlust growing, the urge to pack his things, climb on his horse and set out alone again building with each passing day.

So why did he stay? What was stopping him? What held him here?

But even as he'd thought it, Vin already knew. He had six reasons for staying, six very personal and important reasons. Six men he considered his blood brothers and closest friends in the entire world. Six men who depended on him to watch their backs and who in turn watched his. They didn't always all get along, an occasional fight or disagreement making for a bit of a bumpy road, but their loyalty to each other went far beyond words. It went far beyond what most folks could even understand.

And one of those men had become even more important to him than the others.

That man was his best friend, Chris Larabee.

Turning his head, Vin had let his gaze follow the progress of the solitary figure in black, watched the man dismount, take his saddlebags and then disappear through the doors of the hotel. There was no mistaking the slump of exhaustion to those broad shoulders or the harsh bend of the once proud neck. Chris moved like an old man, as if he had the weight of the world resting upon him, and it was obvious that the burden was becoming more than the gunslinger could bear.

Vin had never before dared to think of Chris as fragile but it looked as if the events of the last few months were dangerously close to breaking him. The other man's body had long since healed but Larabee's soul was obviously still wounded and bleeding. Ever since Ella Gaines rode into town, her sick obsession with the taciturn blond revealing the truth behind the murders of his wife and son, her twisted schemes to trick Chris into taking a permanent place in her life, at her side, controlling him, manipulating him...

...nearly getting him killed.

Vin still shuddered every time he remembered the cry of pain that fell from his friend's lips as Jack Averill's bullet found its mark inside of Larabee's chest. And his stomach churned with anger every time he remembered the look of self-loathing and naked grief in Chris's green eyes as he admitted what she'd done and why. The lying, deceitful bitch deserved to die and Vin was furious at himself for not finding Ella afterwards.

God, how he had wanted to be the one to put a bullet in her! To see the knowledge of her own death enter those crazed dark eyes, to know she was going to pay for what she'd done to Chris, for what she'd taken from him, that Sarah and Adam Larabee would finally have their justice...could finally rest in peace.

So that his best friend could finally find some peace.

Josiah had once told him that vengeance belonged to the Lord, but Vin had no problem with being the deliverer of a higher justice. He only wished he'd had the chance, only wished that he'd succeeded. He'd returned to town with a heavy heart, empty-handed and disappointed, feeling as though he'd somehow failed his friend. First, he'd been unable to convince Chris that the woman was lying, that she was using him to create her own perfect fantasy world with Larabee as the prize. Then, he'd failed to track her down, hadn't brought her back to pay for what she'd done, to face justice, to face Larabee's wrath. Instead, he'd been a silent witness to Chris's distress, to his deep-seated pain and unending torment as that damning letter fell from the gunman's numbed right hand.

Ella Gaines-Larabee.

Crazy, lying bitch.

Sighing, Vin had to admit that he was also disgusted with himself. What the hell kind of tracker was he that one small woman could simply slip away from him like that? No sign, no trace, not even a hoof print. It was like she'd simply sprouted wings and flown away.

And maybe she had. Maybe she was one of those shape shifters, a skin walker, like his Comanche grandfather used to tell him about. Vin could all too easily imagine her dark, beady eyes narrowing with malice as she shifted into the shape of a crow, the cruel line of her mouth twisted into a sharp, pointed beak, the long tresses of her hair smoothed out into layers of shiny, black feathers that glistened in the noonday sun. Her delicate hands would form a pair of wings, her small feet a set of claws complete with bloodied, razor-sharp talons. He shivered at the mental image, wondering briefly why he'd chosen that vision, knowing all too well that the People believed crows were a sign of death.

But then again, perhaps it was appropriate, for in her own right, Ella had represented a kind of death. The death of all Chris's hopes and dreams of finding justice for his family, for finding a reason behind their senseless killings, for finding a way to live with himself without feeling like he was responsible. All of that had come crashing to an end that day at Ella's ranch house, inside that locked upstairs room where she kept her secret shrine to the man she professed to love. God, what a sick and twisted bitch!

There had been other deaths that day too. All the hired gunmen who'd been shot and killed while carrying out her plan; the young woman, Hilda, who had died while trying to protect Buck. Larabee himself had nearly ended up dead and sometimes Vin wondered if that might not have been far kinder than this slow lingering death that Chris seemed intent on trying to court. As far as he could tell, the man hardly ate, never slept, talked even less than before and was drifting further and further away from them with every day that passed.

And that was something else the tracker had to thank Ella Gaines for, the destruction of his ‘family'. It had all started when Chris announced he was staying with her after the job was through. Things had gone downhill from there and now, well, now Vin was thinking about leaving himself, unsure of what the future held, not willing to wait until he wore out his welcome in this town or some bounty hunter came looking for him when he no longer had someone watching his back. Chris and Nathan were gone most of the time. Josiah was busy working on his church. Ezra frequently rode down to Eagle Bend in search of easier pickings. Only Buck and JD still seemed content to call this place their home.

Vin just wished he knew where in the hell that left him. Shit. Maybe it *was* time for him to be moving on.

Exhaling, the tracker blew another soft note through his harmonica, his pensive gaze turning once again to the dusty street below. A shadowed figure made its way up the far sidewalk, pausing here and there to glance about uncertainly. Blue eyes narrowed, Vin followed its progress, noting the tattered clothing and the tired, limping gait. A shaft of yellow light reflected off haggard features, silvered hair and searching eyes. The man slipped into the saloon only to reappear a moment later, heading up the deserted street with a more determined stride. Curiosity burned in Vin's gut as he watched the stranger enter the hotel.

Some instinct, or perhaps it was simply a need to watch his best friend's back, urged the tracker to give up his perch. A moment later, his lean form slipped quietly into the depths of a darkened alleyway, then just as silently disappeared into the deepening shadows of the night.

---

Chris Larabee's disposition had not improved any by the time he exited the hotel. In fact, it was decidedly worse. The scowl etched on the handsome face would have sent a wise man running for cover. His cold green eyes blazed with a furious light. Tightly controlled anger slashed the line of his nearly bloodless lips, his shadowed features seeming to be carved as if from solid stone. Long, black clad legs ate up the dusty ground as he strode rapidly up the street, his steps quick, sharp and determined. Tension vibrated throughout the length of his tall, slender frame, Larabee's spine set stiff and ramrod straight.

"Goddamn it all to hell anyways," the blond cursed silently. This was fucking bullshit and he really wasn't in the mood for any of this crap right now. What in the hell was Orrin Travis thinking when he'd offered to help this Gunter Larsen? And since when did any man this side of the Mississippi give a damn about a bunch of dirty, smelly, stinkin' sheep? Everybody knew this was cattle country, always had been, always would be. Men like Lucas James and Guy Royal ruled their spreads with an iron fist. Poachers, rustlers and trespassers were usually shot on sight. No questions asked. So then just what in the hell was a *sheep farmer* doing all the way out here?

Christ.

He'd hired on with this bunch of misfits to protect the people of this little backwater town, to keep the peace, maintain some semblance of law and order. Now, Travis was sending him to track down and kill whatever it was that had attacked the Dutchman's sheep. It slaughtered six of them, ripped their throats out from what the other man had described. And just what in the hell kind of a wild animal went on a killing spree like that, not even stopping to feed, leaving carcasses and blood scattered all over the place?

A wolf? A cougar perhaps? Maybe a bear?

Shit. How in the hell should he know? He might have been a rancher once but he'd never even heard of this kind of thing. Besides, he wasn't a goddamned tracker. That was Vin's job. He'd never signed on to chase down wild animals and protect a bunch of sheep, never hired his gun out for that. But Travis was insistent, absolutely adamant about it, claiming that whatever it was that had killed those sheep could easily bring down a calf, perhaps even move closer to town. Maybe attack a man or woman, kill a child, become a serious threat to the safety of the community.

And that fat weasel, Arnold Davies, just sat silently beside the Judge...grinning.

Bastards. Both of them.

"Aw, hell!" the gunslinger growled softly. He needed a good, stiff drink.

Shoving his way through the batwing doors of the saloon, Chris ignored the looks he received, sneering silently at those who wisely scurried out of his path. He stalked across the room to the bar and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. Nodding to the barkeep, he snatched a glass from behind the counter and poured himself a shot before quickly tossing it back. The fiery liquor burned its way downward and he grimaced, full lips curled back in a nearly silent hiss. His blond head whipped sharply around, seeking.

Spying JD at a table to his right, Chris snarled, "Where's Vin?"

The younger man was a bit startled by the dark expression on the gunslinger's face and the harshness of his words. He dropped his fork into his plate, wiped his mouth with a checkered napkin and stammered, "D-don't know...ain't seen him since this afternoon."

Chris turned to pour himself another drink. "Find ‘im," he ordered. When JD didn't move quite fast enough, Larabee looked back, eyes gleaming coldly. "NOW."

Under the gunslinger's icy glare, JD nearly tripped as he clambered to his feet, his gun belt catching the edge of the table and almost turning it over. The dishes rattled loudly and the young man's face colored with embarrassment at his clumsiness. Leaving his meal half-eaten, JD quickly snatched up his jacket and hat and hurried out the door. After he was gone, Chris berated himself for his churlish behavior, feeling a bit guilty for the unwarranted display of temper. JD was a good kid; he didn't deserve that. Sighing with resignation, the gunman went back to sipping his whiskey, eyeing his own reflection in the mirror and not liking what he saw.

A short time later, a large, familiar presence inserted itself beside him, bumping his left shoulder, invading his space. One big hand reached out and helped itself to the open bottle of redeye. Golden amber liquid filled a second shot glass.

"Somethin' goin' on I should know about?" Buck questioned, his worried gaze taking in the strain on his oldest friend's face. Having finished his evening meal, Buck had been sitting at a table in the far corner playing a game of cards with Josiah, flirting some with a pretty little thing named Darlene. He'd seen Chris's stormy entrance, heard the softly snarled command, had seen JD take off running like a scared little rabbit heading for its hidey-hole. What the heck was going on?

"Nothin' here in town," Chris replied, his voice rough with the burn of liquor. The blond continued to stare in the mirror, unwilling to meet the other man's eyes, not wanting to see the concern or the silent accusation that resided there. Buck had seen how he'd treated JD.

But Buck just nodded his dark head wisely, his elbows resting on the bar as he took a sip from his glass. "That's good," he answered evenly, clearly waiting for Chris to offer more, but Larabee was being his usual ornery, tight-lipped self. "What'd th'Judge want?" Buck prodded, all the while gauging just how far he dared to push the other man.

Larabee was silent for a long moment, and then finally he glanced down. Bowing his head, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion and he reached up with one hand to rub along the back of his neck. God, he was tired. Closing his eyes, Chris allowed himself to lean heavily into the bar, wanting nothing more at that moment than a hot bath, a bed and lots and lots of whiskey.

"His friend, Davies, wanted to know about that business with Hopewell a few months back," he explained.

One dark eyebrow lifted in surprise as the ladies man turned sideways, his left elbow now resting on the bar, his long frame propped against the edge. "Whatever for?"

"Don't know for sure," Chris admitted, opening his eyes and finally turning to look at his friend. "Seems the man has some ideas about running for governor himself. Guess he's just trying to find out what he's up against."

Buck snorted at that. "Hopewell ain't nothin' but a lowdown, no-good, filthy sidewinder. A man goin' up against him is like to get himself snakebit."

"Yep," Chris agreed as he turned to refill his drink, feeling the warmth from the alcohol moving through him, spreading heat to his arms and legs. He could also feel a slight buzz starting to dull his senses, relaxing him, helping him to unwind and take the edge off his anger and his irritation.

"And that's all the Judge wanted? Seems ta me like an awful lotta fuss ta go to when that Davies fella coulda just asked Ms. Travis."

Chris turned then, clearly annoyed, his mouth quirking in a bit of a derogatory smirk. "Seems Mr. Davies don't think much of the female opinion ‘round here," he supplied, cold green eyes conveying his contempt for the lawyer's ignorance.

Wilmington's blue eyes sparked, then began to twinkle merrily, his full lips twitching beneath the cover of his thick mustache. He couldn't hold back the chuckle that worked its way up from deep inside his chest. "Oh, I just bet that went over real well with Miss Mary," he stated, his voice filled with barely contained mirth.

The blonde newspaperwoman was one feisty lady, smart, sassy, independent, and Buck could easily imagine the light of battle in her pale blue eyes and the scathing words of disapproval flying from her pretty lips. A strong advocate for statehood and women's rights, that was one strong-minded woman who wouldn't stand for having her opinion ignored. No, sirree!

"Mary wasn't there," came Chris's unexpected rejoinder for Buck was certain he'd seen her headed to the restaurant with her father-in-law.

He frowned, obviously puzzled, then asked, "What'd the Judge have ta say?"

Chris took another swallow of whiskey, hissing once again as he replied, "Nothin'."

Turning, Buck slouched back down on the bar, standing shoulder to shoulder with Chris, their elbows pressed against the polished surface. Lost in thought, both men sipped their drinks in companionable silence, the noise and smoke of the saloon passing over them and failing to draw their notice. Finally, after a time, Chris spoke again.

"Gonna be leavin' early in the mornin'."

Buck looked up at that, his gaze questioning. Given the nature of his thoughts earlier that evening, he wasn't entirely sure just what Chris meant. "Where're ya goin'?"

"Huntin'."

That puzzled Buck even more and his frown grew deeper. "Huntin' what?"

Chris sighed, his disgust obvious. "Some sheep farmer named Larsen showed up at the hotel. Claimed a big wolf attacked his herd. Judge wants me an' Vin ta check it out."

"A sheep farmer?" Buck scoffed. "Around these parts? Hell, everyone knows this is cattle country. Prob'bly some of James' men just tryin' ta scare him off."

The blond head dipped once, turned, green gaze meeting blue. "Men don't go ‘round rippin' out an animal's throat an' leavin' it ta bleed ta death."

The words were spoken just barely above a whisper but Buck clearly heard every single one of them. He shuddered at the gruesome image they painted, feeling the revulsion race up and down his spine. "No, I guess not," he conceded after a moment. "How long ya gonna be gone?"

"Long as it takes," Chris answered with a shrug of one shoulder, turning to stare back into the mirror behind the bar. "You gonna be okay takin' care of things here?"

That got a laugh out of Buck, his lips twitching yet again. "Hell, Chris, things been so quiet ‘round here lately, I reckon one a' J'siah's funeral services might have a chance a' bein' more lively. ‘Sides," he continued, "Nathan's due back in the next day or two. I reckon ‘tween the five of us, we can handle it."

"Good."

And that was all Chris would say about it. He trusted Buck with his life, knew that he was leaving the town in good hands. Because when it came right down to it, the one thing he'd always been able to count on was Buck. Though God alone knew why and wasn't that a hell of an epitaph for a man he'd been prepared to walk away from? A man he'd nearly gotten killed, and just how many times did that make now? Chris had lost count some years ago. He only remembered the most recent one, the one out at Ella Gaines's ranch that had nearly killed them all.

Staring down into his drink, the gunman scowled, his mood darkening yet again. For a while there, he'd almost forgotten. Then, shaking his blond head, Chris exhaled heavily. He snorted softly in self-derision and felt the spike of inner hatred pierce him once again. No, he decided ruefully, he hadn't really forgotten. He'd simply allowed himself to not remember. There was a difference. He'd ignored the deep-seated feelings of guilt and shame, the self-loathing and silent recriminations. He'd pushed it all aside and that was wrong.

He needed to remember.

This whole business with Ella was another black mark on his conscience, something he couldn't allow himself to forget...just like Sarah and Adam's deaths.

Straightening, his spine stiff, Chris abruptly tossed back the last of his liquor, feeling the bite yet again as it worked its way southward to his gut. He put the now empty glass on the bar and turned, his face set and eyes determined. "Gonna turn in now," he advised, trying to hide his inner thoughts from the friend who knew him all too well.

Because Chris wanted nothing more at that moment than to just disappear through the floor and was actually surprised by how suddenly eager he was to leave this town behind, to leave his ghosts behind, to leave the accusing looks behind. Chris Larabee was running, knew he was running, and felt his inner shame deepen. His spine itched from the yellow streak that ran down it.

"See ya when I get back," he mumbled, dropping his gaze from Buck's and heading for the door. Chris ignored the looks, the turned faces, the knowing grins and silent laughter. It didn't matter that those same faces and same grins existed only inside his head; he could still feel them watching him. He was half way across the room, had almost made it, when JD's dark head popped over the top of the slatted wooden door. A huge smile and hazel eyes shone triumphantly back at him.

"Found him," JD chirped, his irrepressible nature still grating on Chris's nerves. The youth pushed his way through the entrance, Vin Tanner following closely behind, the lean shadow pausing to let his eyes sweep the interior. Longstanding habits were hard to shake despite the place he'd earned in this dusty town.

Moving then to stand just inside the door, Vin nodded to Buck and Josiah, watched as JD skirted his way towards his friend at the bar, saw Chris Larabee headed towards him, the lanky frame never pausing in its journey. Blue eyes narrowed as the tall dark figure approached, a frown of concern etching itself on his whiskered features when the green gaze never lifted, never even acknowledged him, remained fixed on the gray shadows in the street beyond.

What th'hell was wrong now?

Chris finally stopped beside him, one long-fingered hand resting on the top of the worn wood, staring out into the darkness.

"Be ready ta ride at dawn," the gunslinger rasped, his tight lips barely moving, his face unreadable.

In return, Vin kept his voice just as low, just as soft. "Where're we goin'?"

Chris did turn and look at him then, the once familiar green eyes now dark and cold, remote, withdrawn. "Huntin'," was all he replied, then shoved his way through the doors with a flurry of smoke-filled air. In his haste to abandon the crowded confines of the saloon, Chris didn't see the startled figure he bumped in to, the impact with his shoulder almost knocking the other man down.

There were no words of apology spoken.

The dark figure of the gunslinger strode off up the street, the solitary form dressed all in black clothing that blended seamlessly with his even blacker mood.

---

Staring after Chris Larabee's retreating back, Ezra Standish rubbed absently at his sore shoulder. Good Lord, the man hadn't even seen him, hadn't even acknowledged him and he certainly hadn't apologized. But then again, what had he expected? He'd known from the start what an uncivilized bunch he was getting himself involved with. And hadn't Maude warned him equally as well? Perhaps this was his due payment for ignoring his mother's advice. Sighing, the gambler pulled out his handkerchief, dusting absently at the point of impact on his previously unsoiled scarlet coat. Then, recognizing his own foolishness, he tucked it away once again, sighing at the inevitability of the dust that seemed to seep into every pore of his being.

It was just one more item to add to the list of things about this town that didn't agree with him. The dust, the food, the poor quality of the bedding at the hotel, the unkempt and unwashed bodies around him, the slender pickings at the poker table, not to mention the uneducated masses. It was a wonder he'd stayed here this long!

And it left him asking himself the question, why?

At first, it had been for the chance of a pardon, signing on to protect this town at a paltry sum of a dollar a day plus room and board. After that, he'd found himself cursed with what could only be some sort of conscience, perhaps even a sense of loyalty, lying to himself and to Maude when it came to giving reasons why he stayed. Then there had been that whole fiasco with the ten thousand dollars he'd been tempted to abscond with only to find himself cursed yet again and getting himself shot for his troubles. Mrs. Travis was, of course, appropriately grateful but the entire business still left Ezra questioning his somewhat dubious sanity.

And then Ella Gaines rode into town looking for Chris Larabee, the leader of their small band of misfits, and was there ever a more contemptible specimen to wear the female form? Good heavens! The gambler didn't even want to contemplate the horrible tragedy that followed her arrival. Three months had passed since the day of the fierce gun battle at her ranch house, the day Chris had been shot and the rest of them almost killed, and still their collective wounds had not even begun to heal.

A keen observer and a fervent student of human nature, it was apparent to him that their ‘band of brothers' had been broken, ripped apart by the events perpetrated by an insane woman obsessed with the reticent, blond gunslinger. It was also just as obvious that the damage went much further than simply skin deep. Vin and Chris were often gone, not to be found for days at a time. Nathan went to visit at the village with Tastanagi's people. Josiah could be counted on for only an infrequent game of cards. That left Buck and JD as his oftentimes companions.

Ezra grimaced, wondering just when he'd gotten so ridiculously desperate.

Still standing on the sidewalk outside the saloon, he sighed, his gaze lifting to the night sky above, taking note of the brilliant layer of stars. Overall, it was a sad and deplorable state of affairs and more and more often now, the gambler found himself wondering why he stayed, what it was that still held him here. The reasons he'd remained in the first place no longer seemed to even exist. All of which left Ezra with the unsettling question of what to do now? Should he stay or should he go? Should he remain in this provincial little hamlet or was it time to move on and look for ‘greener pastures' elsewhere?

Then, a sudden thought struck him, an idea beginning to take shape. Thinking back on the information he'd garnered at the hotel, Ezra found himself mulling over his potential options.

Arnold Davies, a lawyer from Santa Fe, contemplating a run for governor...?

There were definite possibilities there for a man such as himself. And after all, Ezra reasoned, why not? Why shouldn't he? He'd been a preacher, a lawyer, a gambler and many other things he'd never admitted to before. It was in his nature to be a chameleon, a changeling, something bred into him from his mother's side of the family, no doubt. Where others saw it as a flaw, to a man such as himself it was a decided advantage, allowing him to slip easily from one existence to the next. He could become whomever or whatever he needed whenever he so desired.

Grinning then like a cat with the proverbial nine lives, Ezra stepped inside the saloon, once again taking up residence in a chair at his favorite table. As the evening wore on, he chatted and smiled pleasantly, then enjoyed his favorite brandy while deftly playing cards. His silent thoughts of tomorrow were safely hidden and locked away behind the curtain of his enigmatic green eyes.

Dawn. The time of the morning when all was quiet and still and the first rosy blush of the day whispered on the edge of the distant horizon. The time of day when the deep purple of the night ever so slowly gave way to the waking sun. It was a time of day that Vin Tanner loved, and his poet's heart marveled at its glory almost as much as the blazing reds, oranges and golds of a fiery desert sunset.

An early riser by nature, Vin was used to having the dusty streets to himself, the hour being much too soon for anyone other than the large bulk of a man who ran the livery and the elderly Chinese lady down the way who owned the town laundry. No one else usually stirred until the first rays of soft yellow fingered their way between the buildings, casting morning shadows and dancing in streaks of light.

Unless it was Ezra sneaking out of the saloon after a long night of playing cards.

Vin laughed quietly, soft amusement coloring his features and wrinkling the corners of his eyes, remembering the number of times he'd seen the man just as he was slipping off to his room. Despite his claims of being a gentleman, the gambler could be as mean as a cornered grizzly when confronted that early in the day. It was definitely best to leave the southerner alone when he was headed off in search of a pillow and the comfort of his infamous feather bed.

Turning his head, Vin's sharp blue eyes scanned the street, eyeing the soft colors of the dawn sky. He inhaled, enjoying the fresh morning air, then released his breath on a long, quiet sigh and went back to saddling his horse. Across the street, Inez Recillos would be waking up soon. She'd make her way to the kitchen behind the saloon to start breakfast. He grinned as his stomach grumbled in protest and his mouth watered just thinking about the rich, hot coffee she'd brew and the lightly buttered biscuits he'd once again be forced to miss.

Nothing but hard tack and water this morning, one of the prices he paid for hitting the trail so early, but Vin shrugged philosophically. His full lips then quirked, admitting that if he wasn't careful, living in this town might just well make him soft. Hell, he reasoned, it wasn't like he hadn't done without before but he'd kind of gotten used to having his belly full before making the morning rounds. But he wasn't headed out to ride the countryside and check in on the nearby farms and ranches. No, last night Chris had said they were going hunting. Although hunting for what, Vin still had no clue.

Pulling his rifle from its scabbard, Vin carefully checked the weapon, making sure it was clean, well-oiled, loaded and in perfect working condition like always. Following such old habits had saved his life in the past and he reckoned it was a little late to change his ways now. Satisfied, he lifted it and slid it back into the leather casing with a sharp slap. He once more checked his saddle girth and back strap, grinning again as Peso grunted with irritation. Damn horse hated being pulled out of his nice warm stall almost as much as Ezra and his bed.

The sound of hinges squealing and wood creaking had Vin turning half way round to find the door of the livery swinging open behind him. He nodded his head in silent greeting as Chris appeared, two horses behind him, both saddled for the trail. Vin's frown of puzzlement deepened a moment later as an older man in tattered clothing stepped out from the shadows as well. The tracker watched as Chris checked the saddle on the second horse then passed the reins to the stranger. Stepping up alongside his own black gelding, the gunslinger repeated the process then mounted in one fluid and graceful motion. Following his lead, Vin took a deep breath, grabbed a hunk of mane and slapped leather.

Turning, the pair watched as the third man struggled awkwardly, unsure of himself, his trepidation and lack of experience obvious. The horse, a dappled gray mare, danced nervously, shying away as the man came closer, whickering uncertainly at the sudden tug on the reins as he stumbled against her. Finally, a look of irritation clearly etched on his face, Chris appeared to take pity on the man.

The gunslinger dismounted and strode over to the skittish horse. Taking the mare by the bridle, he held her still then motioned for the older man to put his foot into the stirrup. Once that was accomplished, a rough hand then shoved him upward, nearly tumbling the stranger across to the other side of the saddle before he somehow managed to right himself. Chris tossed the man the reins, nodded his head once, then strode quickly back to where his own horse waited patiently. He mounted up just as efficiently as before, green eyes flicking across to his partner, scowling at the amusement flashing at him in blue.

"Vin Tanner..." Chris jerked his head towards the other man. "Gunter Larsen," he said by way of introduction.

Vin's gaze shifted, taking in the weather-beaten features, the sun-baked lines, the faded eyes. He lifted two fingers to the brim of his hat, touched it and nodded his head, but the other man was too busy trying to stay on his horse to return the silent greeting. Curiosity filled the tracker but Vin waited patiently, knowing that Larabee would eventually explain. The big horse beneath him shifted, stomping its foot, the muffled thud echoing in the still morning air.

Looping his reins around the saddle horn, Chris reached for his hat, one hand settling it more firmly on his head while the other tightened the leather latigo. Then picking up his reins again, he added, "Mr. Larsen lost some livestock to what might be a wolf. Judge Travis wants us to check it out."

The tracker's eyes widened in surprise, not because the man had lost some livestock or that the Judge wanted them to go take a look. What surprised Vin was the possibility that a wolf might have been guilty of the attack. It had been a long time since he'd seen one in these parts, most of them having been hunted almost out of existence for their pelt or the price of a bounty placed on their heads. At one time, nearly as much as fifty dollars, if he recalled right.

Damn, but he hoped the man was wrong. Vin shuddered in horror at the memory of the layers of soft, silken fur that had covered the entire outside wall of the sheriff's office in Hico, Texas. It was a sight the tracker had never forgotten and one that always brought an ache to the center of his chest. Having spent time amongst the People, he had grown to respect and admire the wolf, not only for its keen intelligence, but for its proud spirit and complete devotion to its pack. For a lone wolf to be out hunting and killing stock...

Vin didn't even want to think about what that might mean. A single wolf in its right mind just didn't go around killing cattle...or sheep, he corrected himself silently as a pungent odor drifted to him from downwind. His nose wrinkled in obvious disgust and Vin shifted in the saddle, turning his horse away as he lifted one hand to cover his lower face. What the hell was it about sheep and sheep farmers that always made such a stink?

"Best be headin' out then," he mumbled, not daring to glance at Chris as he urged his horse into a walk. "We're burnin' daylight." A moment later, he felt the gunslinger ride up beside him, barely sparing a glance backward for the other man straggling along behind. "Where're we goin'?"

"Best ask him," Chris mimicked with a quick tip of his blond head.

Vin did turn and look then, his gaze taking in Larsen's strained features and the near panic in his eyes. "Ya know how ta ride, mister?" He wasn't surprised by the negative reply, and he'd only asked the question out of politeness anyways. "Aw, hell," Tanner then muttered under his breath, sparing an accusing glare in Larabee's direction. From the set expression on the gunman's face, it looked like it was going to be up to him to keep an eye on the struggling tenderfoot.

Riding back a few paces, Vin turned his horse alongside the mare, quickly gave the older man a few softly spoken words of advice, then once again asked, "Where're we goin'?" The tracker did his dead level best to ignore the offensive smell that permeated the air around him as they rode slowly down the street after Chris.

"I have...a small place...not so far." The hesitant words were accented, thick, strange sounding, and they landed harshly on Vin's ears. "It is...four hours may-be?"

"Which way?"

The Dutchman appeared to think hard for a moment. "It is vhat you say is vest, yah?"

"Four hours west a'here?" Vin confirmed, squinting briefly up at the sky more out of habit than a need to actually know the time. "Ya come a'foot?"

"Foot?" the older man repeatedly dumbly, confusion evident on his face.

"Walkin'?" the tracker asked, taking a moment to simulate the action with two fingers of his right hand. He could almost see Chris's shoulders shake with silent laughter.

"Ah, dat is word, yah! I valk to here...four hours," Larsen assured him with a solemn dip of his head.

Vin nodded in return, knowing their journey would be quicker on horseback and thankful he at least had some general sense of which direction they were headed. Spurring his horse, he caught up to Chris just as the small group passed the entrance of the hotel. A sharp snick preceded the opening of the door and Vin glanced over in surprise as the same man who'd accompanied Judge Travis the night before set foot onto the wooden boardwalk. The man was sharply dressed, his face clean shaven, his eyes quick to latch onto the trio making their way down the street, almost as if he'd been waiting for them.

"Mr. Larabee...Chris...?" Davies called out, one hand lifting to catch the gunman's attention. "A moment, if I may?"

There was no mistaking the irritation that stiffened the length of Larabee's spine as he reluctantly turned his black gelding and reined to a halt. Leaning forward, he let one arm rest on top of the saddle horn, pasted a blank look on his face and waited. Behind him, Vin stopped as well, one hand reaching out to snag the bridle of Larsen's horse and turn the mare to stand beside him. The tracker gave a sharp tug on his reins though when Peso tried to bite the other horse.

"Chris, could I have a few moments of your time?" Davies all too politely inquired. "I'd like to speak with you before you go."

"'Bout what?" Chris responded flatly, the tone of his voice indicating to Vin that he was clearly not interested in whatever the man had to say.

Davies' eyes flicked to the two men flanking Larabee before he replied, "It's a rather important matter that I'd prefer to discuss in private. Could I buy you a cup of coffee?" When there was no immediate answer, Davies added, "I promise not to keep you long. Just a few minutes is all I'm asking."

Larabee glanced down the street, chewing thoughtfully on his inner lip. He'd wanted to get on the trail, track down whatever had attacked Larsen's sheep and be done with it so he could head back to his cabin outside of town and have the peace and quiet he so desperately craved. Davies standing there wanting a few moments of his time was just another irritating thorn in his side. Still though, the man was a friend of Travis's and he supposed he owed it to the Judge to at least hear him out.

Sighing, Chris turned with poorly concealed resignation to his riding companions. "I'll catch up," he assured the tracker, the tone of his voice clearly indicating the other two men should ride on ahead. Larabee wouldn't be too far behind them.

Nodding his head, Vin wheeled his horse around, tapping his heels against the broad flanks. The gray mare beside him turned as well, following obediently along despite the passenger sitting like a sack of potatoes in the middle of her back. They made a strange pair, one so easy and sure in the saddle, his movements graceful and deft, while the other looked like a startled chicken, arms and legs flapping clumsily in all different directions at the same time. It was almost enough to make Chris laugh as he watched them ride away. Instead, he swung down from his horse, keeping the reins in one hand as he walked with Davies towards the saloon.

A moment later, the gunslinger tied his horse to the hitching post, stepped up onto the boardwalk and followed the older man inside. Inez had only just unlocked the doors for morning business and the room was otherwise empty. The dull yellow glow of several oil lamps provided a meager light as they settled themselves at a table. Leaning back in his chair, Chris removed his hat and tossed it into the center. Their arrival was duly noted by the young Hispanic woman who managed the town's only saloon.

"Good morning, Señors," Inez greeted politely as she approached. She set a tin mug in front of each man, then poured hot, steaming coffee from the battered pot she carried. "Señor Chris," she nodded, granting him a small smile. The seven men who protected the town held a special place in her heart and she considered them her friends. And as much as she might deny it, she enjoyed her ongoing battle of wits with Buck Wilmington. The handsome rogue had a way of making a woman feel special, as if she were the most important thing in his world. But Inez prided herself on knowing better than to fall for the ladies' man and his smooth, flirtatious manner.

"Would you like some breakfast?" she inquired, her warm gaze encompassing both men.

"Chris?"

"Just coffee, Inez," the gunslinger rasped, impatient to be on his way.

"Just coffee for now," Davies reiterated, his appreciative gaze following the woman as she nodded then walked away. He turned back to find Larabee frowning at him and was a bit unsettled by the light in those cold green eyes. To cover his discomfort, he reached for his coffee, blowing on it carefully before finally taking a sip. The lawyer then smiled with approval, enjoying the taste that flooded his mouth and the warmth that worked its way downward.

"What's on yer mind?" Normally, Chris Larabee could be a very patient man.

But not today.

Davies cleared his throat, set his mug down and regarded the other man carefully. "I've been thinking about what you told me regarding this business with Clayton Hopewell, about what a dangerous man you believe he is..."

Larabee made no response, just sipped steadily from his coffee, his face an unreadable mask.

"I also know that Orrin Travis seems to think quite highly of you. He greatly values your opinion. More importantly, you have his trust and his respect."

Chris almost snorted at that but remained silent.

Davies leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful, carefully choosing his words. "I haven't gotten where I am, achieved the success and the status that I have, by being stupid, Chris. It's taken a lot of hard work and sacrifice even for a smart man like myself. Only a fool would go up against Hopewell without having all the facts in hand and I am *certainly* no fool."

The lawyer paused, grinning in self-deprecation, almost as if he expected an argument.

"But a smart man also knows when he needs help. He knows when to surround himself with people who can help him achieve his goals. That's something that has always worked for me in the past and I don't intend to stop doing so now. If I decide to go up against Hopewell, then I have to surround myself with the best and the brightest, the toughest, the fastest...whatever it takes. I won't go into this with blinders on and my hands tied behind my back. If Hopewell wants to get nasty...if things turn ugly...well, let's just say that I intend to keep the odds even."

Chris's eyes narrowed speculatively, not sure he liked what the other man was implying. Not sure he liked knowing that a friend of Judge Travis's could be just as ruthless and cold-blooded, just as much a murdering son of a bitch, as Clayton Hopewell. It gave him a decidedly itchy feeling in his trigger finger.

"So what does all this have to do with me?" the gunslinger demanded to know. Just what did Davies want from him? His approval? His blessing? That thought almost *did* make Chris laugh. Since when did anybody need Chris Larabee's approval or his blessing?

Since when did he have them to give?

Davies leaned forward, crossed his arms and rested them on the table. His steady gaze breeched the distance between them.

"I want to hire you."

The words landed into a sudden silence, neither one deigning to speak, hardly daring to breathe. Unflinching, Chris returned the man's gaze with one of his own, his green eyes shuttered, his face set, giving away nothing of his inner thoughts or feelings. Then, long slender fingers began to play with the edge of his cup, tracing the rim, tapping lightly, the tip of his index slowly stroking the side of the cooling mug.

"What for?" the blond finally asked, his voice low and soft, lethal.

That question set Davies back in his chair, as if the answer was already obvious. "To be part of my staff...as head of my security detail," he replied.

A trace of relief made its way through the gunman's body, the tension ebbing from him slightly as he realized that Davies wasn't trying to hire him as an assassin. There had just been something so unsettling, so very cold-blooded, about that thought that Larabee had to admit to being half tempted to shoot the man himself...even if he was a friend of Orrin Travis's.

Chris dipped his head in acknowledgement and pushed back from the table. "Thanks, but I already got a job."

Davies laughed. "You call this a job? Protecting some little dusty town for a dollar a day plus room and board? And doing what? Getting yourself shot at for your troubles? Come now, Chris," he chided, "A man with your brains and talent was meant for better things. You could go far in my organization. You could have it all, money, power, prestige. You'd have the chance to travel all over this great country, meet important people, do great things, really make a difference with your life."

Larabee rose slowly from his chair, a troubled expression on his stony features.

"You're being wasted here, Chris," the lawyer pleaded. "You could earn twenty times as much money working for me, maybe even more. You'd be in a position to hire your own staff, name your own hours, sleep in a clean bed, eat a decent meal without anybody shooting at you. Why stay here when you could have it all?"

When he could have it all? Chris slanted his head, looked at the other man with one golden eyebrow raised, measuring, appraising, contemplating. What was it about wealth and power and the aura that surrounded them that seemed to make folks think that was all that was important? There were other things in this world besides the size of a man's bank account or how much land he owned, the number of cattle he ran or how many votes he'd garnered in some election.

More important things...like home...and family. Or at least there used to be.

"Like I said, I already got a job." The gunslinger picked up his hat, turned and walked away, but Davies wasn't giving up.

"Just promise me you'll think about it," he called after the departing figure. "That's all I'm asking, Chris. Just think about it."

Larabee paused in the open doorway of the saloon, his tall dark form silhouetted against the rising morning light. But Chris never turned, never glanced back, never offered an acknowledgment. Still though, the impact of Davies's words was there in the tight set of the gunman's broad shoulders, the grim line of his mouth. Then, lifting one hand, he shoved his way through the batwing doors. Once outside, he mounted his horse, reined the big gelding around and rode swiftly out of town.

But Davies's words...and his offer...followed after him, echoing to the steady beat of his horse's furious gait.

---

It was mid-morning by the time Vin Tanner and Gunter Larsen reached the older man's small holdings, the bleating of thirsty sheep and the overpowering smell greeting them from at least a half a mile away. He heard a dog barking in the distance as well, figuring out from Larsen's badly accented English that it was a large collie who kept watch over the Dutchman's flock. He wasn't surprised though when the dog didn't run out to greet them. Larsen said it was badly hurt by whatever had attacked his sheep.

Glancing around, Vin eyed the surrounding land, then turned to survey the ramshackle cabin and rickety wooden corral. Larsen had found himself a tiny desert oasis, a small area fed by a creek that flowed mostly underground from the distant Santa Catalina Mountains. The sandy soil flattened out here to form a shallow basin, a clear pool of water collecting in the center, trees and grasses growing in abundance beside its banks. He recognized cottonwood, palo verde, ocotillo and desert willow among them, could make out the tiny yellow flowers of brittlebush, some scattered bits of chuparosa, Devil's claw, desert lily and the fiery red of Indian paintbrush. Silently, he nodded his approval.

Gunter Larsen had chosen well.

Swinging down from his horse, Vin stood for a moment, absorbing the peaceful setting, letting the beauty of Earth Woman flow over him and through him. This small patch of land was vastly different from the heat and drier air of the surrounding desert, such a sharp contrast to the giant Saguaro cactus, the much smaller prickly pear and the scrubby thorns of the mesquite tree and the creosote bush. There were no thistle blooms or cockleburs to pierce a man's skin, no stinging nettles to rake over his flesh. Just fresh water, shade and a cooler breeze, a haven for the weary traveler.

Vin frowned though as he looked at the small herd of sheep inside the makeshift pen. It seemed to him that keeping them all together like that was just asking for trouble. But then he noticed the lines of string and tin cans surrounding the corral, the two rusted traps laid open and waiting. With his dog injured, Larsen had obviously hoped to frighten off any attackers with the noise. Vin's lips quirked in amusement and then he quietly sighed. The old man might know how to tend sheep but it was obvious he knew very little about predators in this part of the country.

He waited then as Larsen clambered down from the borrowed mare, quickly checked his sheep and then made his way over to the shack. Opening the door, the man gave a low whistle and the shaggy form of a large collie slowly appeared from inside. The dog was limping heavily, bloody bandages wrapped around one leg and shoulder. The right side of its mouth and face were also badly swollen. It whined softly, as if in pain, the thick tail wagging tiredly as it tried to greet its master. Seeing this, Vin immediately turned to get bandages and medicine from his saddlebags.

Taking the reins to both horses, the tracker tied them around the top rail of the pen. He'd water them in a little while, after they'd cooled off a bit. The dog needed tending first and then he had to search the area for tracks. It worried him now, more so than when they'd first ridden out. Attacking sheep was one thing, but a wild animal that could tear up a big dog like that could easily take down a child as well. Travis was right to ask him and Chris to check it out.

"Got some supplies here fer yer dog," he offered, catching the look of appreciation on the other man's face. Walking over to the shack, Vin followed Larsen and the wounded dog inside. They spent the next half hour cleaning its wounds before covering them with a healing salve and fresh bandages. Vin showed Larsen how to brew some of Nathan's teas, one for fever and another one for pain. Together, they fed them to the injured collie who was either too sick or in too much pain to care about the bitter taste.

Finally, with his faithful friend sleeping quietly, Larsen turned his grateful features to the young man beside him. "I show you now, yah?"

"Yeah," Vin nodded, wanting to get a look at the tracks and find out which direction this thing was headed. His stomach knotted with worry as he prayed that it wasn't back towards town.

Following Larsen out the door, the two men then made their way towards the pond. They skirted a couple of large boulders and took a small path down to a grassy area that held forage for the sheep. The smell of blood and death permeated the air and Vin could see scratch marks in the ground from where the carcasses had been dragged away to be burned and buried. He was grateful Larsen was at least smart enough to clear out the area. It made no sense to leave an open invitation for other scavengers to come sniffing around.

"Here," the older man indicated, extending his right hand. "Von...two...three...und three more over der..."

Vin whistled, soft and low, then shook his head. Six sheep and a dog. This couldn't be a wolf. It just couldn't be, he told himself. Not like this. Not killing simply for the sake of killing. Wolves hunted in packs for food and for survival. No lone wolf in its right mind would do something like this. There had to be another explanation. Walking towards the spot of the first kill, he squatted down on his haunches, keen eyes scanning the loose soil and bits of gravel, one arm draped across his buckskin covered thigh.

What the tracker found didn't tell much of a story. Sheep were stupid. There'd been no fight, no resistance; they hadn't run. They'd simply stood there or milled around, waiting to be ruthlessly slaughtered. He found a partial print half buried in the sand, most of it wiped out by the overlay of rounded hooves. He reached out and fingered the dark stain nearby, knew even before he sniffed it that it was blood soaked up by the thirsty ground.

The same tale was then repeated at each place he checked. A part of a print here or there, blood and hoof marks all about, the outline of Larsen's boots where he walked amongst the carnage. But there was nothing that gave the tracker a clearer picture of exactly what he was dealing with. Standing, Vin exhaled heavily, all the while chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his lip, determined to find what it was that he had missed.

Turning slowly in place, he scrutinized the silent earth. Then, lifting his head, he asked, "What about the dog?" But Larsen only stared at him in confusion. "Where'd it come after yer dog?" he asked again.

"I...I don't know," stammered the Dutchman. "It vas dark. I couldn't see. I take a lantern to go find him."

"Where?" Vin repeated, then followed Larsen as he turned and led the way.

A few moments later, the tracker was satisfied that he at least knew one thing for certain.

"Weren't no wolf that did this," he advised the older man, looking around at the torn up dirt and grass and then into the older man's faded eyes. "Tracks look more like a big dog, prob'bly wild...maybe one that's sick in th'head."

"I don't... vhat means dis? Sick in da head?" Gunter questioned.

The word alone was enough to lodge a knot of fear deep in Vin's gut.

"It's called...hydro-pho-bee."

---

The heat of the day was fast approaching and the sun beat down relentlessly even as Chris Larabee rode hard to catch up to Vin Tanner. The problem was that the frustrated gunslinger wasn't sure just where the other man was headed. Loosing another volley of soft curses, he was decidedly angry with himself for not getting more detailed directions from Gunter Larsen when the three men had parted company. Then again, Chris hadn't expected to need them.

But after being stopped that morning by Arnold Davies, it took him longer to get out of town than he'd wanted. His damned horse had thrown a shoe about two miles out and he'd had to walk the gelding back in and wait while the blacksmith fired up his forge to reset the errant shoe. Now, it was well onto morning and even hampered by Larsen's presence, Chris figured to be at least a good hour and a half behind the younger man.

Slowing his mount, Larabee scanned the countryside, then dropped his narrowed gaze to the dry dusty ground. He wasn't anywhere near the tracker that Vin was but at least he could make out two sets of hoof prints headed off in a generally westward direction. He occasionally lost them over the scattered slabs of thick rock only to pick them up further on in another patch of sandy desert soil. It was slow but steady going with only an occasional missed turn forcing him to backtrack, all of which, however, didn't do much for Chris's steadily increasing annoyance.

He halted his horse and let the reins fall loose across the gelding's thickly muscled neck. Pulling off his hat, Chris wiped the sweat from his brow with his arm, then replaced the flat-brimmed covering. As hot as the desert sun could get, he knew better than to go for too long without the protection it provided. The risk of death from heat stroke was an all too familiar danger. Lifting his canteen, the gunslinger uncorked it, took a single mouthful of tepid water, swallowed and replaced the cork. Rationing water was a way of life out here as well. A smart man heeded the lessons that the desert offered, heeded them and learned how to survive, how to stay alive. But God knew it was a harsh way for a man to live his life.

All of which brought Chris's thoughts tumbling back to Gunter Larsen.

There was precious little water and even less forage to be found in the desert. So why had the Dutchman chosen to make this place his home? What had ever possessed him to think he could raise a herd of sheep way out here? But even as he thought it, Chris reckoned that he already knew.

The cattlemen wouldn't take too kindly to having their grazing lands invaded by sheep. The wooly four-legged creatures were notorious for destroying the grasslands, pulling the rich forage out by the roots and leaving nothing behind but a vast field of dry dust. Then there was the fact that sheep smelled worse than buffalo or even a dead coyote, all of which made it more than likely that the ranchers would shoot Larsen first and then kill his entire herd. One man against so many would be like David versus Goliath.

Picking up his reins, his hands resting on the saddle horn, Chris shook his head. Some things just didn't make much sense but he could understand the older man's caution, his unwillingness to settle anywhere near the big outfits that ran such huge herds of cattle and guarded their lands so fiercely. Men like James and Royal were ruthless, without a conscience, and they would think nothing of killing off the smaller ranchers and claiming the surrounding homesteads for their own. They'd done it before, and while the seven regulators had won the last major skirmish, Chris knew both sides were in a temporary truce while they licked their collective wounds. A smart betting man would give favorable odds on one or the other of the rich cattleman setting up to try it all again, especially with the railroad continuing to build on through.

No, Gunter Larsen had chosen his desert home with an eye to keeping his herd alive and his head intact and Chris couldn't blame the man for that. Then there was also the additional advantage of all this solitude, all this peace and quiet, no one else for miles around. That thought though gave Chris pause, leading him to believe he had more in common with the Dutchman than he realized.

Peace and quiet. Solitude. The need to be alone. Weren't those the very same reasons he'd bought a small homestead several miles outside of town and gone to all the time, trouble and expense of building a small cabin on that patch of worthless ground? Not because he was settling down but because he'd wanted a place of his own, a place where he could find a bit of peace and quiet?

Chris snorted at his own foolishness even as he lifted his hands, touched his heels to his horse's flanks and urged the gelding into a trot.

Peace and quiet were all an illusion anyways. There was no peace and quiet these days, at least, not for him. It seemed like someone was always riding out from town to see him, to find him, to ask for his help, run an errand for the judge, transfer a prisoner, break up a fight, deal with another bunch of drunken trail hands, answer a telegram. Hell, these days it seemed as if everyone wanted a piece of him and Chris wasn't sure if there was enough of him left to go around anymore. Not now, not lately. Not since...not since Ella.

Shit.

He didn't want to think about her. Didn't want to think about that deceitful, murdering bitch. She'd cost him enough already. His family, his home, his reputation, his self-respect. When the others had hauled him back to town with that big fucking hole in his chest, when the story got out about what had happened, about what he'd done...what he'd planned to do...with her...

Shit.

Chris dropped his head, tugged the brim of his hat even lower, shielded his face from the hot sun. His conscience gnawed at him guiltily and his betrayal left a hole deep inside his gut. Because by his actions, he'd betrayed Sarah and Adam, betrayed his love for them, their memories and the life that they'd once shared. He'd also betrayed the six men who considered him to be a friend. Buck, Vin...all of them. He'd betrayed their trust and their confidence. Having to pick himself up afterwards and look each one of them in the face was one of the most difficult things he'd ever had to do.

And it wasn't getting any easier. Seeing the look in their eyes, the knowledge, the pity, having to face that every damned day...and it wasn't just his friends. There was Mary Travis and Gloria Potter, Inez, Tiny Wilkins at the livery, Joe Deacons over at the stage line and just about every other damned person who called that dusty town their home. It followed him around like a damned ghost, haunting his thoughts and his actions, wearing on him, dragging him down. His failure, his blindness and his stupidity, his dishonor was with him everywhere he went, twenty four hours a day, day in and day out. In the back of his mind, Chris had somehow always thought of himself as a strong man but now...well now, the weary gunslinger didn't know just how much more of this that he could take.

The urge to move on was strong, to just leave it all behind and ride out as if nothing and no one mattered, as if he had no commitments, no responsibilities, no one he was held accountable to. But again, his conscience wouldn't let him. Besides, Chris reasoned, where would he go anyways? It wasn't like there were a lot of job openings for a man such as himself. The ways of lawlessness and the hired gun were passing with the advance of civilization, with progress. More and more people were moving out west; towns were being settled, laws established and men of honor hired to back them up.

Somehow, Chris didn't think that he qualified to be among their number. He'd done too many things in his life, things he wasn't proud of, men he'd shot and killed both in anger and in haste, perhaps even in a drunken stupor. No, he shook his head, grimacing at what was inevitable. Chris Larabee had been the "bad element" for far too long, and as much as he might fight it, things were changing. Life was changing.

And more and more, Chris Larabee felt out of place.

Snarling savagely under his breath, the gunslinger jerked on his horse's reins, dug his heels into the sweaty flanks and sent the gelding off into the desert at a steady gallop. He rode to find Vin but the job offer from Arnold Davies still followed him, mocking him, taunting him, swirling about him on the hot and dusty wind.

---

Ezra Standish stared at his reflection in the mirror, a satisfied smile lighting his features as he straightened his black cravat and tugged on the sleeves of his coat one last time. Slicking one hand over his hair, he then settled his hat at a rakish angle and quickly saluted himself in the glass. There was nothing like an immaculate, well-groomed appearance to make a good first impression, and Ezra was a master at making a good impression. After all, his dear sainted mother had taught him from an early age that appearances were everything and the conman had learned that lesson exceedingly well.

Stepping out of his room a moment later, Ezra went down the stairs, exited the boarding house and then headed down the street to the saloon. He squinted upward at the bright sun, one hand tapping his pocket watch tucked inside his breast pocket, not needing to check it to know the hour was close to noon. He walked with a casual air, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world, smiling and greeting townsfolk, his gold tooth winking in the yellow sunlight. Just a man about town out for a morning stroll.

Shrewd green eyes narrowed as he approached the batwing doors, one elegant, well-manicured hand reaching up to push the portal open. Slipping inside, the gambler paused, casually surveying the interior, letting his practiced gaze sweep the room, seemingly interested in no one yet knowing in that single glance the location if not the names of each and every occupant. It was another lesson he'd learned from Maude, a certain degree of caution that was necessary given his chosen trade. Those who pursued a similar occupation called it ‘reading the room' and it was another lifelong habit that the conman studiously cultivated.

Granted, he'd lost some of his sharpness and his skills given his recent change in employment. After all, hiring himself out as a peacekeeper was certainly not something he'd ever aspired to, but at the time, the Honorable Judge Orrin Travis had left him little choice. It was either sign on with this bunch of unruly misfits or lose his freedom and go back to jail. But as a result, there was a very important piece of thick parchment paper tucked away in a secret compartment in Ezra's luggage, the pardon that he'd earned as precious to him as gold. For that alone, the temporary ‘loss' of some of his more selfish instincts and his competitive nature was exceedingly well worth the price.

Now however, it was time to sharpen those skills again, to hone them to a fine edge. It was time for him to move on, time to stop relying on six other men to watch his back and to once more start thinking of himself first and foremost. Maude had raised and trained him to be the best, the brightest, the smartest at what they did, second of course to only her. And as much as it might personally sadden him to leave this little backwater place behind, his instincts were telling him that it was time to once again become that person.

Locating his intended mark, the gambler took the two steps down into the saloon and casually made his way across the floor. Approaching the table in the far corner, he pasted a polite smile on his face, oozing charm and sophistication as he sidled closer.

"Good day, sir." The southerner's voice dripped with smooth, warm honey. "Might you be interested in some company perchance?" Ezra asked with a delicate wave of his hand. "I'm afraid this little hamlet doesn't always have the best to offer by way of stimulating conversation, so when I see a man of your apparent means and education, I try to avail myself of the opportunity."

Looking up from his lunch, Arnold Davies studied the dandy standing before him. He knew who the man was, would have recognized him anywhere from Orrin Travis's description. Ezra Standish. Gambler. Con man. Thief. Swindler. Convicted felon. One of the seven men hired to protect this town. And it piqued his curiosity as to why the man had apparently sought him out. For there was no mistaking that intention when he'd first entered the saloon despite his casual perusal of the occupants. But Davies was a smart man himself, shrewd, slick and not easily fooled. He recognized the same characteristics in the fancy gambler and with a nod of his gray head, he invited Ezra to join him.

"Thank you, my good sir," Ezra began as he settled into a chair. "The name is St..."

"Standish," Davies interrupted, startling the younger man. "Ezra Standish," he continued, amusement coloring his ruddy face at having the upper hand. "Or is it perhaps Ezra Smith or Ezra Simpson today?"

Green eyes widened but the face remained otherwise impassive. "I assure you..."

Davies took a bite of a tortilla, his words muffled slightly as he chewed. "Your reputation precedes you, son. You should know by now that there are no secrets in a small town like this. Everyone here knows everybody else's business." He winked conspiratorially, digging into the refried beans and rice with his fork. "Besides, Judge Travis is a friend of mine. You really think he would leave me defenseless against a man of your skills and reputation?"

Ezra leaned back in his chair, more than a bit perturbed, barely noticing when Inez brought him a cup of coffee. He mumbled his thanks as she walked away, his gaze riveted on the man across from him. He'd made a mistake, had seriously miscalculated. All this time he'd spent finding out everything he could about Arnold Davies, the lawyer and the man. Not once had he ever considered that Davies might be finding out about him as well. Ezra cursed himself silently for the misstep, barely refraining from shaking his head. Lord, he was getting slow.

But then something in the gray eyes across from him seemed to silently communicate itself, almost a recognition of sorts, as if the man knew who he was and what he was but wouldn't turn away. Ezra pondered on that a moment, thoughts tumbling rapidly through his mind on how to turn this to his advantage.

"It seems I may have underestimated you, sir," the gambler offered hesitantly, trying to feel his way through what was rapidly becoming a very disconcerting conversation.

"Don't make that mistake twice," Davies advised with a sly grin as he finished up the last of his meal. Settling back in his chair, he wiped his mouth on the checkered napkin before tossing it down on top of his plate. He signaled Inez for a refill on his coffee, then seemed content to relax, hands folded across his not inconsiderable girth.

"Señor Ezra, may I bring you some lunch?" Inez inquired politely, her dark eyes flitting curiously between the two men.

"No, Inez, thank you," Ezra returned, granting her a small smile before sipping from his own mug. He waited until she moved back behind the bar before speaking once again. "I assure you, sir, I won't make that mistake again. After all," the gambler drawled, "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me." He silently toasted Davies with his coffee cup, the gleam returning to his eyes as the lawyer began to laugh.

When Davies could finally contain his mirth, he regarded the younger man across from him with a wide grin. "Travis warned me you were a smart one so why don't we cut through all this bullshit and tell me what you want?"

Setting down his mug, Ezra barely kept from choking on the hot liquid, his eyes widening with feigned innocence. "Some decent conversation and perhaps a game of cards?"

Davies chuckled once again. "I'm a lawyer, son. I've heard it all, seen it all and probably done it all as well. Men like you are a dime a dozen back in Santa Fe and they cost you even less once you make it to the capital. You're always working an angle, looking for some way to make a profit. You don't lift a finger unless it gets you what you want."

Ezra Standish was a bit nonplussed at having his character and his motives so shrewdly dissected. Much to his disgust, he found his palms were sweating and his heart was beating a bit too fast inside his chest. He licked absently at his lips, struggling to keep his poker face intact. The man was good. He'd give him that. But doubling his determination, Ezra decided the game wasn't over quite yet.

"You seem to have all the answers, Mr. Davies."

The lawyer snorted before reaching inside his breast pocket and extracting a long brown cigar. He sniffed at it appreciatively, bit off the tip and then casually spit it onto the floor. Pulling out a match, he scraped it along the edge of the table, the smell of sulfur sharp and acrid as the flame burst into life. A moment later, Davies settled more comfortably in his chair, puffing slowly in satisfaction as he exhaled clouds of fragrant blue-gray smoke.

"So, what do you want?"

Ezra leaned forward, arms folded in front of him as he rested them on the surface of the table. "What makes you think I *want* anything?" he inquired, one sandy-brown brow climbing up his forehead.

"You saying you don't?" the lawyer countered, the gleam in his eyes all too knowing.

Ezra's response was carefully measured. "Perhaps I have something to offer instead."

"And what would you have to offer me?" The words were sarcastic, biting, skeptical.

Ignoring the other man's tone, Ezra pressed on. "If the rumors I hear are correct and if perchance you should decide to run for governor of this great territory, I might be in a position to render my assistance."

That statement definitely got Davies' attention. Straightening his considerable bulk in the chair, he crushed out the cigar in the remains on his plate, a frown of irritation pulling at the corners of his mouth. At this stage, only a handful of people knew of his likely intentions and he didn't remember this fancy, smooth talking gambler as being one of them.

"Where did you hear that?" Davies demanded in a near growl, not liking this unexpected turn of events.

Ezra merely smirked as he replied, "I have my sources," but he refused to elaborate any further. A good conman never gave away his secrets.

Davies drummed his fingers on the table, his displeasure obvious. Finally, after a long moment of thought, he conceded. "All right, let's you and I suppose that I do decide to run for governor. Just what is it that you think that you can offer?"

Feeling as if he were on more familiar footing, Ezra allowed himself to relax as he elaborated. "I could be your front man, your ‘campaign manager' I believe is the proper terminology. Handle the crowds, the advance press, hotel accommodations, public relations, scheduling, that sort of thing."

Leaning forward even more, he looked intently into the older man's face, his accented voice dropping conspiratorially. "Together, we could create an image guaranteed to have you elected governor. We take advantage of the differences between yourself and Clayton Hopewell, vilify his character, attack his record and his reputation. In turn, we present *you* as the true ‘champion of the people' with only the best interests of this great nation at the heart of your crusade. Why, just think of the endless possibilities, Mr. Davies. Today, this great territory. Tomorrow, a state. Next year, the nation!"

It sounded good, even to Ezra. Now, if only Davies bought into it.

The older man sat for a moment, clearly thinking, his eyes reflective. He snorted again, then lifted his gaze to Ezra. "And what's in it for you?" he asked, a broad smirk growing at the cunning look in the gambler's eyes.

"Me?" Ezra affected innocently, his smile wide. "Who says there's anything in it for me?"

Davies did laugh then, a low dirty chuckle that spoke of greed and artifice. It erupted into a full out belly laugh that reverberated through the room. "Didn't anyone ever teach you never to con a con, son?" He pushed back his chair with a scrape and rose heavily to his feet. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out some coins and flipped them onto the table.

Ezra stared up at him, smiling, still believing the game was in full play.

"Let's get something straight, Standish. First off, I'm not about to hire a convicted felon and a thief as part of my personal staff and second, I sure as hell don't need that southern mouth of yours telling me what to say or do. You Confederate boys lost the war in case you haven't noticed."

Surprised by the vicious attack, Ezra sat there stunned, his mouth open, astonishment clearly written upon his features. Davies leaned over, placing both hands on the table, his voice low, his patience and good manners obviously at an end.

"Third, the only reason I let Orrin drag me to this godforsaken place is because I needed to find out the truth about what Hopewell was up to and fourth, because I wanted to hire the man who managed to beat that lying, murdering son of a bitch. Once I've collected Chris Larabee, I'll be on my way and then you and the rest of your friends can go back to playing your little games of keeping the peace and protecting this worthless town. You got me, boy?"

The last was snarled almost directly into Ezra's face, flying spittle just barely missing the gambler's skin but somehow landing with unerring accuracy on the crimson material of his coat sleeve. Arnold Davies then pushed himself upward with a soft huff, standing as tall as his portly frame would allow. He took his coat from the back of his chair, slipped his arms into the sleeves and straightened it even as his face once again resumed its usual mask of genial warmth.

Glancing one last time at the flabbergasted younger man, he offered smoothly, "Have a nice day now," then turned on his heel and left.

Still seated at the table, Ezra swallowed hard, his dazed green eyes following the other man's retreating back, and he continued to stare at the swinging doors until long after the lawyer disappeared. Ever so slowly though, he roused, becoming more aware of his surroundings and glancing about in obvious embarrassment. He avoided looking directly at any of the other patrons, avoided Inez' sympathetic gaze. The fine rosy blush coloring his features only added to the gambler's noticeable discomfort.

Shaking himself mentally, Ezra couldn't help but wonder how much of their exchange had actually been overheard? And what in the hell had just happened anyways?

Standish exhaled heavily. Good Lord, but he needed a whiskey.

Bad.

---

Crawling across the ground on his belly, Vin Tanner kept his head down, moving quietly and carefully further into the wash. Slithering around a patch of cholla, he eased closer to the back of the ledge he was on, pressing his lean frame into the shadows as much as possible, blending in, staying hidden. Tiny bits of gravel and rock dug into his hip and stomach but he ignored the discomfort, intent on reaching his goal.

For almost two hours now, Vin had been following the large paw prints leading away from Gunter Larsen's small holding, his worry growing as he found himself eventually circling back towards the town. A scattered number of various other animal tracks had joined in before he'd finally ended up here, a small arroyo tucked into an outcropping of rocks and boulders that bore the incongruous name of Sabino Canyon. Vin knew of the place from having hunted there before, knew of the small spring that fed the rocky ground and gave life to the myriad of desert creatures that called the canyon home.

It was the perfect place for his prey to hide and Vin chided himself mentally for not thinking of it before. But, he reasoned, he was here now and he was still undetected, moving cautiously along the narrow ledge that lay some twenty feet below the canyon rim. Approaching from downwind, the overlook he was headed for would afford him an excellent view from which he could scout the open area below. He dug in with his elbows and inched forward a bit more, the piercing cry of a red-tailed hawk briefly tilting his head upwards. Blue eyes narrowed against the sun as he tracked the path of its graceful flight, a tight grimace creasing his face even as the tracker knew he'd been spotted by the keen-eyed hunter.

Clutching his rifle tighter in his hand, Vin dropped his gaze and crept further along the ledge, his jaw clenched and his lips set in a determined line. He moved slowly, almost without sound, hardly daring to breathe, each stretch of his arm or slide of his leg carefully placed so as to cause the least amount of disturbance. It took a lot of time and patience to learn to track this way and Vin had perfected the technique in the time he'd spent amongst the People. Those very same lessons also allowed him to blend in with his surroundings, the earth, the rocks, the trees, to slip from place to place unnoticed and melt away in the night like a silent ghostly shadow.

A sudden grin tilted Vin's mouth as a flash of memory sliced through him. JD had been in the saloon having a beer and he'd slipped up behind the younger man unnoticed. When the dark-headed youth finally turned, he'd let loose with a startled yelp, surprised to find Vin standing directly behind him. The kid had spilled his beer all down the front of his shirt, but the look of irritation and disgust in those hazel eyes was followed almost immediately by a genuine admiration. Even as Vin had chuckled at JD's misfortune, the younger man was begging to know how he did it.

Vin had promised to teach him...one day...maybe...and then the tracker's smile faded away as other memories intruded upon his thoughts. JD was a good kid, a quick learner and he tried hard, sometimes almost too hard. Vin had already spent countless hours with him, teaching him how to track and to recognize the various animal footprints as well as what types of medicinal plants and sources of water could be found out in the harsh desert. But given the recent turn of events, Vin wasn't sure he was going to be around long enough to teach JD much of anything else except how to say goodbye.

There was too much that had happened, too much left unsaid, too much that had fallen apart, and Vin wasn't so sure that it wasn't time for him to be moving on. After all, he still had a price on his head and somewhere out there, the truth was waiting to be found. Either that or a Texas jury was likely at some point to put a noose around his neck. And while it would sadden him to leave their little town, Vin was a practical man. He knew that things changed. People changed. Life went on. That's just the way it was.

All of which led him to wondering yet again, just where in the hell was Chris? Vin hadn't seen hide nor hair of the man since leaving town that morning. They'd parted company after a stranger he'd first seen with Orrin Travis wanted to speak to Chris privately. But from all indications, it didn't look like the gunslinger had planned to be all that far behind him. So where was he and why hadn't Chris caught up with him? Had he changed his mind about going on Travis's little hunting expedition after all?

Vin shrugged, sighing philosophically. Unfortunately, Chris's absence was something he was getting used to, something he found he'd come to expect as opposed to the trusted friend who used to watch his back. Because Chris had changed. Life had changed him. He wasn't who he'd been before, wasn't the man Vin had come to know and respect, ever since the day that Ella Gaines showed up and sunk her claws deep into the older man's skin. And sometimes, Vin found himself wondering which had done the most damage, Jack Averill's bullet...or Ella Gaines's lies?

A small rock skittered from beneath his knee, bumping its way down the side of the wash, creating a tiny avalanche of loose gravel and Vin scowled with irritation. It wasn't like him to get so distracted that he made a mistake like that. One single misstep, one little noise out of place and it was liable to set the whole canyon off and alert every living creature in it to his presence. He waited, unmoving, tense, holding his breath, ears tuned for the slightest movement, relaxing only when everything below the rocky outcropping remained calm, quiet and still.

Moving forward once again, Vin eased further along the ledge, finally gaining his vantage point and settling into it with his rifle on the ground beside him. A fine sheen of sweat covered his features, the heat of the day bearing down on him as he pulled his spyglass from his coat. Easing his hat off of his head, he tucked it beside him and then carefully raised the glass, staying towards the shadows of the overhang and avoiding any flash from the direct rays of the bright afternoon sun. One eye closed, he squinted through the other, staring down the length of the brass tube and slowly sweeping the canyon floor below.

At first glance, there wasn't much moving about on the sandy salt flats beneath him and Vin bit into his lower lip, a frown of concentration pulling at the corners of his mouth. But even as he watched and waited, some of the smaller desert creatures began to make themselves known. He spied a pair of gray-coated rock squirrels playing amongst the shady branches of a Joshua tree, their lively chirps muted in deference to the hawk that hunted high above them. An elegant black-collared lizard pulled itself up onto a flat rock, sunning itself for a moment before slowly crawling into a shaded crevice. A roadrunner darted across the open ground, its progress tracked by a pair of turkey vultures sitting almost motionless on the branches of a long dead cottonwood tree. And down closer to the source of the hidden spring, Vin could see tracks he knew belonged to jack rabbits, coyotes and desert ring-necked pheasants.

There would be larger animal tracks scattered around the water supply as well, bobcat and gray fox, mule deer, mountain lion, probably some javelina and wild burros, but Vin doubted that he'd find any of those creatures moving about in the heat of the day. Still, it paid to be careful, and for many long, silent moments, he continued to search the sandy floor as well as the large boulders and rocky sides of the small isolated canyon. Finally, he found what he was looking for, a small overhang that hid the entrance to a den, just enough of a dark shadow beneath its ledge to give away the opening. An opening just big enough to provide a home to a Mexican gray wolf...or possibly a large wild dog.

Wanting to get a closer look, Vin slipped closed his spyglass, grabbed up his rifle and hat and backtracked along the ledge. He then swung down another seven feet or so to a second outcropping below him. The flat rocks there angled off into an easterly direction and the tracker moved carefully, silently, staying in the deepening shadows and once again checking the direction of the wind. Crawling the last few feet on his belly, he left his rifle and hat behind him, inching forward just enough to train his gaze on the opening of the den. The entrance was now some thirty feet below him and directly across the wash at about a four o'clock angle. Lifting his spying glass again, Vin peered through the magnifying lens.

Long moments passed, then finally, just when he'd almost given up, a hint of movement at the mouth of the den captured his attention.

"Well, now," he drawled on a silent breath of air. "Howdy there, little feller."

A small bundle of silver and black fur edged closer into the sunlight, the tiny tip of a wet nose poking upwards into the air. A moment later, a second tail appeared, also tipped with black but shadowed by the barest hint of red. A third tail followed and then the long sleek muzzle of a female wolf slipped out of the shadows beside them. Vin couldn't help but grin, enjoying the rare and precious gift he'd been chosen to receive. Usually wary of the presence of man and the abundance of other likely predators, it wasn't often that a she-wolf brought her young pups out like this in the middle of the day.

Settling in to enjoy the view, Vin watched through his glass as the young mother nudged her little family down towards the spring, nipping and biting gently in encouragement yet all the while keeping a watchful eye. Every now and then she would pause, lift her elegant head and scent the air around her. Vin held his breath at those moments, kept perfectly still, loath to even blink lest she should somehow detect his presence. Still innocent to the dangers around them, the three pups frolicked and played, tumbling over one another, wrestling and growling, their excited yips and yowls echoing sharply off the rocky walls. Vin couldn't help but grin as he watched, every now and then lifting his gaze to glance around, keeping a watchful eye out for the other members of her pack.

But so far, the she-wolf appeared to be alone and Vin watched for a while until finally she herded her little brood back towards the den. He smiled with undisguised pleasure at the small family's antics even as the now exhausted pups disappeared back up inside the rocks. Sighing with reluctance, he then admitted it was time for him to go as well. As much as he'd enjoyed the brief respite, Vin still had to find whatever it was that had attacked Larsen's herd and more than likely kill it. And lying here watching the she-wolf play with her pups wasn't getting the job done.

Crawling backwards along the lower ledge, Vin took his hat and rifle in one hand, staying low and quiet until he reached a point where he could turn and stand before climbing back up amongst the scattered rocks. As he approached the top, he reached up to pull himself over the rim and his booted foot slipped in the layer of shallow gravel. Cursing softly, the tracker eased his rifle and hat over the edge, then quickly used both hands to scale the last few feet. Standing, he glanced around, took a deep breath, then bent over to brush at the dust marks on his pants.

Without warning, a low snarl sounded behind him causing the hair on the back of Vin's neck to stand on end. His eyes darted quickly to both sides, his body stiff with sudden tension. The rifle lay on the ground a few feet away and his mare's leg was still securely holstered at his side. The closest and quickest thing he had for a weapon was the sharp hunting knife tucked into the side of his boot. He eased his hand downward, slender fingers reaching for the elk bone handle even as Vin realized he had no idea just what it was that he was facing.

Then, before he could take a breath, before he could even stand and turn, the sound of quickly running feet and a harsh panting growl heralded the arrival of the large body that abruptly slammed into his lower back. The tracker tumbled forward, losing his balance, the breath driven from his body as he was slammed into the ground. His knife clutched defensively in one hand, Vin rolled instinctively to the side.

And promptly fell twenty feet to the hard outcropping of rock below.

The fallen man moaned softly and then lay still, unmoving, unconscious, hidden from view, a trail of blood seeping from the gash cut into the back of his head by the sharp edges of the stone.

---

"JD, son...enough with the jokes, okay?" Standing on the porch of the sheriff's office, hands out in front of him, Buck was trying to ward off the next barrage of words. "Ya gotta face it, they just ain't that funny, kid." Dropping his arms, he then leaned into the doorjamb, his long frame draped casually against the wooden slats.

Drifting back in his chair, the front two legs lifted high off the ground, JD snickered. His hazel eyes danced with laughter as he replied, "Sure they are, Buck. You just ain't got a sense of humor." He ducked to miss the hand that reached out to swat him on the back of the head.

"I got a great sense of humor," Buck huffed defensively, then raked long fingers through the tangle of his dark, wavy hair. His words were quieter but no less intense as he continued, "Man's gotta have a sense of humor to ride with this bunch of stubborn knot heads." Rich blue eyes slid sideways, avoiding the younger man's turned head and direct gaze, sweeping the dusty street beyond, but somehow, the undercurrent of worry and frustration in his deep voice still managed to ring clear.

"Somethin' wrong, Buck?" JD asked after a moment, his dark brows pulling together in a puzzled frown. Easing his chair forward and down, he planted his feet on the wooden boards and let his hands rest on the twin butts of his guns. Taking a deep breath, he sighed at the initial silence, the tense set of Buck's shoulders, the hard set line of his jaw. Something was bothering the man and maybe he'd tell him and maybe he wouldn't. For all that Buck could talk the ears off a mule, sometimes he was as closemouthed as Chris or Vin.

A long moment passed and then finally, Buck snorted, his broad shoulders jerking with the motion before he turned back around. "Hell, no, JD. Ain't nothin' wrong. Leastways, not anything that a good kick in the pants won't cure." A broad grin split his mouth, the teasing light in his eyes trying and not quite succeeding in restoring his previous good humor.

Lips pursed, JD sighed again, barely refraining from shaking his head. Buck had once again avoided answering his question and sometimes JD just wished the other guys would quit trying so hard to protect him. He wasn't a kid anymore, for chrissakes! He wasn't that same wide-eyed greenhorn who'd stepped off the stage with saddle in hand and a gun on his hip and no notion of just what he'd gotten himself into. He was one of them now. He'd grown up. He was a man. So why couldn't they treat him as such?

But JD also knew that a man faced his problems. He didn't hide from them. A ‘real' man's code of honor wouldn't let him. Chris had taught him that. But for the last three months or so, that's all that the seven of them had done—hide from their problems, from what was really going on, and JD was tired of it, tired of all the uncertainty. Maybe now, maybe here with Buck, just one on one, if he pushed it just a bit then maybe, just maybe, they could start to solve it.

"I guess you're meanin' Chris," JD stated, his tone of voice carefully neutral. He felt it almost like a physical blow when Buck's eyes immediately pinned him where he sat.

"What makes you think that?" the ladies' man challenged.

Turning in his chair, JD looked up at him, a tiny smile on his face at the way Buck almost bristled in Chris's defense. "You sayin' it's not?"

"I'm not sayin' anything..." Buck began as he straightened the length of his tall frame, arms dropping to his sides. Anger kindled in his eyes and JD reacted quickly, attempting to soothe the other man's edgy temper.

"I'm sorry, Buck," the youth apologized, his dark eyes full of sadness. "I didn't mean nothin' by it, honest. It's just that...It's just..." He dropped his head and turned back in his seat, arms folded on his knees as he hunched forward. Behind him, he heard Buck let out a long sigh and felt rather than saw him settle back against the doorframe. Maybe starting this discussion with Buck wasn't such a good idea after all.

Silence filtered all around them.

Finally, JD could bear it no longer. "Buck? You ever think...about movin' on?"

There was the space of several heartbeats before Buck answered. "Now, why would I do that?" But his words didn't come out sounding near as certain as the older man intended and he flinched at the possibilities that JD's innocent enough question evoked. Had he thought about it? Hell, yeah. Many times before and many times since, especially after Ella Gaines crawled out of whatever hole she'd been spawned in. Did that mean he was going to saddle up and ride out? Well, not yet...probably not...if he was being honest. So why had JD asked? He looked at the younger man curiously and waited.

"Oh, I don't know," JD shrugged, lifting his head and then leaning back in the chair. "Just seems like there ain't nothin' much for us to do around here anymore. It's gotten kinda quiet. Chris and Vin and Nathan are hardly ever around. Ezra's always riding off to Eagle Bend and you can't hardly get Josiah down from the roof of the church. Just makes me wonder what the heck the Judge is payin' us for?"

A pause and then, "You want out?" came the nearly whispered reply.

"No," JD denied sharply, his head turning to glance at Buck. "I ain't sayin' that. It's just that I...it's just..." Well, shit. Just what in the hell *was* he trying to say? JD couldn't seem to find the words. It was just too hard to think past all the emotions swirling around inside of him trying to find a way to get out and all he'd managed to do was trip over his own damned tongue. Shit. Maybe he'd just better shut up. He felt stupid for starting this conversation with Buck in the first place. He ought to take Josiah's advice about letting ‘sleeping dogs lie.' Turning, JD sank back in his chair and stared morosely across the street.

But as always, Buck seemed to know what was on his young friend's mind.

"I'm worried about him too, JD."

It didn't take a genius to figure out Buck was talking about Chris. The subject of the lean, blond gunslinger and the events surrounding the appearance and later disappearance of Ella Gaines were never far from any of their minds. The fact that she was still out there, somewhere, was a constant thorn in their sides. She needed to be found, brought to justice, made to pay for what she'd done, for all those who had suffered at her hands. For all those who still suffered at her hands, JD admitted silently, for there was no doubt in his mind that Chris Larabee was definitely still suffering. Even though Nathan's medical skills had long ago helped to heal the gunman's outer wounds, the inner ones remained raw and open. They still bled from deep within Larabee's battered soul.

Oh, Chris tried to hide it. JD knew that. He tried to keep it all buried inside, tried to shut it all away. But it didn't take a blind man to see that something was wrong and he might be accused of being young, but JD certainly wasn't blind.

"You think he'll be okay?" he asked, never taking his eyes from the pane of shiny glass in the storefront across the way.

After a moment, Buck heaved a sigh, the sound laced through with sorrow. "I don't know, JD. I truly don't...but I hope so."

JD thought on that, chewing worriedly on his lower lip, feeling more unsettled by the fact that the man who'd known Chris longest, the man who'd seen him through the death of his wife and son and the Hell that followed after, the one man JD now admitted that he'd hoped would give him some assurance, really and truly didn't know. He wasn't quite sure just how that made him feel. Uneasy...maybe. Frightened...perhaps just a bit. Worried. Yeah, definitely worried. But what could he do about it?

Not a damn thing, JD admitted silently, a long sigh escaping him.

"He's just gotta get it all sorted out, JD," Buck continued, trying to soothe his younger friend. "Chris just needs some time is all..."

*How much longer?* JD wanted to ask. It had been three months already. But instead, he offered, "Ezra says he's just being...narci...what's that word?...narcissistic?" He turned to glance at Buck, to see if he understood what that meant. "It means selfish or self-absorbed..."

Buck couldn't help but chuckle. "Yeah, I know what it means, JD, and let's just say that comin' from Ezra, that's a bit like the pot callin' the kettle black."

He unfolded the length of his frame from the door and moved to the top step, settling down onto it with a slight grunt, then stretched his legs out before him. Buck knew he'd been avoiding having this conversation with JD but some things just couldn't be put off any longer and now seemed like as good a time as any. Easing back on his elbows, his expression became pensive, his eyes and thoughts lost somewhere between the past, the present and the future.

"I've known Chris a lot of years," he began softly. "Good times and bad. The man's got a code of honor, a sense of responsibility that he carries around, wears it like most folks do their skin. That's just the way he is. Ain't never seen ‘im do without it neither, not even durin' them long awful years that he was drinkin' and losin' the best part of himself in the bottom of a whiskey bottle. That's just who he is, what he does, how he survives...and it's an awful hard way for any man ta have ta live."

JD already knew all of that. He'd seen it for himself, but he wisely kept his mouth shut, letting Buck speak.

"The day he lost Sarah and Adam...the day we rode back and found ‘em...well, Chris blamed himself for not being there, for not protecting them, and that guilt just ate him all up inside. It liked to almost tore him apart." Buck sighed sadly at the difficult memories, resolutely pushing some of the more painful ones aside. "Afterward, he never said as much but I always knew there was still just that tiny bit of hope, that little teensiest wish that maybe, just maybe, somehow...that it wasn't his fault, ya know? That he could lay that burden of guilt down and not have to carry it by his self. And even after we caught up with Fowler, even after all that, I knew that he was still hoping."

JD shuddered in remembered horror of that fiery night and the shadowed figure that had turned and deliberately walked back into the burning barn. The echo of Chris's tortured scream had haunted his sleep for weeks.

"Then Ella Gaines rode into town." Buck's voice hardened at the mere mention of the woman's name. "And now...now Chris ain't got any hope left at all. Any chance, any doubt he had of being able to lay that down, of being able to find peace, all that's gone. Shot to hell and back by that lyin' murderin' bitch and it's eatin' Chris up inside. He ain't been able to get past what she done, the lies she told, the people she killed...all of it so's she could get her hands on him. Ain't a day goes by he don't look in the mirror and see that, don't think on it or feel it, not one single moment he don't live with that regret, with all that guilt." A heavy sigh lifted into the air, the dark head shaking sadly as Buck added, "I just wish I knew how in the hell I'm supposed to help him get through this."

JD frowned, thinking, then proceeded to state what was so obvious to him. "But it ain't Chris's fault, Buck. The woman's crazy!"

Buck turned, a sad grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Try tellin' that ta Chris."

"But it's true," JD protested. "She's insane! She belongs in one of those hospitals they have back East for crazy people." He leaned forward in the chair, his face earnest, the light in his hazel eyes burning brightly, "...or maybe jail for what she's done!"

Buck exhaled, then turned his head away. "JD, I ain't no doctor and I for damned sure ain't no judge and jury. I ain't gonna sit here arguin' with you over a piece of trash like Ella Gaines. For what it's worth, I'd like to see her staked out on an ant hill the old-fashioned Injun way for what she done ta Chris. But you and I both know we gotta find her first and it's a long way between findin' her and puttin' a hangman's noose around her scrawny neck."

Silence followed that declaration before JD eased back in his chair and Buck returned to contemplating the street. A wagon rolled past, filled with supplies from Potter's dry goods store and Buck and JD waved half-heartedly at the driver.

Finally, the younger man asked another question on the subject that was bothering him. "Why do you think Chris was gonna stay with her? I mean, couldn't he see what she was like? How she was using him? Why did he want to stay?"

Buck's shoulders dropped and he sat up, easing forward so his elbows now rested on his knees, his legs bent. He'd wondered the same thing himself. Now, for JD's sake, he tried to feel his way through an answer. "You can't hardly blame a man for wantin' ta find a little bit of happiness in this world and maybe have another chance at love. You can't fault Chris for wantin' ta get back everything he thought he'd lost. Ella was offerin' him all of that, the ranch, the horses, a pretty woman by his side, in his bed, maybe even children again. Everything Chris ever wanted, she was offerin' it to him on a silver platter. Seems ta me that'd be enough to turn just about any man's head."

"Yeah, but Vin saw through her," JD protested. "He knew what she was like."

The dark head nodded. "Yeah, he did...Vin's pretty sharp that way...and he tried to tell Chris but Chris wouldn't listen. I reckon that's got a lot to do with the way things stand between them," which was uncomfortable at best from what Buck had recently seen, although he did have cause to hope seeing as how the two men had ridden out of town together that morning on a hunting expedition at Judge Travis's request.

But JD was still obviously puzzled. "So you're sayin' then that it's not Chris's fault and that you don't blame him for wantin' to stay? I mean...before he found out..."

Buck's answer took a long time in coming and when it did, his words were weighted in sorrow. "No, I don't blame him for wantin' ta stay...but I reckon Chris blames himself and that's a heavy enough burden for any man." He paused, his voice softer now, blue eyes lost in thought. "I'm not sure Chris can live with that...I'm not sure he knows *how* to live with that...and that's what scares me most of all."

---

Chris Larabee was riding hard, pushing his black gelding as much as he dared in the desert heat. Both man and horse were covered in sweat and the gunslinger had long since shed his duster, tying it on behind his saddle. Out of sheer dogged persistence and a keen sense of smell, he'd managed to locate Larsen's small holdings, the tiny desert oasis as much a surprise to him as it had been earlier to Vin.

Pausing only to rest for a few minutes and water his horse, Chris had taken directions from the old man and then headed out after his missing friend. It wasn't easy, the irony of him trying to track a tracker not escaping the gunman's sense of humor. The man and his horse could move faster than the wind leaving little behind but ripples of shifting sand in their wake. Luckily, Vin had made no effort to hide his tracks, the rounded imprints of the iron horseshoes leaving a path even a blind man could have followed.

Cresting a slight ridge, he reined in his horse and paused, keen eyes sketching the land spread out before him, eyeing it intently for the slightest hint of movement. Seeing none, he returned his gaze to the ground, found what he was looking for and then tugged the reins sharply, cursing as the black shifted and pranced nervously beneath him. The gelding was blowing hard, salt and dirt crusted around its nostrils, caked along the sleek neck, the steady gallop and intense heat combining to take its toll. He'd have to stop and rest soon or risk the animal going down beneath him. And Chris cared too much about his horse, had too much pride in the animal, to let that sort of thing happen. He dropped a hand to the heaving withers in apology, his palm coming away wet with sweat and lined with dirt and mud.

"Soon, boy," he offered in a murmured promise before digging in his heels again and setting off after Vin.

Some twenty minutes later, he was forced to slow to a trot, hearing the deep grunts of effort that escaped the gelding's mouth. Then the trot gradually slowed to a walk as Chris cast his eyes heavenward, cursing the fierce heat and the harsh, burning sun. Turning his exhausted horse aside, he headed for the sparse shade of a cottonwood, dismounting with his own sigh of relief even as frustration tightened the line of his mouth.

So much for catching up to Vin and that ‘mountain goat' that he rode.

Dropping the reins so that his horse stood ground tied, Chris moved beside the gelding and loosened the cinch strap to give the animal rest. He took off his hat, filled it with water from the canteen, then removed the bandana from around his neck and soaked it in the tepid liquid. He murmured soft, gentle words of apology as he cleaned the sweat-crusted face, the rounded muzzle, the soft, velvety nose. A few minutes later, he tossed out the filthy water and refilled his hat with more. Holding it beneath the gelding's mouth, he let the animal drink a small amount, feeding it to him slowly despite the impatient hoof that demanded more.

Only after his horse was cared for did Chris tend to his own needs. He rinsed the cloth and then used it to wipe his face and neck before tying it back in place. Long fingers then carded through his sweat-matted hair, shoving it back off of his brow before he tilted his head back and drank deeply from the canteen. Settling his hat back on his head, green eyes narrowed in contemplation of the lonely vista before him.

The land was different here, more spread out and open, harsh, untamed, unforgiving. Not as flat or as deserted as it would seem to be at first glance. Tumbling rock formations broke the ground at various places, trees and cacti and other plant life scattered about. He'd never paid much attention to it before, never spent much time out here but Chris had a pretty good idea of where to find shelter, food and water.

All the more reason for him to find Vin, he reasoned, then turned to check his tack.

Chris replaced the canteen, wrapping the strap securely around the saddle horn. His hands then automatically moved under the thick blanket and the dusty leather, checking for places that could pinch or possibly rub. The sound of a horse whinnying, lonely, singular, not so distant, swiftly brought Chris's head up and swinging around. His own horse's ears pricked as the brown eyes were instantly alert. A soft whicker of breath was then followed by a loud answering neigh that shook the muscular frame. The echoing trumpet was just as insistent, just as swift, just as familiar. Quickly tightening the cinch strap, Chris gathered his reins and once more swung up into the saddle. This time, however, he let his horse lead the way.

It didn't take him long to find Vin's gelding, the big black tied up beneath an outcropping of rock that provided shade from the worst of the sun's harsh rays. Vin himself, however, was nowhere to be seen. Knowing the man's talent for blending into the landscape, Chris gave him a few moments to appear, dismounting again and standing patiently beside the horses. He watched and waited, sharp eyes narrowed, ears tuned to the slightest sound, the smallest misstep of boot upon stone, anything to give him a clue to the quiet tracker's whereabouts.

But after several long minutes of silence, Chris began to feel uneasy.

"Vin?"

Surely Vin had heard him coming. There was no way his keen ears would have missed the whinnied greetings, the cadence of approaching hooves, the strike of iron shoe upon rock. A frown pulled at the corners of the gunslinger's mouth, his hand going instinctively to the butt of his gun, his fingers stroking the grip by longstanding habit. His feeling of disquiet increased.

"...VIN?..."

There was no reply from the echoing rocks.

Easing the pearl-handled Colt from its holster, Chris moved away from the horses as he scanned the surrounding dirt. Squatting down on his haunches, gun held loosely at his side, he used his free hand to brush across the gravel and scattered sticks, searching for the slight imprint he prayed he'd be able to find. Tracking Vin Tanner wasn't easy, the man having long ago learned the Indian trick of appearing to walk on air. And it was with a grim smile of triumph that Chris found what he was looking for, the rounded curve of a boot heel making a slender impression in the softer ground.

Straightening, Chris moved cautiously, following the faint set of tracks as they headed off towards the north. Vin wouldn't be far, but Chris's worry eased a bit at finding just the single set of prints, the price on Vin's head and the ever present threat of bounty hunters never far from any of their thoughts. Eyes and ears alert, the gunslinger worked his way over the ground, rounding the side of a pair of large boulders, surprised when the earth fell away to reveal the opening of a small canyon. It was hidden beneath the lay of the land and a man could ride right by it without even noticing it was there.

He started to call out again, then thought better of it. If Vin was tracking, hunting, he didn't want to scare off his prey. Creeping silently closer to the edge, Chris paused, eyes narrowed in concentration. His frown deepened as the fragile footprints became more indistinct, shaded and blurred, almost as if someone or something had tried to wipe them away. Almost as if...

A shiver of foreboding traveled up his spine when Chris spied Vin's hat and rifle lying on the ground and he forced himself to look over the edge. His breath caught in the back of his throat, then left him on a sudden rush, as he took in the sight that greeted his eyes.

Vin Tanner lay on a small ledge some twenty feet below him, still and unmoving, limbs sprawled, his body looking like a broken china doll on the bed of scattered rocks. Chris's heart constricted tightly in fear, his mouth going dry, his body numb even as he quickly holstered his gun and searched for the path leading downward. His boots slipped in the loose gravel more than once, nearly tumbling him into the canyon, muttered curses and prayers underlying the very real terror that had him in its grip. Reaching the small shelf, Chris righted himself and collected his balance, going quickly to the injured man's side and kneeling in the dirt.

One hand snaked out to touch the pale skin of the tracker's throat, a near sob of relief escaping Chris's lips at the steady pulse that throbbed beneath his fingers.

"Christ, Vin!"

The gunman was finally able to draw a decent breath, unaware of the tight constriction in his chest until the air left him in a gathered rush. A light tap to the still face elicited a soft moan, a glance upward telling Chris that Vin had somehow fallen from the ledge. Hands gently but efficiently checked the length of the tracker's limbs, prodded at his torso and beneath his lower back. Finding nothing to indicate broken bones or serious injury, Chris moved aside rocks and gravel to straighten the slender body upon the dusty ground. Taking the bandana from Vin's neck, he slid the fingers of one hand around the back of the tracker's head, intending to hold him still while he wiped at the dirt and grime that covered the handsome features.

Chris growled a savage curse when his hand came away wet and stained with blood.

Probing gently, he found the large-sized gash on the back of Vin's skull, then wiped the warm liquid from his hands with the sweat and dirt-stained bandana. He tapped the silent face once more, quietly calling the younger man's name, worried by the lack of response. Chris grimaced, lips narrowed in a thin line, his eyes lifting to the rim above as he pondered their predicament. At the very least, Vin had a concussion and Chris didn't know how long he'd been down. Regardless though, he needed to get him out of the canyon and back to the horses, needed to get him back to town, back to Nathan...

...who was still out at the reservation visiting Tastanagi and his people.

Shit.

Easing his hat off, Chris laid it on the ground beside him. His fingers then raked through his sweat-soaked hair before he wiped across his mouth with the back of one wrist. He stared a moment longer at the unmoving features before deciding on a course of action. One hand reached out to cup the other man's square jaw as he urged, "Hold on, Vin. I'll be right back."

And then Chris was up and moving, heading back for the horses, intending to gather bandages, water and supplies. First, he'd do what he could for Vin here and worry later about getting him off the ledge and back to town. He climbed quickly, scrabbling the last bit upward, swinging his long legs over the rim and rolling to gain his feet. Dusting off his hands, he turned with a determined stride and headed back down the hill.

A low, feral growl brought the hairs rising up on the back of the gunslinger's neck. He stopped in his tracks, eyes sweeping left and right, body tense, cursing himself silently against the breath held deep inside his chest. In his quest to find Vin, he'd forgotten all about the reason they were here in the first place. The wolf or beast or whatever it was that had savagely attacked Gunter Larsen's flock.

His hand inched slowly upward, sliding along his thigh, easing towards his Colt. The deep growl sounded again as his fingers wrapped around the ivory handle. Ever so cautiously, he turned towards the sound, narrowed green eyes seeking and searching, trying to locate the source. Suddenly, a flash of brown fur exploded from a nearby growth of bushes and Chris barely had time to clear leather before he was knocked backwards on his ass. His breath tore painfully from his chest in a sudden rush as he hit the ground hard, the heavy weight bearing him down, snapping rows of teeth slashing at his face and throat while deep snarls erupted in a storm of fury.

Instinct took over and he rolled, taking the large form with him, digging his heels into the ground in an effort to find some leverage. His gun hand slammed repeatedly into the large head while the other pushed against the massive chest. There was a brief moment of separation and his attacker backed away, the small respite allowing Chris to gain his knees. He gasped for air, his ragged breath coming hard and fast. Turning, gun in hand, he tried to draw a bead and found himself falling backwards once again, grunting with the heavy blow. The teeth moved closer and his arm came up instinctively to protect his throat. Chris screamed in pain as those powerful jaws closed about his forearm.

"Sonuvabitch!" he snarled into the crazed and glittering black eyes of the beast.

Sweat from fear and exertion poured from his body, his fingers slick on the trigger and around the grip as he struggled to fire his gun. The searing pain in his lower arm was almost unbearable, skin and muscle and tendon giving way beneath the slashing and tearing of teeth. Blood poured freely from his wounds, oozing down his arm, between his fingers, into the dirt, the earthy scent of it filling the air and adding to the bloodlust of the kill. Mind-numbing panic tore at him, threatened to steal his sanity, the urge to vomit nearly as overpowering as Chris's instinct for survival.

The animal twisted its massive head, the force of its bite, the movement, causing Chris's fingers to clench in helpless response. The Colt discharged forcefully, loudly, the scent of gunpowder and sulfur filling his nostrils, the blast ringing in his tender ears. The sharp percussion from the shot caused the beast to jerk sideways, jaws tightening, loathe to release its hold as it sensed the kill was near. Chris screamed again, the sound tearing harshly from his abused throat when he felt the bones of his forearm break beneath the crushing grip.

He kicked and fought and cursed even as the gun then slipped from his numbed fingers, knowing that to give into the threatening darkness would mean a sure and certain death, not just for himself but also for Vin as well. Thoughts of his injured friend gave him strength, gave him courage, and Chris doubled his efforts despite the sharp claws tearing into his chest and belly, slashing through his clothes and into his skin. Rolling yet again, the wounded gunslinger slammed his left fist into one dark eye socket, felt the big animal flinch in surprise at the unexpected pain.

But there was no relief from the massive jaws of death, the dark head swinging above him, dragging him back and forth along the bloodied ground. One booted foot caught the beast in the ribs but Chris could feel himself weakening, shock and pain and blood loss all combining for his defeat. Scrabbling desperately with his other hand for a rock, a weapon, anything he could use, he felt the bite of slick metal beneath his fingers, had presence of mind enough to grab his gun even as the muscles and tendons of his abused shoulder gave way and his right arm then went limp.

Agonizing moments passed before he brought his left hand to bear, his breath whistling harshly in and out of his abused and battered chest, barely able to see past the pain and the veil of gray shadows that now obscured his vision. Chris aimed the gun and fired point-blank into the monstrous head. He watched in almost curious detachment as the animal jerked, then staggered backwards, the huge jaws finally releasing his damaged arm so that it fell uselessly to his side. He heard a soft whine, caught the questioning gaze, the confusion, the dark stare, saw the massive form stumble sideways before disappearing into the sheltering bushes.

Then, pain-darkened green eyes rolled upwards and the injured man collapsed back upon the ground, his body broken and defeated, his life's blood spilling out onto the silent, thirsty earth.

Overhead, the red hawk circled lazily, a piercing, lone cry escaping it as the desert claimed yet another victim.


TBC

"Orrin, care to join me for a drink?"

His large frame settled comfortably in a chair, Arnold Davies held a mug of beer in one hand, a pungent cigar in the other. The late afternoon sun slanted through the smoky windows of the saloon, highlighting the flurry of dust motes dancing in the air. The muted yellow light did little to disguise the quiet look of satisfaction on the portly man’s ruddy face. All in all, he’d had a most agreeable day.

Despite the rather inauspicious start to his morning, Davies had spent his time strolling about town, listening in on conversations, talking with the locals, getting in the good graces of the townsfolk. A smart politician knew how to keep a keen ear tuned to the heartbeat of his constituents, those whose future political favor he ardently hoped to curry. And even if this wasn’t the largest town in the territory, he reasoned, every successful election started with that first small yet very important step.

"Arnold," Travis returned grimly, nodding his head as he took a seat.

Signaling to Inez, Travis waited until the young Hispanic woman brought him a beer, then sipped it casually as the hum of quiet conversation ebbed and flowed around him. Finally, marshaling his thoughts, he turned an inquisitive gaze towards his associate.

"Some rather unsettling rumors have reached my ears, Arnold," he informed the other man. One dark bushy eyebrow then lifted upward. "Care to discuss them with me?"

Davies gave a short chuckle, a gleam in his eye as he countered, "Since when do you listen to idle gossip, Orrin?" Placing the fat cigar between his lips, he inhaled deeply, a cloud of gray-blue smoke escaping when he exhaled just as slow.

"When it involves this town and the men I hired to protect it," came the gruff reply, the firm voice rough as gravel, the keen eyes not missing the way Davies squirmed a bit in his seat. "You mind telling me why you’re really here?"

Davies avoided that direct gaze and tried to bluff his way around it. Shifting his bulky frame, he set down his mug and proceeded to finger his cigar. "I told you before, I needed to know about Hopewell. Wanted to talk with the men who bested him, find out what they knew." He did look up then only to find himself growing more uncomfortable beneath Travis’s penetrating stare. Davies fixed a tight smile on his face, feigning his innocence.

"You already knew about Hopewell," Orrin accused. "Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here." He took a mouthful of beer, let it slide down his throat and settle in his gut before he slowly leaned forward and planted his elbows on the table. "What is it you’re really after, Arnold?...Or should I ask...‘whom?’"

An uneasy silence stretched between the two men, one gaze meeting another, both proud and stubborn, neither of them willing to give ground, like two old bulls caught in a Mexican standoff. Then finally, Davies smiled, the corners of his narrow lips turning upwards. A chuckle worked its way from deep inside his chest until it turned into a full-throated belly laugh, filling the air around them and echoing in the smoky room.

Orrin Travis didn’t flinch, never moved a muscle, just continued to stare across the width of the table.

"That’s one of the things I’ve always liked about you, Orrin," the other man admitted, his laughter dying down to a series of gruff chortles that caused his overly large frame to quiver spasmodically. "You’re a smart man, a very smart man. Intuitive. Insightful. We’ve known each other what? Twenty-five years now?"

The Judge remained silent.

"Near enough anyways," Davies continued briskly with a wave of his hand. "And in all that time, through thick and thin, I’ve always admired your intelligence, your dedication to the letter of the law, your ability to wield the sword of justice with a fair and impartial but *firm* hand. You have my utmost admiration and respect. Yes, indeed, this country could use more men like you, Orrin, men like us. Men of character and honesty, dedicating their lives to serving the best interests of the public masses!"

Travis ignored the glowing review of his character, the pontificating and the ‘bullshit.’

Davies would have continued with his expansive ramblings, his intention to deflect, to avoid the conversation if he could. A cautious man, a smart man, he’d always kept his cards close to his vest and wasn’t really sure he was ready to play his hand just yet. At least, not until he had captured his prize, but he hadn’t reckoned with the other man’s dogged persistence.

"So what do you want?"

The short question was snapped out hard enough to make him fidget. It gave him pause, sobered his thoughts and forced him to reorganize his thinking. He should have known better than to suppose he could sneak this past a man as astute as Orrin Travis. But then again, a man like Travis should appreciate just what it was that he was trying to accomplish. After all, they were on the same side here, striving to achieve the same goals.

Well, Davies retracted mentally, *most* of the same goals, the grander view of things being the defeat of Clayton Hopewell and the advocacy of statehood for the New Mexico territory. On a more private note, Arnold Davies had his own "personal" agenda and the ‘who, what, why and how’ of it mattered not so much as the end result. But that wasn’t something that Orrin Travis ever needed to know.

He swallowed uncomfortably, glanced across the table, tried to hold that even gaze.

"I want Chris Larabee."

Silence...prolonged, uneasy, tense.

"I want to hire him," Davies finally clarified, "as head of my security detail."

Silence yet again.

Then Orrin shifted in his chair, easing back, his face impassive. "He already has a job."

Davies laughed again, short and uncomfortable. "Yes, that’s what he said."

"You’ve talked with him." It wasn’t a question.

"This morning," Davies confirmed, his mouth feeling more than a bit dry as he reached for his beer. He sipped at it, watching Travis over the rim of his mug.

"I see." Nothing more, nothing less. Just a statement of fact, but the silent censure and disapproval were there in the grim features, the set line of his lips, the slight clench to the granite jaw.

"Oh, come now, Orrin, the man’s being wasted here," Davies protested. "This isn’t a job. It’s a death sentence. He’s a target for every thief, cattle rustler and murderer in the territory and for what? To protect some dusty little backwater town for a mere pittance a day? Why should he stay here when I can offer him something so much more? Power, prestige, money, position...?"

"He has friends here," Orrin interrupted quietly, his eyes dark and unreadable.

"Friends!" the lawyer snorted derisively. "What good does it do to have friends when you’re buried six feet under?" He leaned forward, intent on making his point, looking to persuade. "Working for me, he can have so much more, *be* so much more."

"Not to mention what you get out of it," Travis replied gruffly, easily seeing the real motive behind Davies’ words. "A hired gun to watch your back, protect you from Clayton Hopewell and his people. Strange," he reflected after a moment, his dark gaze pensive. "I never thought you were the type to run scared, Arnold."

"And I never thought you were the type to be a sore loser," Davies shot back, not quite able to hide his irritation or the underlying anger. He didn’t like what Travis was implying and found himself resenting what he saw as the other man’s interference, friend or not.

Nodding thoughtfully, Orrin Travis decided he was done with this conversation. Ever so slowly, he set down his half-empty mug of beer, then answered carefully, "This is not about winning or losing. This is a man’s life we’re talking about, a good man and a good friend. He’s got a lot of people around here that care about him." Travis pinned Davies in his seat with a hard stare before he continued. "I don’t have a problem if Chris decides he wants to move on. I do, however, have a problem with you thinking that you can buy him."

Davies immediately scoffed in disbelief. "Every man has his price, Orrin, especially a hired gun like Larabee and there isn’t a man alive who can’t be bought, paid for and sold. It’s human nature to be greedy."

Travis barely refrained from shaking his head in disgust. All the years that he had known this man, served beside him, thought he knew him, called him friend. He sighed with regret. ‘Absolute power corrupts absolutely,’ he admitted dismally, recalling the lectures and letters he’d studied in his youth. What it all boiled down to was that Arnold Davies was no better than the man he hoped to eventually replace. Sliding his chair back, Orrin stood, looking down at his former friend, disappointment written on his craggy features.

"I think you’ll find that Chris Larabee isn’t for sale, not at any price," he issued, his gruff voice low but firm. He turned then to leave, halted, glanced back one last time. "I’m leaving in the morning, Arnold. Catching the ten o’clock stage. I’ve got some business to tend to over in Junction City. You’re welcome to come along...or not."

With that, Orrin Travis walked away, the afternoon sun silhouetting his proud figure as he crossed the floor and left behind the man he no longer knew.

---

Consciousness returned in a bright white-hot rush of pain, searing and burning through his chest and down the length of his arm. A harsh gasp was torn from the back of his throat even as he desperately swallowed a scream. The air raced from his lungs only to be sucked back in, a desperate attempt to stave off the nausea that boiled from deep within his gut. Sweat, slick and gritty, trickled down his face, wrapped around his throat, lined the collar of his shirt so that it lay plastered to his skin.

At least, he thought it was sweat.

But then again, maybe not. The smell was wrong, too pungent and coppery, too much like dirt and earth, too much like...blood.

What the hell...?

Even as he questioned it, Chris forced himself to open his eyes, mere slits of green in a face streaked with blood, grime and sweat. He fought to get past the pain, to order his sluggish thoughts and found that he was on his back, staring up at a dazzling sky that was clear and bright blue. Where was he? What had happened? Why did he hurt so damned bad?

Christ!

A low, ragged groan filled his ears, sounding almost more animal than human, so raw and intense that it startled him to find the sound was his own. He drew breath again, pulling the air deeper, felt the slash of sharp knives along the right side of his chest, moved his arm to try and brace himself, to protect...and instantly regretted it.

This time he did scream, loud and harsh, primal, agony ripping through him as his body rolled and instinctively curled into itself, his legs drawing up into his chest. His left hand reached blindly across to clutch at his bloodied arm. He landed on his side, hot tears burning his eyes, stinging his skin, his face buried half in the dirt as he gasped and panted and cursed. The pain tore through him like a jagged bolt of lightning, his heart pounding in reaction, his body trembling from the shock. Long moments passed as he simply lay there, unable to think, unable to move, hardly daring to even breathe.

Finally, pushing back the veil of threatening darkness, the wounded man cautiously lifted his head, his jaw clenched tight, teeth gritted against the pain, his features twisted into a mask of agony. Dirt and gravel caked the left side of his face, layered the broken skin of his lips, forced its way into his mouth and ground between his teeth. Gathering what little breath he had, Chris tried to spit it out, but he had neither the strength nor the moisture needed to accomplish the simple task. A fresh layer of sweat covered his brow, matted his hair, ran in small rivulets down his face, blood and dirt painting his abraded skin in streaks of red, brown and gray.

He had no idea how much time passed before the swirling fog inside his head finally parted. All he knew was that the harshness of the desert air, the dry wind, the heat of the sun, was burning into his flesh and setting him on fire. He wondered briefly about his hat, finding the thought strange given the amount of pain that riddled his body. A choked cry then escaped him as Chris drew breath and forced himself to move.

Somehow, he sat up, still trembling hard and barely staying upright. He held onto his arm, careful not to move it, hissing and panting through the waves of white-hot agony. More sweat ran the length of his back, soaked into his already sodden shirt, the smell of blood and dirt and waiting death combining for a nearly unbearable stench. The world spun and he closed his eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard against the rising tide of bile. Opening them again, he looked around, green eyes dulled by pain and confusion, feeling first hot then cold, wondering briefly if he was in shock.

Warm red liquid oozed between his fingers and he glanced down, pale lips curling in revulsion as he took in the raw and open wounds, the ripped fabric of his shirtsleeve, the torn remains of his shirt over the gouge marks on his chest. His clothes were sticky and soaked with blood. How in the hell had that happened? And what was wrong with his fingers? He knew better than to move his arm, but even as he watched, fresh trails of blood welled from the deep cuts and slash marks carved sharply into his flesh.

Almost without thought, Chris reached up with his left hand to remove his bandana. The slow process was torturous, his movements clumsy and weak but finally, he wrapped it around the worst of the wounds, then pulled the cloth tight by using his teeth. It hurt like hell but he had no choice. Too much blood already soaked his shirt, coated the side of his hip and pant leg, created a dark pool that spread upon the ground. He couldn’t afford to lose any more, didn’t want to bleed to death...out here...all alone...alone...

Something about that didn’t sound right but his brain was still too muddled to try and make sense of it.

Gritting his teeth, Chris probed at his upper arm and shoulder, tried gingerly to move it and couldn’t hold back a piercing scream. This time he did turn, then dropped his sweat-dampened head as he gave in to the pain and retched violently upon the desert floor. More pain, more sweat, muscles contracting in raw uncontrollable spasms, fresh blood welling from cuts along his side and chest. Chris almost succumbed to the darkness yet again. Only sheer stubborn will kept him conscious, kept him breathing, made him focus on that pain. He used it to clear his head and sharpen his thoughts, to hold on to the spinning world around him, and realized his gun arm now lay useless.

Ah, hell...

Then without warning, everything returned in a sudden rush, the long hot ride, the miles of desert terrain, the slain sheep, the quest for the unknown predator. Chris sucked in a harsh breath, eyes dilating wide with fear. Images of Vin Tanner’s body lying broken and still upon a shelf of rocks and gravel haunted him. His frantic heart rose up in his throat, threatening to nearly choke him.

Oh, Jesus...Vin!

Then he remembered the low growl, the large furry bulk, the body that came hurtling out of the brush and bore him to the ground. The snapping and snarling, the rows of white teeth digging into his flesh, the snap of bone, the searing pain as sharp claws dug into his throat and chest. He glanced around worriedly, the breath momentarily trapped in his throat, panic riding him hard before he recalled the loud retort of his gun, the acrid smell of smoke and gunpowder. Green eyes flicked anxiously toward the thick stand of gnarled bushes, searching, relief escaping him on a quick rush of air. He’d fired a fatal shot, at close range, into the beast’s massive head.

It was dead. There was some reward in that.

He wiped his mouth with a trembling hand, the back of his sleeve, skin and cloth coming away streaked with sweat, dirt and blood. It took him several moments longer to gather himself, but glancing around, Chris drew strength from the battered slouch hat and rifle lying on the ground several feet away.

Vin was hurt.

Staggering to his feet, he clenched his teeth against the fresh onslaught of pain, grinding them together until he thought his jaw would break. He ignored the renewed throbbing in his shoulder, the sharp ache and small rivers of warm blood trickling from his arm, the fierce roaring in his ears. He stood, cradling his injured forearm, swaying unsteadily and shaking like a leaf in a high wind. He noisily sucked air as harsh grunts and gasps were torn from his battered chest and throat. He stumbled, his first step nearly sending him back to the ground, his knees threatening to buckle even as he doggedly persisted. The short distance to the rim of the small canyon seemed like the longest mile.

Vin still lay as he had left him, his body in the exact same position, his head turned just a bit to the side. Chris frowned through his pain, knowing that wasn’t good sign. It meant the tracker was still deeply unconscious and the longer he went without awakening, the more serious his injuries were likely to be. Time was suddenly the enemy. He needed to get Vin out of there, back to town, back to Nathan...fast.

Then, giving a choked cry, Chris nearly fell to his knees as defeat and despair washed over him. His right arm was useless. There was no way he could move Vin by himself, no way to get him off the ledge and back on his horse without help. No way for him to do much of anything at all.

Vin was going to die and it was his fault.

Chris spat out a vicious curse at his own helplessness, suddenly furious with himself, furious with God or the hands of Fate or whatever the hell else it was that set the world in motion. Dammit, it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. Not again. Not because of him.

Not because of him.

Anger and fear then goaded Chris, gave him strength, and he unconsciously tightened his grip on his injured arm, using the fresh layer of pain to push past the limit of his endurance. He fought back, too mad and too stubborn to simply give in and quit, knowing that despite his injuries, he would have to ride for help.

"I’ll be back, Vin," he vowed to the still and silent figure. "I promise. You just hold on."

Getting back to the horses seemed to take longer than forever, Chris stumbling and going down twice, bruising and scraping his knees, jarring his injured arm in the process. He left a trail of blood behind him, ignored it, kept staggering onward, knowing that to give in to the pain and weakness would mean certain death for both of them. The two geldings heard him coming, the pair scenting the smell of blood on the wind and the pain and fear that held the man within its grasp. They whickered nervously, frightened by the unwelcome stench, stamping their hooves anxiously, brown eyes wide and wary as the ghastly apparition approached.

"Easy, boy," Chris murmured as he reached for Pony’s reins.

The big black recognized the low, husky voice, felt the familiar hand on his withers, but it did little to soothe the age-old instinct to flight. The animal danced sideways, on edge, skittering away, wide nostrils flaring at the pungent smell that spoke of death and earth and dying. Beside him, Vin’s horse was just as uneasy, just as restless.

Chris’s trembling fingers were slick with sweat and blood, and his breath rasped loudly in his ears, tearing in and out of his chest in great gulps of air. It took all his concentration to keep from falling, his body shivering from weakness and from shock. Awkwardly, he circled the reins around the gelding’s neck, gathered them up just in front of the saddle horn, clenching his teeth when the animal bumped against him. The effort to raise his foot to the stirrup was almost impossible. He grunted, low and deep, sweating profusely, the tip of his boot just barely sliding into the waiting leather. His foothold was tenuous, not nearly what he needed and he stood, waiting, trying to gather the strength to climb into the saddle.

It was an awkward position and Chris couldn’t hold it for long. Fighting against the pain and the swirling nausea, he raised his eyes, clenched his jaw and took a deep breath. He commanded himself to move, cursing and grunting in alternate waves, his right arm useless, the left clinging desperately to the saddle. He pushed upward, made it half way, his cry of pain startling the black so that it danced sideways once again. Chris was too weak to recover, unable to sustain his momentum. His left leg buckled and he landed part way across the saddle. His injured shoulder struck the crown of the cantle and a raw scream of pain was torn from his battered body.

It frightened the horses, Peso whickering and backing as far away as his restraints would allow, prancing nervously. Pony half-reared and spun about on his haunches, the move jarring Chris’s foot loose so that he lost his leverage and slid backwards toward the ground. A new wave of sharp daggers ripped through his right arm as it raked down the side of the saddle, a bloody smear gleaming wetly against the smoothness of the leather. Doggedly, he hung on, knowing the frightened animal was ready to bolt, seeing the terrified whites of Pony’s eyes as the black threw his big head upward.

Chris wrapped the fingers of his left hand more tightly around the reins but he knew it was a losing battle. Even as he landed, his legs buckled beneath him so that he was driven to his knees. He felt his grasp slipping and didn’t have the strength he needed to hold on. A whimper of despair escaped him as the gelding backed frantically away, pulling free, turning and spinning to escape the frightening specter. The twin strands of slender leather dangled loosely from the bridle and Chris could only watch helplessly as one large hoof snagged the set of reins. The sudden pull and snap as they broke sent the horse into a panic. Pony snorted and wheeled sharply, all four hooves digging deeply into the ground, powerful muscles bunching and releasing as he made a mad dash for the freedom of the open desert.

A scant few seconds later and Vin’s horse was scampering quickly after him, Chris having neither the strength nor the presence of mind to try for the other gelding’s reins. Darkness threatened all around him, tears of frustration once again stinging his eyes as the sense of his own helplessness washed over him in a rush of anguish.

The horses were gone. No water. No food. No shelter.

No one to save Vin.

No one to save him.

No one.

Alone.

Chris fell forward in a boneless slump, landing face first in the dirt, unconscious before the blow to his battered and abused body could even begin to register.

---

Chapter 13

A cold white light pierced the thin veil of his eyelids, rousing Vin from the bottom of what felt like a deep, dark and bottomless cave. Even awareness of his own body was slow to return and he shivered, briefly wondering at the fingers of cooler air that trailed across his skin. As consciousness then sharpened, he felt a throbbing start at the back of his head, the feeling expanding and growing, becoming louder and more insistent until he groaned aloud at the number of sharp daggers digging fiercely into the back of his skull.

Finally forcing open his eyes, the tracker found he was on his back, staring upwards at the bright glowing orb of a silver summer moon. A light breeze stroked across him where he lay and he shivered once again at the unexpected chill. He frowned, confused by the night, not remembering the passage of the day nor the setting of the sun, then frowning even more when he realized he didn't remember much of anything. All Vin knew for certain was that he hurt from head to toe and he was lying on his back on top of what felt like a bed of rocks.

One hand slowly lifted, snaking its way upward, probing gently amongst the tangled length of his hair. Finding the place that was the starting point of the relentless hammering inside his skull, he hissed with pain. His fingers came away dark and gleaming with sticky liquid. Grimacing, Vin recognized the smell of blood...his blood.

How?...Ambushed?...Bounty hunters?... Where am I...?

A violent wave of nausea made him roll swiftly onto his side, ignoring the pain that crashed through him with the sudden movement. Taking a deep breath, he was helpless against the violent muscle spasms, tears scalding his eyes and sweat soaking his brow as he emptied his stomach into the dirt and scattered rocks. Finally, spent and gasping harshly for air, he groaned, rolled onto his back and once more stared upward beyond the canyon rim. The night sky beckoned to him gently.

Vin was dizzy, nauseous, hurting all over and it felt like he'd been kicked in the head by a mule. Groaning, the tracker stared up at the full moon, using the white globe to anchor himself, trying to focus and wondering why the world was spinning around him like a top. It didn't make sense. Nothing did. His vision was full of shapes and shadows, distorted and unreal, frightening and confusing. Everything just looked wrong somehow, as if he were caught up in a living, breathing nightmare.

He shivered in the cold, at the layer of drying sweat on his skin, the last of the sun's warmth leeching from the ground beneath him. His fingers scrabbled in the dirt as he tried to summon the strength to move, knowing he should get up, find shelter, food and water. The instinct to survive called to him in a loud, clear voice and Vin desperately wanted to answer that call.

Lifting his head, the tracker gasped at the keen edge of pain that knifed through his skull, short vicious jabs gouging deeply behind his eyes and down the length of his neck. He wondered briefly in surprise at the silent world surrounding him, then fell limply back to the ground as darkness claimed its quarry.

---

All things considered, Nathan Jackson regarded himself as a lucky man. Yes, indeed. He'd escaped slavery, survived the Civil War, the journey to come west, an attempted lynching by a bunch of drunken trail hands and then been briefly reunited with his father just before Obadiah's death. As a result, he now had friends, a place to call home, a job that he loved and people who needed and appreciated his skills. Life was good and there wasn't much more that a man could ever ask for.

Well, then again, maybe there was. Nate smiled secretly to himself, white teeth flashing in the darkness of his face, enjoying the quiet warmth of the morning sunshine playing over his skin. As he rode slowly back towards town, he sighed with contentment, relaxed and more than a bit cheerful, letting his thoughts drift back to the village and his visit with the various people, Indian and freed slave alike, who called the tiny place their home.

It had been quiet in town, no one in need of his services, no one demanding he ride out and tend to a sick wife or an injured child. No bad teeth that needed pulling or cuts to be stitched and bandaged. Nate should have been grateful for the reprieve but a man could only read his medical textbooks and restock his bandages and supplies for just so long before the four walls of his small clinic started to close in around him. He'd needed a bit of breathing space and the decision to spend some time visiting with his friends at the village had been a relatively easy one.

The rest of the town's peacekeepers had known where to find him if his services were required.

For five days, Nathan had been away, enjoying the simple ease and tranquility of life in the small native village, sleeping on a pallet on the ground, eating at a campfire and talking with the tribal elders. In particular, he'd spent a lot of time with Tysoyaha, the medicine man, exchanging stories, learning more about the desert herbs and plants or simply sitting and listening to him recite the wisdom of the ancient ones. Most of all though, he'd spent time with the dusky-skinned young woman who was coming to occupy more and more of his thoughts with every passing day.

Rain was undeniably beautiful, both inside and out. She was also smart, compassionate and not afraid to tackle life head on, her fiercely independent spirit bequeathed to her by the father she'd lost not long after they first met. Choosing to stay with the Seminole, she worked hard to serve her people and wasn't afraid to speak her mind on important tribal matters. The women admired her; most of the men did too, when they weren't put off by her sometimes brash and forthright manner. She did, however, possess a quirky sense of humor and had the uncanny knack of catching Nate off guard at the oddest moments, leaving him feeling awkward and confused.

Such had been the case when she'd turned up in town just after the local seamstress was brutally murdered. Nate was in the process of examining the body for clues when Rain's breathless cry had startled him. He'd hurried to follow her back outside, not sure what to say or even how to explain what it was that he was doing. Once again though, she'd managed to surprise him, her almost silent understanding more than he could have ever expected. Then later, his heart had nearly stopped when she'd been attacked as well, some of Josiah's ‘divine intervention' coming in handy just when Nate had needed it most. He would have killed that Pinkerton with his own bare hands if Rain's frightened cries hadn't stopped him.

Their ride together back to the village had been enjoyable as well as enlightening and Nathan had discovered something else as well. Rain was right when she'd declared that he was crazy about her. That the feeling was mutual went without saying, the very fact that she had come to seek him out because her tribe had selected a man for her to marry being proof enough of that. And while they had parted with things still unsettled between them, there was enough of a promise there to build on for the future.

Nathan smiled to himself once again, thinking on just how carefully they were building that future and the honeyed sweetness of Rain's warm kisses. The long walks holding hands in the moonlight, the whispered words, the gentle caresses, all shared between two souls who were little by little finding their way to a joined path along the walk of life. The commitment between them was growing, albeit slowly, but it was definitely growing.

There was just one problem.

Or more like six problems...and a town full of people who'd come to depend upon his skills with a gun as well as a knife.

Nathan snorted softly, shifted in the saddle and changed the reins from left to right. One hand lifted to scratch behind an ear before he shook his head in consternation. It wasn't something he'd ever considered having, at least not in this lifetime. In fact, he'd never even let himself think much about it, this kind of problem that seemed to want to tear a man in half, and damned if he could figure out what he wanted to do.

From the day Chris and Vin saved his life, Nathan had been deeply committed to their small ‘band of brothers' forged in the fires of battle. The promise of a dollar a day plus room and board from Judge Travis hadn't meant much, not with him already having his own place and a fairly steady source of income. And Nate wasn't even sure he knew just why he'd accepted the judge's offer. Perhaps it was because of that newly formed bond, the one that saw past the color of his skin or the scars upon his back, or maybe it was because of his own sense of outrage against men like Lucas James and others who preyed upon the innocent and the weak. For whatever reason, despite the difficult days that followed, Nathan had remained faithful to their cause, their commitment, absolute in his loyalty, his obligations...until now.

Until he had reason to question it.

Until the possibility of another path opened up before him and he looked beyond the borders of one small town, looked past the deep friendships that he treasured, and saw the opportunity for a different future looming on the horizon. A future that held a beautiful woman by his side and laughing children at his feet, a golden tomorrow filled with light and life and love and happiness. A future much like the one he imagined Chris Larabee must have once envisioned for himself.

And look how *that* had turned out!

Nathan sighed, grimacing, pulling his thoughts back sharply and refusing to dwell on the other man's personal tragedies. Glancing around instead, he forced himself to relax, to take stock of the surrounding countryside. The trees and grasses were thicker here, the forage more plentiful for stock and wild animals alike, more water, more lumber, more everything. It was a land that invited a man to put down roots, to make a home for himself and for his family, to plan a future.

But was it a future Nathan wanted to grasp?

He didn't know; he couldn't seem to make up his mind. He knew his feelings for Rain ran deep, more so than anything else he'd ever known, but was it truly love that he was feeling? Was he ready and willing to give up everything and everyone he'd ever known to be with her and only her for the rest of his natural life? For better, for worse, in sickness and in health, ‘til death do us part? Was it *that* kind of everlasting love?

Nathan sighed again, perplexed, this time shaking his head. He just didn't know and had to admit, he was only giving himself a headache by thinking on it so very hard. If Josiah Sanchez were riding beside him, the big man would likely chastise him for wasting such a beautiful day and not enjoying God's bounty spread before him. ‘Cast aside your worries,' the ex-preacher would say in that big, deep, booming voice of his. The sudden grin that split Nathan's face and lit his dark features told him just how much he'd missed the other man's company and his friend's oftentimes strange sense of humor.

The smile faded just as quickly because at the same time, it was like being caught between a rock and a hard place with not much room to spit. He just couldn't seem to decide. Nathan knew his feelings were torn. But like so much else in his life, the former slave had learned to be enduringly patient. He wouldn't decide today. He would wait and see what happened. Maybe, maybe one day he'd marry Rain but for now...for *right* now, he would be content to let things lie.

Rounding a bend in the road, Nate looked up, startled, when his horse suddenly pricked its ears and let loose with a loud, echoing whinny. Two voices answered in return and he glanced around sharply, instantly alert to the possibility that he wasn't riding this road alone. A pair of horses stood off in the distance to his right, two dark heads raised in inquiry as alert brown eyes noted his appearance. But even as Nate watched, surprise passed and they lowered their heads, returning to pull up mouthfuls of the rich green stalks of grass.

There seemed to be something almost familiar about them, something that caught at Nate's senses even as he reined his horse to a halt. He continued staring, frowning, puzzled, watching them, wondering what it was that had caught his eye. It took him a moment to realize that both animals were saddled and their riders were nowhere in sight. It took him only a moment longer to realize that he knew that big white blaze on the taller horse's face and the solid appearance of the darker black who stood so quietly beside him.

Peso and Pony.

Chris and Vin.

Nate's frown deepened. What the hell...?

He tugged sharply on the reins, heeling his horse around hard before sending it into a loping canter. Caution then reasserted itself and Nate slowed the chestnut to a walk as he neared the riderless geldings. His dark eyes scanned the immediate area, senses alert, peering sharply in every direction. His frown of unease deepened, tugging hard at the corners of his mouth, as all remained silent and still except for the softly whickered greetings exchanged between the horses.

There was no sign of the fiery gunslinger or the soft-spoken and quiet Texan.

A bad feeling settled cold and deep inside Nathan's gut as he reined to a halt and ever so carefully dismounted. Looping his reins over a nearby branch, he walked towards the other two horses, speaking to them softly and praying the pair wouldn't spook. With one hand, he slowly reached out to grab hold of Pony's bridle, wrapping his fingers around the strand of softened leather. His other hand moving just as cautiously, Nathan reached beneath the sleekly muscled neck and grabbed hold of Peso's dangling reins. Only when he had a secure grip on both horses did he dare to raise his voice.

"Chris?...Vin?..."

There was no answer to his call except for the chirping of birds and the wind whispering through the leaves. Pony lifted his large head and nuzzled against Nathan's shoulder, rubbing his broad face harder as if to scratch an itch. Nate stepped back a bit, listened for a moment longer and then hollered once again.

"CHRIS?...VIN?..."

But there was still no reply or even a hint of movement from the surrounding trees and brushes. A cold chill then swept up Nathan's spine. Despite the warmth of the day, it made him shiver and he swallowed hard against the knot of fear that rose up to try and choke him. Narrowing his eyes against the sun's glare, he muttered a harsh curse. Something was wrong here. It wasn't like Chris or Vin to go off and leave their horses running loose and especially not while still wearing a saddle.

"Easy now," Nathan urged gently as he tied the reins to Vin's notoriously fractious horse to a ring on Chris's rig. He wasn't taking any chances on Peso getting it into his head to run off. That done, he reached for Pony's reins, the worn leather sliding across his palm before he noticed the shortened strap. Holding it up before his face, Nate grunted as he fingered the broken end. How and when had that happened?

The overwhelming certainty then that something was very wrong was enough to almost smother him and Nathan took a deep breath to shove back his rising panic. He bit down on his lower lip thoughtfully, his dark eyes appraising before he turned and led the two geldings toward his own. Nate looped the longest of Pony's reins around his saddle horn so that all three animals stood tethered close together.

Stepping away from the horses, he pulled his gun from its holster and fired off three deliberate shots into the air. After the echoes faded away, he listened hard, waiting anxiously for a reply. A few minutes later, he repeated his actions, knowing that if they were out there and if they were able, Chris or Vin would answer his signal in kind.

But even as he hoped and waited, Nate's heart plummeted into his stomach. There were no echoing gunshots to break the morning air.

Quickly reloading his weapon, the healer slipped it back into its holster and set out to scout the surrounding area, praying he'd find some sign that would lead him to his friends. Almost thirty minutes later, finding none, at least none that he could see, Jackson admitted defeat. Vin was the tracker of their small band, the expert at reading sign, not him. And the irony of needing a tracker to find a missing tracker didn't escape his notice.

Nathan quickly decided he had to get help. Maybe Buck or JD or one of the others could figure out what had happened or knew where Chris and Vin had gone. Returning to his horse, the healer mounted up, took one last look around, then turned and rode hard for town. Both the riderless horses trailed along behind him.

---

Chapter 14

Squinting up into the late morning sun, Josiah Sanchez lifted one arm and wiped the layer of sweat from his brow. The red bandana tied around his head was already soaked and did little to capture the additional liquid. Salt stung his eyes and he blinked rapidly against it. His vision was blurred for a moment by a wash of tears before he wiped them away as well. He'd been at his labors since not long after sunrise and his gray undershirt lay plastered against his broad chest. Dark wet rings circled under his powerful arms and around his neck only to accent the damp line that ran the length of his back.

No one ever said doing the Lord's work was easy, but then again, Josiah reckoned he knew as well as most just how difficult that work could be. He'd spent most of his life at it one way or another. Sometimes with the idea of being a preacher, other times simply in the guise of a man just doing his penance. And then still other times, like now, when he was nothing more than a carpenter or a soldier called to war with a gun in one hand and a Bible in the other. Either way, the big man was no stranger to hard work and had never let a little heat or sun or dirt stand in his way.

That single-minded determination served him well when it came to repairing the roof of the town's church. The building had fallen into a general state of disrepair from several years of neglect and Sanchez had made it his personal mission to see it returned to its former state of glory. He'd spent many long hours sanding and polishing and painting the interior, repairing wooden benches and railings, replacing broken glass and cracked frames, applying whitewash and a hundred and one other countless and mundane tasks. But by far, the vast majority of his time and effort went into repairing the worn out roof.

It wasn't that he minded spending most of his free time replacing boards and shingles and tar paper. Far from it. It was just that it seemed as if for every hole he patched, three more appeared with the next good storm that came along. Josiah reckoned God must have a sense of humor after all, enjoying a few laughs at His children's expense. But it was also that same God he knew he had to thank for bringing him to this small dusty town with its needy souls and cast off lives. For a long time, Josiah had been searching, trying to find his place in the world, a purpose for his life, a way to redeem himself, and now, he had a home and six brothers to help him tend his flock. Life was good.

Or at least, it used to be, he admitted silently. These days, he wasn't so sure anymore. Too much had happened to tear it all apart, to tear 'them' apart. Too much hurt and pain, too many lies and words left unspoken. The 'shepherds' who had once tended the flock were now lost and wandering themselves, torn apart by betrayal, hatred and revenge. Their path was no longer clear; the waters of the river were muddied and every single day was a struggle without the strength of their combined wills to navigate safely through the storm.

It was all falling apart and Josiah felt a great sadness tug at his soul for what once was and for what had now been lost.

Resting one well-muscled arm across his knee, he paused in his labors, staring out across the sprawling landscape that lay before him. His blue-gray eyes took in the view from atop the church roof while his heart ached at the pull of fading memories. So much time, so much lost, so much yet to lose. He sighed heavily, the weight of it resting on his broad shoulders. Guilt preyed upon him, his inability to absolve himself so much a part of his soul that even Kojay's gentle words of wisdom had failed to bring him ease.

*A man must choose his own path. No one may walk it for him.*

But surely a man, a good friend, traveling the road straight to Hell deserved better.

Josiah grunted with self-disgust, his fingers clenching around the smooth handle of his hammer. He'd been a preacher, dammit! He was supposed to know all the verses and all the right words. He should have found a way to reach a soul in torment, should have been able to ease the burden of pain and guilt that tore at the very fabric of a man's being. Instead, he'd been caught up in his own shortcomings, his own miserable failures, and he hadn't been there when he was needed. He'd run away, like a child afraid to face its Father, hiding inside a distant sweat lodge while others took up the yoke of his task.

After Ella Gaines' treachery, Chris had needed him and he hadn't been there. Josiah blamed himself. Other hands, Nathan's hands, had born the responsibility of healing the gunslinger's injured body, but as a man of God, Josiah knew he alone was charged with having the knowledge and the wisdom to heal the other man's soul. The crazy woman's twisted obsession had single-handedly destroyed Chris. It reminded the ex-preacher all too well of how Samson had fallen victim to the charms of the beautiful Delilah. Because just like Samson, Chris's strength had been cut from him, his very heart and soul ripped apart by the long sharp talons of a mad woman's deceit. All that remained was a ghost of his former self, a pale and wasted shadow, a watery reflection of the man that he'd once been.

And Josiah knew it wouldn't take much for that wisp of a ghost to disappear altogether.

A hard fist then slammed against his thigh, the hammer barely missing his bent knee. Sanchez was angry with himself for not speaking out, for not insisting that Chris talk to him, for not trying harder or even sooner. Instead, he'd failed. God had tested him and again he'd failed. He'd failed his friends, failed Chris. It was another harsh weight for him to carry and added heavily to his already burdensome penance. Sighing with regret and pain, he shook his graying head, then turned back to resume his labors. One powerful arm lifted and fell as he hammered loudly upon the roof, pounding nail after nail into the row of dark square patches that lay waiting. Every battering blow served as a reminder of the atonement that lay deeply upon his soul.

It was some time later when the big man felt his thirst then overtake him. Pausing, he glanced upward at the bright sun where it rode high up in the sky. Scattered puffs of white clouds offered brief moments of passing shadows but it wasn't anywhere near enough to relieve the growing warmth. Setting aside the hammer and nails, he reached for his canteen, then scrabbled up higher on the roof to sit and rest within the small amount of shade provided by the steeple. Taking a long draw of the tepid water, he stared pensively off into the distance.

The touch of God's hand lay upon the land spread out before him, the lush prairie still green from the late spring rains, the leaves on the trees not yet burned by the furnace of summer heat. Small clusters of yellow, gold and red flowers dotted the nearby meadows, the splash of color a feast to the eye weary of the ever-flowing sea of grass. The creek that bordered the east side of town was still full, swirling pools of sparkling clear water running cold and deep beneath a canopy of spreading branches. But with the approach of summer, he knew such things would disappear. In the coming days, the land would once again be left burnt, dry and miserable.

Sighing, Sanchez swallowed some more water and lifted his eyes still further. Way off in the distance, he could just make out where the rolling hills gave way to the harsher climate of the desert, the colors of emerald and jade fading away as they blended into shades of brown, tan and gray. Cacti, mesquite and scrub brush grew in abundance there, and the desert sand and hot dry winds scoured fiercely across the face of the earth. It was a harsh place, a hard land, with a wild, natural beauty all its own.

Most of it was also now 'reservation land' and Josiah greatly admired the Indian tribes who labored so diligently to make it their home. Kojay's people were strong and proud, their spirits bent but not broken beneath the heavy hand of a federal government far too removed from their daily existence to care that the land was too dry, water too scarce and forage too meager to provide adequately for their needs. And according to the newspapers he'd read, the same story was being repeated elsewhere, all in the name of progress and an ever-growing wave of civilization. It made Josiah afraid for his friends, afraid for all of them, knowing the time would come when all that they knew, all that they were, just simply disappeared.

That there would be a time when they were no longer even needed.

Josiah's broad shoulders lifted and fell sharply as he snorted, shaking his damp gray head at his own fatalistic thoughts. Change was inevitable; he knew that. A man could no more stop things from changing than he could hold back the rush of a roaring flood. As his lips curled slowly into a mocking grin, the ex-preacher silently laughed. Things changed, yes. But no one said he had to like it.

Exhaling loudly then, the big man leaned back against the wood to rest the tight, aching muscles of his lower back. Lord, but it was getting hotter, a preview of days to come.

Reaching up with one hand, Josiah pulled the red bandana from around his head and soaked it with water from the canteen. Wringing it out, he then ran the damp cloth over the heated skin of his face and neck. Wiping away the sweat and dirt, he capped the canteen and let his gaze once more roam the landscape. A movement at the edge of the trees caught his eye and he stared for a minute, the figure of a horse and rider coming quickly into view.

A scant moment later, Josiah was up and turning to pull on the thick rope hanging from the bell of the church. Three quick strikes of the clapper and then he was sliding back down the angle of the roof to where his gunbelt lay beside his tools. Grabbing it up, he caught sight of JD standing on the porch of the sheriff's office, Casey Wells beside him and a puzzled frown upon his youthful face.

"JD!" he hollered loudly. "Trouble! Get Buck and Ezra!"

Not wasting a moment, the young man took off at a dead run for the saloon, his coattails flapping behind him even as one hand grabbed hold of his hat to keep it secure upon his head. The other hand gripped the butt of an ivory-handled Navy Colt, the alarm in the big man's voice enough to cause JD to act first and ask questions later.

For his part, Josiah made his way around to the back of the church, quickly descending the ladder he'd left tucked against the wall. Slipping his gunbelt around his waist, he hooked the belt buckle and secured the leather tie around his leg. Grabbing up his hat and coat from the back porch, he then took off at a run for the livery. Sticking his head inside the door a moment later, he quickly located the hostler and ordered him to saddle their mounts.

The other men came running, matching looks of alarm upon their faces as Josiah turned to glance back up the street. Following his gaze, Buck gave a soft exclamation of dismay as Nathan then rode into view. His solid little chestnut mare was moving fast, a pair of riderless horses trailing along behind her. That same soft cry turned into a loud vicious curse as the ladies' man recognized the big, blaze-faced gelding and the sturdier black beside it. He stepped forward, a cold knot of fear settling in his gut as he intercepted the speeding mare and the breathless rider clinging to her back. His hand shot out, taking hold of the horse's bridle in a strong and determined grip.

"Nate!" JD called out worriedly, his voice floating above the noise of stomping hooves and flapping leather. At the same time, he reached for the reins of the other two horses, knowing full well just who they belonged to and taking charge of Pony and Peso as he moved to secure them at the hitching post.

"What th'hell happened?" Buck demanded, his voice loud and filled with alarm.

Nathan was struggling to speak even before he'd fully halted his horse. "Buck! J'siah!" he gasped, fighting hard to catch his breath. "Found th'horses a coupla miles out. . .no sign of Chris 'r Vin. . .think mebbe we got trouble."

"Shit!" The ladies' man ran a rough hand through his hair, badly ruffling the dark strands.

"I'd say you were right," Josiah offered as he hurriedly slipped his arms into his coat. His frown grew as Nathan swung his tall frame out of the saddle. "You find anything else?"

Nathan shook his head, then bent over to rest with his hands upon his knees. "No, but I looked around some, fired off a signal shot. . .nothin'. . .figgered I'd better hightail it back here an' git help."

"A wise decision, Mr. Jackson." Easing past a very agitated Buck Wilmington, Ezra retrieved the canteen from Nathan's horse and offered it to him. The healer took it gratefully, nodding his thanks as he straightened and took a long drink. He wiped his mouth with the back of his shirt sleeve, took another deep breath and let it out on a long drawn out sigh.

Josiah glanced over at Buck, interrupting the litany of low curses flowing from his mouth. "Buck, Chris say anything to you 'bout where they were headed?"

Buck shook his dark head slowly, worry and fear gnawing sharply at his gut. "No, just that the Judge was sendin' them out ta hunt some wolf that killed a bunch of sheep. Didn't say where they were goin', didn't know how long they'd be gone."

"That don't tell us much," Sanchez grumbled, thinking hard. Reaching up to settle his hat on his head, he asked, "JD, can you backtrack the horses?"

Bright hazel eyes flashed upward. "Well, yeah," he answered almost at once, sounding brashly confident. Then as the reality of the situation settled in, he thought harder about what he was being asked to do. "At least, I think I can," JD amended as he came nearer, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed hard against the knot in his throat. Learning to track deer, coyotes and rabbits with Vin was vastly different than trying to track down two missing men. Just thinking on it sent a sharp pain digging deep into his gut.

Buck must have sensed his fear, his hesitation, because suddenly he was there, one hand on JD's shoulder. He looked down at the younger man, the blue eyes wide and questioning, concerned. "JD, are ya sure?"

JD paused, took a deep breath, then felt the strength of his friend's grip supporting him, encouraging him. "Yeah, Buck," he assured him. "I can do it. I'll find them."

"All right then," the shaggy head nodded, then turned. "Let's get going, boys. Nate, you think you can show us where you found the horses?"

"No problem," came the steadier reply.

"Might I propose that we procure a fresh mount for Mr. Jackson first?" Ezra suggested. "It would appear as if his regular steed is in sore need of a rest."

"Yosemite's already seeing to our horses," Josiah informed them. "Have him saddle up another for Nate, a couple more for Chris and Vin too. JD, take their horses inside so we can get the gear off 'em."

The younger man nodded and turned, for the first time taking a good long look at the two riderless geldings. Frowning thoughtfully, he stepped closer, eyeing them both as he ran a gentle hand over Peso's withers and down the length of his legs. Murmuring softly, he walked around to Pony, continuing his careful examination.

"What is it, JD?"

The dark-headed youth didn't answer, merely lifted up one of Pony's hooves to examine it more closely. He then picked at the bottom of it with his fingernail before lowering it once again. Running his hand over the rounded girth of the horse's belly, he rested it there for a moment. JD then moved to the broad head, his fingers stroking the wide muzzle, picking at dried flakes of sweat and chunks of dirt that were matted in amongst the short black hairs.

"JD?"

Lastly, he checked both Chris and Vin's gear, noting the empty rifle scabbard on one and the dark stain of dried blood upon the other, the presence of Chris's duster tied along the back of the saddle. Without turning around, JD told them, "They've been out grazing all night long, bellies are full. Been rode hard too. Got dried sweat caked on like salt everywhere. Bits of dirt and rock stuck in the shoes make me think they've been out in the desert. But Vin's rifle is missing and. . ." He turned to face them, eyes wide and fearful, ". . .there's blood on Chris's saddle."

There was silence for a long tense moment before Buck quietly murmured, "Aw, hell!"

---

His back and shoulder were on fire, like ants crawling all over his skin. Grit and dry dust filled his mouth, were ground into the side of his face and ear. His flesh felt blistered, like it had been rubbed raw, tiny wounds stinging with the invasion of salt and bits of dirt. His neck itched beneath the collar of his shirt where sweat trickled downward in tiny rivulets. Cracked lips parted and he swallowed carefully around a tongue that felt thicker than molasses, wondering what in the hell he'd done to himself and just how much whiskey he'd had to drink. He tried to spit, was thwarted by a lack of moisture and ended up coughing lightly instead, groaning at the pounding inside his skull that erupted from just that slightest movement.

Well, shit.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten this drunk, couldn't remember staggering outside only to end up passed out and facedown in the dirt. Funnier still, he didn't even remember going into a saloon to buy himself a bottle. In fact, now that he tried to think about it, he didn't seem to remember much of anything at all. Past experience though told him he was probably in some back alley somewhere in some nameless, faceless little town, and that wasn't a good place for a man of his reputation to be found alone and unawares.

He knew he had to get up, knew he needed to move and tried to order his stiffened limbs to obey, but every bone and muscle in his body seemed to ache and throb with the dull roar of a suspended pain. He sighed, accepting, waiting a moment longer, knowing that it would all come back to him in a vivid stab of searing agony.

It would hurt.

He'd hurt before. Pain was nothing new. Not to him. And there wasn't much choice, not unless he wanted to end up shot in the back.

A disgusting way to die.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed upward, rolling onto his side, long legs curling inward.

Chris's raw scream of pain split the stillness of the afternoon heat, the sudden sharp cry cut off just as quickly by the jagged edges of unconsciousness. The grim black shadows circling overhead were momentarily startled, scattering at first before silently resuming their lazy pattern of floating upon the hot currents of wind, content for now to watch and patiently wait for their reward.

---

Chapter 15

It took them longer to get out of town than they wanted, JD's sudden pronouncement causing a stir of deep concern along with a change in plans. The fresh horses were ditched in favor of a wagon, one with a flat bed, and extra time was needed to hitch up a team and procure bedding and supplies from Nathan's clinic. There was a brief but heated debate about the necessity of someone staying in town to keep an eye on things, but as expected, not one of them volunteered.

At the last minute, Buck thought to send word to Judge Travis, knowing the older man would be concerned as well. Too late though, they found out he'd already boarded the stage and headed out earlier that same morning. Now, as the small procession jostled and bounced down the road, their thoughts and silent prayers were focused on the two men at the center of their journey. Chris and Vin were missing, most likely in trouble, and all they had was a vague starting point and an inexperienced tracker to lead the way.

"How much further, Nathan?" Buck called out from astride his gray gelding, leaning over to glance past the gambler who'd kept a steady pace beside him.

"Should be that small clearin' just yonder," Nate answered back, his hands tightening their grip on the edges of the wooden seat. Beside him, Josiah gave an impatient cluck to the wagon team and lifted the leather reins to slap against the twin pair of muscled haunches. A few minutes later, the healer indicated a place for the wagon to stop and swung down from the rumble seat before Josiah had even set the brake. "Yeah, this is it," he declared, hurrying towards a clump of scrub brush and trampled grass.

"JD, take a look," Buck ordered as he halted his horse, then held out one hand for the reins to the younger man's mount.

The dark-headed youth nodded, quick to obey, a frown of concentration already locked upon his face as he hurried towards the indicated spot. He was all too aware of the quiet scrutiny that followed his every move, the barely checked impatience, the anxious questions waiting to find voice. It was disconcerting and he swallowed nervously, his throat dry, knowing they were depending on him, feeling somewhat naked beneath the pressure of their silent regard. He glanced up to find Nathan's dark brown eyes watching him, felt the warmth and reassurance that accompanied a gentle smile, gratefully drew strength from it and bent himself to his task.

Using every bit of knowledge and experience that he had gleaned from their missing tracker, JD closely examined the surrounding ground, the tangle of the various plants, the close-cropped grasses, the turn of every small rock and broken twig. The scattered imprint of horses' hooves told a story all its own and at one point, he headed off down a small gully, bending, searching, tracking as he moved. JD used all his senses, just as Vin had taught him, tasting the earth, scenting the wind, his fingers raking gently through the dry silt and checking it for moisture. Hazel eyes squinted against the sun's glare, traced the line of hoof prints back to a shallow pool of water, and then even further out beyond. Thinking on the gravel he'd found stuck inside the shoe of Chris's horse, he took a stick, poked a large pile of manure and wasn't surprised to see bits of wild grasses and thorns within the damp, softened center.

Everything he found...and everything he didn't...provided JD with answers. The only problem was none of it gave him the answer he needed most.

Where were Chris and Vin?

Heading back to where the rest of the men waited, JD took off his hat as he walked and ran a hand through the thick, dark waves of his hair. He wiped the sweat from his face and seated the brown bowler back upon his head.

"No sign of Chris or Vin," he stated, reaching to take his reins from Buck and swiftly mounting his horse.

"You sure?" Wilmington frowned, his heart plummeting in his chest.

"No boot prints except for Nathan's," JD assured him with a nod, "and no sign of blood either." Reaching down, he grabbed his canteen and took a long swallow of water to quench his thirst. He recapped it and wiped his mouth on the back of one arm before continuing, "Hoof tracks are shallow...no riders...came in off the desert...that way."

Almost as one, they turned to look to where JD indicated out across the small meadow, past the line of trees and over the scattering of rolling hills to the broad expanse beyond.

"Do you think...perhaps...bounty hunters might have...?" It was Ezra who finally gave voice to the thought that was uppermost in their minds, the wanted poster bearing Vin's face and name still managing to turn up on the odd occasion despite the passage of time and distance.

Buck shook his head. "Why would they want Chris?"

"Perhaps Mr. Larabee attempted to dissuade them in their efforts?"

Josiah spoke up from the wagon seat, his voice a deep rumble. "It's an awful long way to walk to Texas," he countered, reminding them of the two riderless horses Nathan found. "Unless, of course, you ain't walking."

"Wh-why wouldn't..." JD began, a puzzled expression on his face.

"What he's sayin', JD, is that if'n bounty hunters come after Vin, they'd still need a horse fer 'im ta ride on," Nate explained quietly. "Either sittin' in the saddle..."

"Or draped across it," Buck finished, a hard edge to his voice. "Damn!"

The other half of the equation, the one where Chris Larabee's bullet-riddled body lay deathly still beneath a hot sun, his life's blood poured out upon the dry desert sand after trying to save Vin Tanner, remained unspoken. They all knew that despite the recent strain between the two men, there was no way in hell Chris would let bounty hunters take Vin without a fight, even if it meant a fight to the death.

His death...or Vin's.

Tears sparkled hotly in JD's eyes though he tried hard to hide them. "Well, I ain't giving up," he announced gruffly. "I say we keep riding."

Buck glanced across at him, a smile tugging at his lips but there was no humor behind it. "Hell, boy, the day I give up on Chris Larabee is the day I bury that sorry sonuvabitch six feet under. My money's on him and Vin." Determination filled the deep blue eyes as his broad shoulders straightened. One large hand lifted to tug his hat deeper onto his head, then returned to take up his reins. With a jerk of his chin in JD's direction, an indication for the younger man to lead them on, Buck commanded, "Let's ride."

With an expert hand, JD wheeled his horse about, quickly backtracking along the trail left by the pair of horses as they'd wandered in from off the desert. Buck immediately turned to follow, his big gray snorting and prancing beneath him, feeling his rider's sense of urgency and responding to it with a nervousness of his own. Behind them, Nathan barely had time to swing up into the wagon before Josiah was slapping the reins across the team's haunches, clucking and hissing to them over the jingling of the traces. Ezra worked his mount up alongside, doing his best to ignore the sense of foreboding that shivered up the length of his spine.

Taking in the grim countenance of his friends, the gambler offered, "My money would be on Mr. Larabee and Mr. Tanner as well. However, some of your...divine intervention... Mr. Sanchez, would surely not go amiss."

A broad, toothy grin was his only reply as the five men resumed the search for their missing friends.

---

It was late afternoon by the time they found them, not because JD's fledgling tracking skills managed to somehow keep them headed in the right direction, but more because of the ring of circling black shadows high overhead that signaled death, dying and decay. Ezra spotted them first, the gambler's keen eyes always so quick to take in every detail around him. He turned in the saddle, words not really necessary, one hand lifting as he signaled to Josiah. A shout ahead to JD and Buck and the five men were riding hard, urging their horses onward despite the heat, a sense of relief intermingled with dread at the uncertainty of what they would find.

Buck's big gray got him there first, hard hands hauling back on the reins, throwing the horse's head high. Well-muscled haunches flexed and bunched tightly as the gelding slid forcefully to a halt, dirt and rocks flying from beneath the dancing hooves. Buck was off before his mount even stopped moving, slinging his lanky frame from the off-hand side in his desperate hurry to reach the crumpled figure lying motionless on the ground. Panting, covered in sweat, he landed beside Chris on his knees, his heart stuck in his throat, terror gripping him in a cold vise at the unnatural stillness and the overpowering stench of blood. He stared, terrified, hardly able to believe what it was his eyes were seeing.

Chris lay on his left side, his lean body curled in upon itself, long legs drawn upward, right arm tucked awkwardly against his belly. Blood, dirt and sweat matted the strands of his blond hair, turned it a golden, reddish brown, covered what was visible of his face. His eyes were closed, features slack, the unprotected skin sun burnt and blistered. Mouth open, his lips were cracked and dry from too much sun and not enough water. His dark shirt was plastered against his chest except where the fabric was torn into shreds, the pale flesh beneath also exposed to the sun's burning rays. Long, bloody gouges were torn into his ribcage and side and even as Buck stared, swallowing back on his horror, the buzz and drone of flies and insects in search of a blood meal, crawling over the open wounds, made him want to puke.

"Oh, God!" he breathed, hands hovering in the air, trembling, wanting to touch, to search for signs of life but scared beyond most anything he could ever remember. The fear that pounded through him drowned out JD's breathless arrival behind him, the rumble of the approaching wagon, panic edging his voice even as he turned and hollered, "NATHAN!"

The dark-skinned healer was already on the move even as Josiah slowed the team and reached to set the brake on the wagon. Nate grabbed his bag of supplies from behind the rumble seat and jumped down, long legs carrying him quickly across the ground before the dust could even begin to settle. He hurried past JD, too focused on the dark form upon the ground to do more than distantly note the expression of horror on the younger man's ashen features. He saw when Buck reached for Chris's shoulder, the big man's fingers trembling with fear, and Nathan ordered sharply, "Don't touch 'im!" causing that hand to jerk away as if it had been burned.

Dropping his supplies on the ground, Nathan crouched down next to Buck, his dark brown eyes doing a quick assessment of their own. Ignoring the queasy knot lodged in his gut, the healer reached down with one hand and inserted his fingers under the collar of Chris's shirt, pressed against the slender neck, searching for a pulse. Long, anxious moments passed and then he moved that same hand to cup the lower half of Chris's face. A few seconds later, a small smile of relief flashed briefly across his dark features as Nathan announced, "He's alive."

Understanding the sudden whoosh of air that deflated Buck's lungs and the heartfelt prayer of thanks that Josiah offered up, Nathan went to work and started issuing orders.

"J'siah, get that wagon over here, gonna need ta get 'im outta this sun an' I don't wanna risk movin' 'im too much. See if you can put up some kinda shade." He opened his pack of supplies and pulled out a handful of bandages, quickly placing a layer over the open wounds on Larabee's side. "Buck, help me roll 'im over...Gently now!" he admonished when the other man moved too fast.

The extent of the gunslinger's injuries became more evident as they turned him onto his back and carefully straightened his legs, a soft hiss escaping Nathan as he got his first look at the rest of the damage to Larabee's chest, shoulder and arm. "Easy now," he advised, his tone low and soothing, his large hands working gently to avoid causing further harm. His frown of concern deepened as the injured man made no sound even with their careful treatment.

"What th'hell happened?" Buck queried, his voice a roughened whisper.

Nathan ignored the question, ordering instead, "Buck, grab that canteen over there an' see if you can get some water in 'im."

The solid bulk next to him shifted, following his command, shaking hands doing their best a moment later to coax water between unresponsive lips. The tepid liquid trickled down the slack features and soaked into the thirsty ground. A soft sound that could have been a sob escaped the dark-headed man beside him, Nathan's own eyes tearing slightly at the pain he knew Buck was feeling, at the pain he felt himself. A shadow fell across him where he worked and Nate glanced up to see Ezra standing over them.

"Dear Lord!" the gambler breathed in horror, his eyes wide and face pale. He looked decidedly ill, the sounds of JD being sick back behind the wagon only now capturing their attention. Concerned, Buck started upward, then threw a pleading look at Josiah who silently nodded his head and turned to see to their youngest. Nathan also threw a sympathetic glance in that direction but he had his hands full at the moment. JD would have to wait.

"Buck, hand me that knife," the healer ordered, taking the canteen from the other man and pouring water over Chris's shirt to wet it where the material was dried against his skin. Nathan then carefully picked at the cloth, peeling away scraps that were already torn free and opening up places where he could insert the knife to cut away the rest.

"Gonna need lots mo' water...an' some blankets..." he murmured, glancing up sharply when Ezra didn't respond. His eyes widened in concern when the southerner slowly lifted his head, green eyes bright and diamond hard as he surveyed the desert, one hand reaching for his gun.

"Ezra?"

Without looking back, Ezra replied, "Might I remind you, gentlemen, that whomever...or whatever...attacked Mr. Larabee might still be out there and that Mr. Tanner is still obviously missing. I think it would behoove us to proceed with a bit of caution."

"Ezra's right," Josiah added as he came from behind the wagon with a pale and shaken JD by his side. The kid's face was as white as a ghost but whatever words of comfort the ex-preacher had offered him seemed to have helped a bit. JD was quiet, his stomach under control and no longer retching, but it was obvious the young man was still fighting to regain his composure. Josiah kept a hand on his shoulder. "If somebody took Vin..."

"Ain't no bounty hunters did this," Nate advised as he took the knife from Buck and bent to the task of removing more of Chris's shirt.

"Then what, pray tell, did?" Ezra kept his gun at the ready, senses alert.

"Don't know fer sure," the healer said, still working steadily. "Some sorta wild animal maybe...could be a mountain lion...ain't unheard of in these here parts."

"And Vin 'n Chris went off huntin' whatever it was killed a bunch of sheep," Buck interjected softly, finally able to find his voice over the shock that had left him numb and nearly speechless.

Ezra lifted his head further, scanning the rock formation above them. "Then perhaps Mr. Tanner was also likewise injured and is somewhere close by waiting to be found as well."

"Vin? Get caught by a mountain lion?" JD spoke for the first time, his voice still shaking but filled with disbelief. "No way." Josiah gently squeezed his shoulder in agreement.

Nathan answered them all without even looking up. "Well, somethin' had t'have happened to 'im cuz there ain't no way he'd go off an' leave Chris like this." He peeled away a large section of shirt from Chris's chest and wasn't surprised when Buck choked back a gag at the grisly sight. Nathan didn't blame him; it was enough to make the healer feel ill as well. Taking pity on the other man, Nate lifted his head and ordered, "Buck, take JD an' Ezra. See if ya can find Vin. I'm gonna need Josiah ta help me here."

When Buck was slow to move, Nathan added more gently, "G'on now, Vin needs ya."

After a moment, Buck sighed, seemed to gather in upon himself and nodded his head. He pushed slowly to his feet, then stood looking down at his oldest friend's wounded body. An unspoken plea glittered in his anguished blue eyes, one that Nathan silently answered, his own dark eyes filled with compassion and a world of understanding. Seeing the assurance there that he needed, the ladies' man turned and straightened his broad shoulders. He signaled with his gaze to JD and Ezra, the three men moving off and quickly spreading out to search. They found Chris's trail and backtracked along the staggering boot prints and drops of scattered blood. Behind them, Nathan crisply issued orders.

"J'siah, get th'rest o' them horses secured then move that wagon over here. There's some blankets in th'back we can use ta make a shelter...grab th'rest o' them canteens. I need mo' water...gonna need ta cut up mo' bandages too..."

The voices faded as the trio of men moved farther away from the makeshift camp, each trying to put aside the images of their gruesome find to concentrate on the task at hand. Some ten minutes later, they entered the small clearing where it became all too obvious that Chris had been attacked. The signs were everywhere, including the blemish upon the ground that indicated the spot where the gunslinger had initially fallen, his life's blood soaking into the dusty ground and leaving it darkly stained. Something glinted brightly in the sun and JD rushed across the open ground, bending down to retrieve it, turning with the object in his hand.

"Chris's gun," he stated quietly, then lifted it to sniff at the barrel. "It's been fired..." He snapped open the cylinder, noted the blood coating the grip. "...once..."

"Mr. Tanner's hat," Ezra called out from where he'd found the battered item caught up in some bushes. He was working diligently to retrieve it, pushing aside the branches with one arm as he swatted at the flies and insects that kept getting in his face. A moment later, he sucked in a harsh breath and held it, the overpowering stench making his stomach turn decidedly sour. There was no mistaking that horrible smell and the gambler broke out in a fresh sweat at what he hoped he wouldn't find. Heart pounding, he pushed further into the tangle, heedless of the thorns and twigs pulling at his favorite coat. A large form lay at the base of a thick mesquite bush and Ezra gasped in relief before quickly covering his mouth and nose. "And I believe I have found the culprit behind the attack upon Mr. Larabee."

"What is it?" JD called out, then turned and frowned as Buck strode past him. "Buck...?"

But Wilmington's eyes were focused on a dusty object lying on the ground, one that had nearly escaped his notice for the dirt that covered its usually pristine barrel. He bent to retrieve Vin's rifle and found himself kneeling at the edge of a small arroyo, one that was hidden from the casual eye as it fell away beneath the surface of the land. His gaze tracked downward, a soft curse falling from his lips.

"I found Vin."

JD and Ezra moved quickly to stand behind him, looking down as well, a soft gasp escaping the youngest at the sight of the slender body some twenty feet below. Vin lay perched upon a ledge of rocks and gravel, flat out upon his back, still and unmoving. From where they stood, they couldn't tell if the tracker was alive...or dead. Surprisingly, it was JD who recovered first, a soft cry escaping him as he moved to scrabble down the wall of rocks. But Buck pushed quickly to his feet, using a firm hand to stay the younger man's progress.

"JD, go get Nathan," he ordered softly. Hazel eyes pleaded with him but the older man remained insistent. "We need Nathan. G'on now."

With the urging of a slight shove from Buck's hand, JD took a step, then two, gave one last agonized glance, then turned and ran back the way they'd come. Buck's eyes met Ezra's across the span of a few feet before he sighed resolutely and slipped off his hat. He handed it to Ezra, preparing himself for the descent. "Watch my back," he relayed softly to which the gambler responded with a flash of a cheeky smile and a two-fingered salute.

"Always," came the quietly drawled reply.

Buck slid and groped his way down the twenty foot incline, slipping the last few feet and landing somewhat awkwardly on his butt. It stung a bit but he stood quickly, hoped like hell Ezra wasn't smirking at him, dusted off his hands and made his way cautiously along the ledge. Reaching Vin's side, he knelt down and was pleased to see the even rise and fall of the tracker's slender chest.

"Vin?...Vin?..." He tapped the quiet face, hoping to see the blue eyes flutter open, disappointment coursing through him when there was no response to his gentle call.

"He's breathing," he hollered upward, knowing Ezra was waiting to hear word, Buck's big hands already at work to check for broken bones. Moving down the length of Vin's right arm, he spied the black object tucked back against the rocks. Grabbing hold, he held the flat-brimmed hat up and out for Ezra to see as well. "Looks like Chris got to 'im first...for all the good it did 'im," he finished, the last said under his breath before resuming his careful inspection.

Minutes later, satisfied he'd found nothing obviously broken, Buck sat back on his haunches, a heavy sigh of relief escaping him. Puzzled though by the lack of reaction to his probing and prodding, he stared at the slack features, the sunburned face, eyes narrowing as he spied the line of dried blood that led from the younger man's right ear.

"Ah, hell!"

Burrowing his hands under the length of Vin's hair, Buck slipped his fingers around the back of the tracker's head and lifted, cursing yet again at the big knot he found hidden beneath the matted locks. Sticky, congealed crusts of blood covered a deep gash, bits of gravel and dirt ground into the bruised flesh, the wound telling a hidden story all of its own accord. Exhaling, he gently lowered the wounded man's head, started to reach for his bandana, then spied the one already on the ground beneath Vin's nearest shoulder.

It was stained with blood. Chris had known Vin was hurt.

"How is he?" Ezra called down, still guarding the rim above.

"Can't find nothin' broken," Buck answered back, "...'cept maybe his head. Looks like he musta fallen an' hit it pretty damned hard."

Ezra started to offer a joke about that perhaps being a fortuitous circumstance given Tanner's notoriously hard head, but JD chose that moment to return, gasping harshly for breath from his frantic dash for help. Nathan was not far behind him, sweat lining the grim expression on his face, more bandages and supplies grasped within his hands and tucked beneath his arms. Ezra moved to lighten the other man's burden even as he prevented JD from trying to climb down to the ledge below.

"I'm afraid there's not enough room down there for all of you, Mr. Dunne. It would be prudent for you to remain here with me and assist in keeping watch."

JD would have protested but Nathan cut him off. "Stay here, JD. I may need ya ta run back to th'wagon."

Expecting his order to be obeyed, Nathan made the descent with only slightly more grace than Buck, turning at the bottom to hold out his hands and catch his supplies as Ezra tossed them down to him. He then hurried to Vin's side, motioning for Buck to move back and give him more room on the narrow, rocky shelf.

"Didn't find nothin' broken," Buck offered helpfully, "but he's gotta big ol' bump on the back of his head. Most likely fell from up top there." He bit his lower lip, chewing on the corner of his mustache, as Nathan went through his own examination of the fallen man. Watching as the healer worked, Buck's sense of helplessness and inner rage grew until he kicked out at a cluster of rocks and then turned to pace several feet away. Hands fisted on his hips, dark head bowed, he blew out slow careful breaths as he waited for Nathan's pronouncement.

"Breathin's good, heart's strong but a little fast, eyes look okay..." Nathan closed an unresponsive eyelid. "Arms an' legs all in one piece, belly's flat...seems all right 'cept fer that knot on his head." He glanced up at Buck. "I'd feel a whole lot better if'n he'd open them eyes though...reckon he's got a pretty good concussion."

"Can we move him?" Buck instantly wanted to know, starting forward, already planning on how to carry the smaller man back up to the rim above.

"Yeah, I think so," Nate answered, "but we gotta be careful. Might still be somethin' broken."

"But you said...?"

Nate held up one hand to forestall Buck's protest. "I said I cain't *find* nothin' broken but that don't mean there ain't." He glanced upward, eyeing the slope above them. "A fall like that, landin' hard, not knowin' how long he's been down here..." He shook his head. "...gotta worry 'bout his back mebbe bein' broke but I won't know fer sure 'til he wakes up an' I can examine 'im proper."

"You mean if he wakes up?" Buck heard the undercurrent of worry in Nathan's voice, knowing they'd been down this road before when one or more of the others had been injured in the past.

"Yeah, well...I won't know 'til then," the black man admitted softly, dropping his head.

Buck didn't like Nathan's tone of near-defeat, a low growl of frustration escaping him as he rifled a rough hand through the thick strands of his bushy hair. Inhaling, he held it, then let the air gust out of him in a sudden noisy rush. He hated standing around helpless; he needed something to do, something to keep him occupied, to find a way to take his mind off of...

"Okay, whatdya need?" he demanded, a call for action spurring him past his own doubts and fears.

Nathan thought for a moment, scratched his chin and then replied, "Gonna need some boards outta the back of the wagon, some mo' bandages, blankets...rope if ya got some...a couple of th'horses that can handle a load real quiet like, no fussin'...have Ezra pitch me down a canteen..."

Buck nodded, already on the move, climbing steadily upward even as he hollered, "JD! Let's get ta them horses, boy! Time ta go to work...!"

The healer watched him for a moment, smiling to himself at the whirlwind in action the other man suddenly became. He understood Buck's fear, his worry, his need to help. Nathan had the same needs himself. He just hoped and prayed that his limited healing skills would be enough to make a difference. Sighing, he caught Ezra's eyes upon him.

"Ezra, lemme know when ya got that water, okay?"

Receiving a quick nod of confirmation, he turned back to his patient, sorting through his bandages and supplies in preparation for tending to Vin's wounds. As he worked, a heavy weight slowly settled around Nathan's shoulders and it suddenly struck him as ironic how a day that had started out so well could end with such despair.

Chapter 16

They secured Vin's unconscious form to a pair of boards, binding his arms and legs at his side, then used ropes to haul him back up to the crest of the small wash. JD and Ezra worked the horses, keeping them quiet against the awkward load, while Buck directed the lift with another rope from the shallow ledge below. Climbing slowly, Nathan kept pace with the improvised stretcher, reaching out to steady it, checking his patient and removing rocks and branches that tried to get in the way. It was a slow, arduous undertaking that left him sweating and gasping for breath when he finally reached the top.

Task accomplished, he then sat beside the still form, taking a minute to rest as JD and Ezra untied the ropes and settled the horses. He wiped the sweat from his face with the back of one long sleeve, his plaid cotton shirt soaked through and plastered against his skin. A short time later, Buck appeared beside him, a grim smile on his features as he scaled the last of the rocks. The healer nodded, their joint efforts having safely delivered Vin back onto solid ground. Nathan could only hope the rest of their journey would also fare as well.

"Gimme a minute, Nate," Buck requested, one hand on his shoulder. "I'm gonna take a look over here at this thing Ezra found."

"What thing?" Nathan quizzed, squinting up at him as the other man stood tall.

"Might be whatever it was that attacked Chris, maybe Vin too for all we know," Buck shrugged. "Just figger it'd be worth lookin' at, mebbe give us some answers."

"Yeah, it might," the seated man agreed, thought a moment longer, then gathered himself and got to his feet. "Reckon I'd best see it too, get a better idea of what I'm dealin' with as far as takin' care of Chris."

"Okay...Ezra?" The southerner looked up as Buck called his name. "Where'd you find that thing?"

Grimacing in distaste, Ezra extended one arm in open invitation, sketching a mock bow, as if inviting them to meet the Queen of England. "By all means..." He led them over to the bushes, pushed aside a few branches and let them follow the rank odor on their own. The gambler chose to stay back; having already seen it and smelled it for himself, he had no desire to do so yet again.

"Ugh...what *is* that?" JD grunted, his youthful features twisted by a mask of disgust. He pinched his nose against the stench with one hand and waved the other in front of his face to drive away the buzzing black cloud of flies.

"Don't know fer sure," Buck grumbled as he struggled not to breathe too deeply. Finding a hefty branch, he poked at the rotting carcass. Long, dark-golden fur formed a thick coat over what was once a mass of living muscle and bone, and the size of it alone proclaimed the thing to weigh at least a hundred and thirty pounds. Almost as much as JD and certainly enough to bring down a sheep...or a man, Buck decided, a shudder of revulsion passing through him.

Exploring further, he shoved the thick wood under what appeared to be the beast's neck, tugging and pulling until, finally, the massive head rolled slowly in to view. Rows of sharp white teeth were smeared with blood and dirt and dried saliva, the black tongue grossly swollen and dry. It protruded from one side of the huge mouth, giving the dead animal an appearance as if the thing were laughing. A single bullet hole was drilled in the furrow between the eyes, the corneas clouded and film-covered, unseeing, unblinking. There was no exit wound; it was obvious how the beast had died.

"Damn, Chris nailed it!" Buck loosed a soft, admiring whistle.

"Yeah, but not soon enough," Nate added as he turned away, his stomach sour.

"But what is it? A dog?" JD persisted. "It's kinda big, ain't it?"

"Yeah," Buck agreed as he straightened, dropping the solid branch he'd used. "Maybe a wild dog, maybe a wolf cross, I don't know. But whatever it is, it's dead and can't hurt nobody no more." He swiped a hand at a large black insect that landed on the side of his neck. "C'mon, JD, let's get outta here."

The pair turned and followed Nathan back across the clearing. By unspoken agreement, Buck took up one end of the boards holding Vin Tanner while the healer took the other. JD rounded up the horses and loose ropes while Ezra made it his task to secure all of their scattered belongings. Together, under the heat of the late afternoon sun, the small group headed back to the wagon where Josiah was tending Chris.

The ex-preacher had been busy in their absence. He'd moved the wagon closer to the lee of the large rock formation, found a couple of stout branches and buried one end of each within the ground. A large tarp was stretched from the side of the wagon and tied to the makeshift posts with rope. It created a good-sized area of cooler shade where he'd spread blankets and other items Nathan would need to tend his patients. Chris already lay beneath it on a makeshift pallet, his battered form now stripped bare except for the lower half of his drab gray union suit and a pair of dirty socks. Josiah had finished cutting away the rest of the ruined shirt and removed Chris's gunbelt, boots and pants.

As they got closer, Nathan could see the blood-soaked bandages wrapped around the lower half of Larabee's arm, the side of his naked torso and down to around his narrow waist. The man himself lay so still, an unnatural pallor covering him like a death shroud. Unsettled by that thought, Nate flexed his hands and took a tighter grip on the boards bearing the injured tracker. The slight movement shifted the balance a bit and he heard Buck give a startled grunt from where he followed behind. Josiah quickly eased out from beneath the canvas to meet them, reaching to share the load with Nathan as they gently eased their precious burden to the ground beneath the shade.

"How's he doin'?" Nathan asked with a jut of his chin in Chris's direction.

Josiah eyed the injured man briefly. "No change," he murmured, his gruff voice softened by emotion, his blue-gray gaze somber. "Still hasn't come 'round." Squatting down, he helped straighten Vin's legs and untie him from the boards.

"Get any water down 'im?"

Josiah shook his head. "How's Vin?"

"Took a bad one to th'back of his skull but don't nothin' else seem busted," Nate replied. "Gonna need ya ta turn 'im for me in a bit ta get a better look."

"What can I do to help, Nathan?" Buck stood just outside the covering, bright sun beating down on him, his large hands twitching restlessly. Behind him somewhere, he knew JD and Ezra were securing the horses to a picket line, removing their saddles and offering water to quench the animals' thirst.

Nate glanced up at Buck's quietly worded question, having nearly forgotten the other man was even there. "Uh, yeah, Buck. I'm gonna need a fire ta heat some water, get my instruments ready. There's some more supplies in the back of the wagon, got laudanum and other medicines in that box up under the seat there, might come in handy."

Buck nodded his head and started to move off, his steps stuttering as his eyes lingered for just a moment longer on the injured form of his oldest friend. He swallowed hard, felt the terror again, clawing like a living thing inside of him. It threatened to choke off what little breath he could draw in the sweltering afternoon heat. Frowning, he shook his head and resolutely shoved those fears aside. Determination set the angle of his jaw.

Chris Larabee was no quitter. The man would fight Death with everything he had in him. A certainty born of long years of friendship told Buck that much was true. But then he paused to wonder, with all that Chris had been through in the last several months, with the return of Ella Gaines, her deception and betrayal, the bullet in his chest, the despair and grief and black rage that had followed...How much of the man who had suffered-and survived-so damned much was truly left to fight?

And what if it wasn't enough?

Buck shuddered as he reached under the wagon seat for Nathan's box of medicines. He didn't want to think about it, didn't want to think about Chris dying...Vin either for that matter. Both men were too important to him, too good of friends, too much like brothers. Both of them held a special place in his heart, his affections-as did they all-and the only words he could come up with to describe his feelings sounded like a worn-out cliché of "family, hearth and home."

He didn't want to lose that. None of it.

Didn't want to lose "them."

Nathan nodded at him gratefully as Buck set the box beside him. Then calling out to JD and Ezra to help, the ladies' man set himself the task of organizing their small camp. Wood was collected and a fire built; water was added to a large tin bowl, Nathan's surgical instruments dropped inside and a crude frame built over the open flames to hold the water as it heated. Ezra found the coffee beans and tried his hand at using the small wooden grinder. Smiling, JD took it from him when the gambler cursed as he skinned a sensitive knuckle.

Finally, coffee made and poured, they hunkered down beneath the shade of the rock as conversation faded, each man withdrawing into the silence of his own thoughts. They knew this was the most difficult part, when all the long, hard riding and searching were over. All that was left for them to do now was watch and worry, sip hot coffee and wait, wait to hear word, wait to be needed. It wasn't easy but they'd traveled this path before.

Settling back with a deep sigh, his hat tipped low against the sun's glare, Buck knew he should be grateful that JD had gotten them there, that they'd found their missing friends. But the gnawing fear inside of his gut refused to leave him alone. He inhaled and held it, bit down on his lower lip against the hot sting of unwelcome tears. There were a lot of years between him and Chris, a lot of memories, good and bad, a lot of history. To lose that now...after all this time...after everything they'd been through...

Damn.

Scowling, Buck lifted the brim of his hat, glanced over at the wagon, at the figures huddled beneath the wide, makeshift canvas. Frustration weighed on him as he exhaled a heavy breath. Chris and Vin's lives were in Nathan's hands and there wasn't a damned thing he could do to help.

Except wait.

Beside him, JD shifted and sighed as well, settling even deeper into the shadows. The kid still looked rattled and Buck took pity on him.

"Ya done real good, JD," he praised, squeezing the young man's shoulder gently, and then went back to quietly sipping his coffee.

---

Chapter 17

"Where do you want to start first?"

The question came so softly and Nathan was so lost in contemplation that he nearly missed it. He startled, his head swinging back and forth for a moment, brown eyes narrowing before he finally decided, "Looks like ya got Chris settled for now, let's start with Vin."

Moving in concert, they carefully undressed the injured tracker, removing his gunbelt and clothing, all the while being vigilant to move him as little as possible. Josiah bundled up Vin's things, then tucked them under the wagon seat alongside what he'd salvaged off of Chris. Glancing back, he shook his head. Without all his trappings, lying there in his pink union suit and socks, Vin looked young and frail, an appearance he knew was definitely deceiving.

Regardless of the actual number of years he'd been on this Earth, Vin Tanner had one of the oldest souls Josiah had ever been privileged to meet. And as for being frail, well, there just weren't many men stronger than the tough-as-nails tracker. He just hoped that core of inner strength wouldn't desert the man now. Vin was going to need it, not just for himself, but also for the badly injured man beside him, the man who was his best friend. Having seen those wounds firsthand, he didn't have much hope for Nathan being able to save Chris Larabee's arm and a gunslinger without his gun arm...Well, that didn't even bear contemplating.

Sighing, the big man glanced skyward, offering a silent prayer, then had to shake his head at his own pessimistic thoughts. His eyes drifted to the far horizon, settled for a moment, then continued downward. A soft breath escaped him then as he firmly pushed aside his own natural skepticism, hefted his broad shoulders and straightened the length of his spine. Hope was still a mighty powerful weapon, and after all, he still believed in miracles and God still moved in mysterious ways.

His lips twitched then as Josiah decided a miracle or two would be right welcome.

"J'siah, bring me s'more water an' then let's get 'im turned on his side," Nate ordered. "I wanna getta look at th'back of his head."

Bending his large frame down under the tarp, Josiah did as instructed and moved to a point opposite from Nathan. His big hands were gentle but steady as he waited until the healer was ready, then ever so carefully, keeping Vin's back straight, they eased him over onto his side.

Nathan whistled softly at the deep gash he found buried beneath the matted locks of hair. "Looks like it went clean down t'the bone, musta hit pretty hard, prob'ly gotta bad concussion." He poured water over the wound, washed it, then gently explored. "Cain't feel nothin' cracked or broken. That's good." The healer sat up and wiped his hands with a cotton rag. "Gonna wash it out real good, make sure th'bleedin's stopped an' then stitch it up."

It took him awhile, but when he was finished, Nathan was satisfied that he'd done all he could to clean and care for the open wound. Applying a dose of thick salve to keep out infection, he then wrapped a fresh bandage around Vin's head, tying off the tail ends behind the tracker's ear. The long strands of lanky auburn hair spilled loosely around and over the white material. Nathan then nodded, and with Josiah's help, turned Vin over onto his back.

"Done 'bout all I can 'til he wakes up. Won't know more 'til then."

Nathan eased out from beneath the tarp, standing to stretch his back, groaning at the tight ache within his muscles. He was acutely aware of the three pairs of eyes watching his every move. Giving them a brief nod and a smile, he reached down to remove the dirty water. Tossing it out a fair distance from the camp, he then knelt and refilled his extra basin with more fresh water, giving a nod of approval as Josiah covered Vin with a woolen blanket. It wasn't likely the tracker would catch a chill, certainly not in this heat, but it was also no small kindness to try and protect the other man's dignity.

Sighing, knowing his most difficult task still lay ahead, Nathan glanced longingly at the battered coffee pot sitting by the fire. His mouth watered with a sudden craving for a cup of the hot, stimulating brew. But he discarded the wish almost as quickly as he made it. A few minutes here or there might not make a difference to Chris or Vin, but to the other men sitting beneath the rock, it could very well mean everything.

No, no time to rest now. Best to push on. They were counting on him, waiting for word.

"J'siah, see if ya can get Vin ta take any water an' then gimme a hand here with Chris."

Moving to kneel at the gunslinger's side, Nate reached up and tapped the slack features. "Chris? Chris, can ya hear me?" The healer wasn't sure but he thought maybe the eyes flickered just a touch beneath the thin layer of pale flesh. "Yer hurt an' I gotta take a look at ya. Need ya ta hold still, Chris, ya hear me?"

There was no reply from the injured man, no indication that Chris heard, no movement from him at all except the continued shallow rise and fall of the bruised and battered chest. Exhaling heavily, Nathan began removing the makeshift bandages. He'd had a brief glimpse at the underlying wounds earlier as he had worked, leaving his patient in Josiah's capable hands once JD came to get him after they'd found Vin. Peeling back the layers now, the healer had some idea of what lay beneath, but it still didn't prepare him for the damage that he found.

"Sweet Jesus!"

"I know...it's pretty bad," Josiah commiserated from where he was trying to get water into the unconscious tracker. There was a tiny convulsive swallow beneath his hand and Josiah felt a smidgen of relief work its way through him at the simple response. It was a good sign, albeit a small one, but at this point, he'd be happy to take what he could get and thank God for the blessing of it.

"Pretty bad? Hell, J'siah, pretty bad don't even begin ta cover it," Nathan returned, sitting back heavily on his heels, his voice unnaturally high and filled with shock.

Chris's arm lay turned at an awkward angle across his chest, the bones in his forearm clearly broken, the exposed white ends sticking out through torn layers of skin, muscle and tendons. His hand and fingers were badly swollen and purple, dried blood coating the blistered flesh, turning it an even darker shade of brown. Deep bloody gouges were torn into his side, the red stripes reminding Nathan of the lash marks he'd witnessed as a slave, the same kind of marks that had deeply scarred the length of his own back and sides. The thick leather of Chris's gunbelt had spared the area below his waist and down onto his hip, the heavy black band providing some small degree of protection, but even so, Nate was appalled at the extensive damage done by teeth and claws.

"How do I...wh-what am I s'posed ta do 'bout this? I ain't never..." He rubbed a hand over his lower face, wiping at the trickles of hot sweat, desperately trying to hide his trembling fingers. Good Lord, even as a stretcher bearer in the Union Army, he'd never seen anything like it. Nate shook his head. He'd seen men shot, cut, stabbed, run over by horses, blown apart by cannonballs and God knew what else, but this...?

"Don't even know where ta start," he confessed softly, the all too familiar feelings of fear and uncertainty combined with the prospect of failure rolling over him in a crushing wave. This was way beyond anything he'd ever treated and a man's life was resting in his hands.

His hands.

Damn.

"I ain't no doctor, J'siah, I cain't fix this..." he declared, backing away, trying to get to his feet. "Chris needs a doctor. We gotta find a town..." A firm grip settled on his shoulder, pinning him in place, and he tensed beneath it.

"Nate?" Josiah's deep voice was gentle but commanding, pulling the other man's gaze upward by the strength of his will alone. "There's a powerful lot of healing in your hands, brother, put there by God, a gift from 'The Great Physician' himself," he stated somberly. "Right now, there's nobody I'd trust more with Chris's life...nobody Chris would trust more."

Bright tears glittered in the healer's eyes, Josiah's quiet words touching him deeply.

"More importantly, right now, you're all Chris has...without you, he *will* die."

Silence and understanding stretched between them until finally...

"Damn, J'siah! Ya don't play fair," Nathan groused, lowering his face as he scooted closer to Chris. Picking up a fresh cloth, he took a deep breath and resolutely bent to his task, bathing the gunslinger's arm, taking a closer look at the damage. He missed the broad grin on the ex-preacher's face but the sentiment was there in the hand that firmly squeezed his shoulder. Determined, Nate just sighed and continued his exam, probing and prodding gently, all too aware his patient was still unconscious. He attributed that to shock and blood loss, praying that's all it was and that Chris would soon come round.

But not too soon, he added just as silently. At least not until he'd done what he could for the man, not until he'd finished cleaning and treating his wounds. Chris would be far too weak to tolerate any laudanum and Nathan didn't want to be the cause of him suffering any more than was absolutely necessary. It was a hard line to walk sometimes, this fine line between hurting and healing, and he hated that part of his profession, hated having to inflict pain in order to help, in order to heal. It was frustrating as well that in spite of all the reading and studying he'd done, he always felt so inadequate to the task. It was like he never knew enough, wasn't trained well enough, wasn't skilled enough, wasn't good enough. Damn it, he wasn't a real doctor with a medical degree and proper training!

But Josiah was right. He was all Chris had.

Nathan just prayed his skills would be enough.

The healer covered Chris's lower arm, setting his mind on where to start first, knowing he'd need some help.

"J'siah, get Buck over here. Chris's shoulder's dislocated an' I'm gonna need th'two of ya ta hold 'im still so's I can put it back inta place."

"Buck!"

The ladies' man joined them a moment later, his handsome features drawn tight with worry and strain. Blue eyes darted back and forth between the two injured men, taking in the pristine white of Vin's bandage against the golden tan of the tracker's features and the unnatural pallor of Chris's skin beneath the hideous bruises and the blisters on his face.

"Nathan...?"

"Need ya ta help J'siah hold Chris. I gotta work on his shoulder an' I don't want 'im hurtin' his self more if he comes to..." the healer instructed.

"Can't ya give him somethin' for the pain?" Buck asked, his voice near to pleading as he came to kneel beside his wounded friend and across from Nathan.

The dark head shook. "Too weak right now. 'Sides, ain't been able ta get 'im ta swallow yet. J'siah, get his knees. Buck, get across his chest an' that other arm."

The two men did as he instructed, taking a firm hold, perhaps tighter than necessary, but Chris was a strong man. They were unwilling to risk further injury to their friend. Nathan positioned his hands above and around Chris's right arm and shoulder, anchoring his own weight to the ground by sinking low and digging in his heels. He glanced briefly at Josiah and Buck, ensuring they were ready, meeting their expectant gazes, then gave a quick nod of his head.

It was over in a second, a hard pull and twist, and then the sharp snap of bone sliding back into place was drowned out by the sudden eruption of violent noise.

Chris didn't just scream. He roared.

Despite the weight holding him down, the lean body arched up off the makeshift pallet, taut as a quivering bowstring, an inhuman sound of raw agony escaping from between the parted lips. They fought to keep the wounded man still, to keep Chris from hurting himself, knowing he was raging not against their hands but against the white-hot agony cutting through him like a knife. The green eyes were open but dark, glazed over in shock and pain, sightless, the intensity of it more than he could bear as those same eyes rolled upward and Chris fell back, silent once more, lifeless. A fresh layer of cold sweat covered his skin and Nathan immediately fell to work wiping it away, cursing softly and praying like hell Chris wouldn't remember what they'd just been forced to do.

Across from him, Buck staggered to his feet, stumbled a few steps away out into the open, then bent over to catch his breath. His hands rested on his knees. "Jesus Christ!" he muttered softly. He'd never heard anything like that in his life. Not even when Sarah and Adam...It was enough to make his hair stand on end and 'curl' his toes inside his boots. Thank God he wasn't given to a weak stomach; otherwise, he'd be puking his guts up all over the dusty ground.

A hand on his shoulder brought Buck's head up and around. "Here you go, Brother Buck. Just what the good doctor ordered."

Straightening, Buck took the proffered whiskey, uncorked the bottle, then lifted it to his lips. Tilting his dark head back, he took a long draw of the fiery liquid, felt the raw sting all the way down his throat and deeper into his gullet. He gasped as it hit rock bottom, shuddered hard, then noisily sucked more air.

"Thanks, Josiah." His voice rasped from the burn of the whiskey, but he felt warm again and his hands weren't shaking nearly so bad. Nodding, he handed it back, watching as Josiah followed suit and helped himself to a liberal amount. The ex-preacher grinned as he polished off a large swallow and passed the whiskey once again. Buck took a second drink, this one not quite so generous as the first, placed the cork back in the bottle and nodded as he handed it back for the last time.

"Reckon I oughta see about settin' up camp for the night," he offered, his eyes sneaking past Josiah's large frame to where Nathan was bent over Chris.

The healer glanced up at his words, briefly eyeing the brightness around them. "How much daylight ya reckon we got left? I'd like ta get these two back ta town quick as I can. Don't like th'idea of bein' out here any longer than needs be."

Buck tilted his head back, two fingers tugging at the corner of his moustache as he checked the sky and the position of the sun. "Figure we've got at least a good three more hours. Might be enough to see us back to town." He rubbed a hand across the lower half of his face, his expression pensive, his eyes casting back to Nathan. "How much time ya need here?"

The healer deliberated for a moment, looked back to his patient, turned to glance briefly at Vin, assessing. "Well, I wanna get this arm set but it's gonna take more'n I got here ta stitch all this back up. Be best ta do it back at my place. Guess I could jes bandage it now an' wait an' wash it all out again once we get there."

But Buck wasn't entirely convinced. "You reckon they'll be okay for the ride?" the ladies' man questioned, nodding at Chris and Vin. The back of the wagon was padded down pretty good with a thick covering of hay and several layers of blankets. Even so, it could still be a fairly rough ride.

"Jes don't go bouncin' 'em around none," the healer cautioned, unable to stop the small frown that tugged at his expressive mouth.

The dark head tilted, considering. "Okay, then. How long?"

Nathan pulled out more supplies, already anticipating the comfort and safety of his room above the livery. His place was clean and well-cared for, set up specifically for looking after his patients. It was filled with medicine and supplies and all the medical textbooks he had collected, all the important things he needed for his profession. Full of illustrated drawings and words, those books contained knowledge, knowledge that would tell him what he was dealing with and what he needed to do to make it right. It would be better to take Chris and Vin there than leave them on the dusty ground surrounded by insects and the heat.

"Figger twenty minutes mebbe 'fore I'm ready ta move 'em...less if'n J'siah can gimme a hand an' find me some good solid wood t'splint this arm with."

"I'm on it," Josiah submitted, then walked over to search the back of the wagon.

The ladies' man watched him go, his eyes again briefly meeting Nathan's. He paused, swallowed hard, then decisively nodded his head. Becoming a whirlwind of motion, Buck found his voice as he spun around and hollered, "JD! Ezra! Saddle up them horses, boys. We're movin' out in twenty minutes."

---

Chapter 18

Two days.

Nearly forty-eight hours.

Two-thousand, eight-hundred and eighty minutes...give or take some here and there.

From his chair by the window, Nathan decided he was too tired to figure out how many seconds as well. Not that it really mattered. One moment passed pretty much into the next without him even noticing. The last couple of days were just a blur, all of his time spent sitting and waiting. Keeping watch. Cleaning up. Changing dirty bed linens and bandages. Checking stitches. Watching for signs of fever. Treating the fevers. Worrying and fretting over whether or not he'd done the right thing, not to mention fixing hot tea and broth that all too often went untouched. Now, another night was coming on and with a sinking feeling, Nathan knew this one would be spent in the exact same way.

Two days.

Two long days and two even longer nights.

And the hell of it was, he still didn't know if Chris or Vin would live to see the morning sunrise.

His neck and shoulders hurt. He could feel the coming endless hours stretching out ahead of him, and Nathan sighed heavily, the soft sound equal parts fatigue, frustration and fear. Another long night and even more waiting, trying desperately to hang on to hope, to believe. Pulling his vacant gaze from the fading light and shadows on the dusty street below, he turned his head to glance across the room.

Vin lay on a cot placed against the wall, his complexion gray beneath the glow of the kerosene lamp that sat on the table beside him. The pristine white bandage around his head only served to emphasize the underlying pallor of his features and the delicate pattern of bruising beneath his all too silent eyes. He was still deeply unconscious, all of Nathan's coaxing, begging and hollering unable to elicit even a flicker of a response. Josiah had been giving him a hand getting water and tea into the injured man, but the healer knew it wasn't anywhere near enough. Dehydration and fever were setting in and that added to Nathan's worry.

Groaning softly, exhausted right down to his bones, Nathan rose to his feet and shuffled across the room. Filling a mug with water, he then leaned over and carefully poured a small amount between Vin's parted lips. Waiting, he watched, hoping and praying until finally, there was a slight convulsive movement. The tiny swallow was a small victory but a victory nonetheless, and relief crept across the healer's dark features at even that bit of progress, the continuing sign of life. He repeated the process several times more, always hoping, always watching and waiting, getting water into his patient a slow and oftentimes difficult task. Dogged determination kept him at it until at long last, the mug was finally empty.

Deciding to try some broth in a bit, Nate straightened and rubbed a tired hand across the base of his neck. He set the empty mug back down on the table and then stretched the length of his spine. Both hands pressed deep into his lower back as he arched to relieve the ache within his muscles. Inhaling deeply, he turned, arms and shoulders dropping, his eyes coming to rest upon his other patient as cold fear once again settled in his gut.

Chris lay like a dead man, a silent wooden corpse, covered only to his waist and much too pale and still against the cotton sheets on Nathan's narrow bed. White bandages soaked through with a pinkish tinge were wrapped around his bare chest and right arm. They helped to hide the worst of the damage from all but the healer's knowing eyes, but the memory of those wounds alone still held the power to make him sick.

Once they'd finally made it back to town, he'd spent several long, difficult hours cleaning and suturing, going through his medical textbooks to find the right anatomy drawings, putting bones and tendons back in place, suturing some more, then washing once again before applying salve and bandages. He was grateful Josiah had been there to lend a hand because when he'd finished, Chris had lost more blood than Nathan figured the man had left to give. The only flicker of life that had remained was the too rapid beat of Chris's heart and the shallow rise and fall of the bruised and battered chest. Josiah had given the healer a much needed calm and steady presence to soothe the worst of Nathan's fears.

Sighing, he moved towards the bed, eased his tall frame down into the chair beside it, and took up a damp cloth. More sat in a small pile nearby, courtesy of Mary Travis and Gloria Potter who'd both been by to offer help. Rinsing the cloth in a basin of fresh, clean water, he then wiped the fine layer of sweat from the ashen skin. Chris was burning up with fever, probably from the blood loss and maybe even from infection taking hold in his arm. The long fingers that stuck out from beneath the bandages were badly swollen and layered in rich colors of purple, black and blue. He'd have to take another look but Nate was glad that at least there wasn't the sickly sweet odor of gangrene seeping into the air. He couldn't help but flinch at the idea of amputating the gunman's arm.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his morbid thoughts.

"Evenin', Nathan," Josiah's deep voice greeted him quietly as the other man slipped into the room. "Thought you might need a break."

Nathan smiled his gratitude at the ex-preacher. "Thanks, J'siah, sho' could, but I gotta take a look at Chris's arm first. Think infection might be settin' in."

Taking off his hat and coat and setting them aside, Josiah moved to stand at the foot of the bed. His gaze settled on the still from laid out upon the sheets. "He still burning up with fever?"

"Yeah, cain't seem ta bring it down," Nate sighed, his hands dropping into his lap. "Cain't get no water or tea down 'im ta fight it neither. I keep tryin' ta cool 'im off, hopin' mebbe he'll wake up." The healer's frustration and weariness were obvious in the slump of his broad shoulders. "Ain't a whole lot more I can do."

"You've done plenty, Nathan," Josiah consoled him, his rugged face lined with gentle sympathy. "Ain't no man I know who could do more."

Sorrowful brown eyes lifted, undisguised pain filling their usually warm depths. "Thanks," he nodded, knowing in his heart that Josiah believed his words were true, but still the inner voice of doubt persisted. What if it wasn't enough? What if *he* wasn't enough? What if...?

"How's Vin doing?"

Nate glanced over his shoulder. "Got mo' water down 'im. Otherwise, 'bout th'same." Standing, the healer dropped the damp cloth onto the bedside table, unconsciously rolling up his sleeves as he headed across to the cabinet containing his supplies. "I got some mo' clean bandages boiled today an' there's mo' salve in that jar over there."

The door opened suddenly and JD stepped inside. "Hey, fellas. Thought I'd stop by and see if I can lend a hand."

Closing the door behind him, the younger man took off his hat and stood there nervously fingering the brim. JD had been a rare visitor since they'd returned to town with the two injured peacekeepers and Nathan didn't blame him. It had been hard for the kid to see two of the men he admired most in the world so gravely wounded. Afterward, Buck had confided to Josiah that JD was so badly shaken up that he hadn't eaten for almost an entire day. Watching as Nathan changed the bandages probably wasn't a good idea.

"Thanks, JD, but now might not be the best time," Josiah answered. "Maybe a bit later, after Nathan and I check Chris's arm."

JD seemed to pale at that, his eager smile quickly fading. Grimacing, he ran one hand through his hair, ruffling the dark, collar-length strands. "Oh, well, ya know, I...I just thought that...uh-mmm...it's just that..." He glanced down and shifted from one foot to the other.

"It's okay, JD," Nathan soothed, accepting the young man's sudden hesitation. "Tell ya what, why don'tcha head on over to th'saloon an' order me up some dinner? I ain't had nothin' since breakfast an' I'm powerful hungry."

The look of relief on JD's face was immediate, his color returning in a sudden flush of heated embarrassment. "Sure, Nathan. Be glad to," he almost gushed before hurriedly shoving his hat back on his head. "I'll tell Inez to fix up a big plate for you. Won't be but just a minute."

Grateful to have something else to do, somewhere else to be so that he didn't have to watch, JD turned to leave and was nearly out the door when he noticed something from across the room. His head swung back, a gasp on his lips, his hazel eyes going wide at the sight of Vin Tanner lying perfectly still upon the cot. The tracker's blue eyes were open and staring upward, unfocused and unblinking, the slender fingers of his right hand twitching ever so slightly.

"Hey, look! Vin's awake!"

Surprised, Nathan turned and went to the injured man's bedside, leaving his supplies and bandages spread out on the counter behind him. "Vin? Vin, can ya hear me? You awake?" he called gently, not wanting to startle his patient or aggravate the headache he knew would be a consequence of the concussion Tanner had suffered. Disappointment coursed through him though as Vin made no reply.

Pulling up a chair beside the cot, the healer reached out and took Vin's hand in his own. He could feel Josiah and JD move across the room to stand behind him. "Vin, ya okay? It's me, Nathan. Ya hurtin' anywhere?" He squeezed the cool fingers, hoping to elicit a response, but the glazed blue eyes continued to stare upward at the ceiling.

"Is he okay, Nathan?" JD's voice was a bit breathless with worry.

"Don't know yet, JD," came Nathan's reply. "Concussions can be tricky things."

The healer released Vin's hand, then reached up to cup the square-jawed face. The several days' growth of stubble rasped and burned beneath his touch. Tugging gently, he turned the expressionless features towards him, brown eyes intent upon sightless blue. A concerned frown furrowed the line of Nathan's dark brow and pulled the corners of his mouth downward. Oh Lord, what if Vin had been knocked senseless?

"Vin?"

He tapped the tracker's cheek and raised his voice. "Vin? Ya hear me?"

This time, he was rewarded with one slow, heavy blink but there was no sparkling light to fill the sapphire depths, no life to animate the mask-like face. Behind him, Nathan heard Josiah release a soft breath holding a quiet prayer and he could literally feel the tension radiating from JD's smaller frame. Vin had to still be in there somewhere; he just knew it.

"VIN?" He tapped harder, raised his voice louder, more insistent, more urgent...more frightened. "Look at me, Vin! Look at me, dammit! It's Nathan!"

"Oh, God!" JD gulped, fear for his friend once again making him sick. He took a couple of steps back, moving away, pressing one hand to his gut and closing his eyes as he gasped for air. What if Nathan was right? What if Vin had hurt his head so bad that he wasn't the same? Or what if he never really woke up? What if they had to put him in one of those institutions for sick people? For crazy people? Terror filled JD at the thought, his mouth going dry and his heart racing madly inside his chest. God, he wanted to puke.

"VIN?" In desperation, Nathan grabbed hold of Vin's shoulders and shook him, the bandaged head flopping limply from one side to the other, tendrils of long auburn hair tossing softly about the tracker's face. "Look at me!" he commanded. "LOOK AT ME!"

Something of the movement, the jarring of his body, perhaps even the harsh voice, must have penetrated whatever level of consciousness Vin had achieved, his face twitching slightly as a hitching breath was taken deep into the slender body. The tip of his tongue peeked out to wet lips that were split and cracked. Thick, dark eyelashes swept down to lay against the pale cheeks, flickered there for a moment, then lifted upward once again. A soft sigh escaped as the black center of Vin's pupils dilated then contracted, his gaze seeming to focus before slowly turning towards the dark visage hovering just above him.

"That's it, Vin, c'mon an' look at me," Nathan encouraged, a slow smile spreading across his face. He felt a weak hand hit his thigh, searching, flailing, before he reached down to grasp it in his own. He squeezed the long fingers, hoping to infuse them with a bit of his own warmth. "Hey, Vin, welcome back!"

But the eyes just continued to stare, not a trace of recognition or awareness in them, and Nathan's heart plummeted to somewhere deep inside his chest. He cast a worried look over his shoulder at Josiah, turned back and felt the big man move, standing closer behind him. He was grateful for the firm hand that reached out to squeeze his shoulder and offer his quiet support.

"Keep talkin' to him, Nathan. Let him hear your voice."

"Vin, can ya hear me? How ya feeling'?" Nate lightly tapped the silent features. "Ya took a bad fall a coupla days ago. Been waitin' on ya ta wake up. Think maybe ya could take some water?" He released the hand to reach for the mug, smiling his gratitude at Josiah when the ex-preacher reached to fill it for him. "Here now, try some 'a this."

But Vin's face remained blank, devoid of any light; the injured man didn't respond to the cool press of water against his lips.

"Dammit!" Nate cursed and set the water aside. He released his hold on Vin and ran his hands over his own face in disappointment. Knowing the nature of Vin's injuries, at the best, he'd hoped the tracker would wake up with just a really nasty headache and a bad temper. At the worst, though, he'd prayed that Vin wouldn't wake up at all, and certainly not to this. This in-between state where he was there...but not.

Alive...but not.

Existing...but not.

It wasn't right, not for Vin Tanner. The man he knew and loved as a brother and a friend wouldn't want to live that way, his mind and body shackled forever in darkness. Despair ate away at Nathan's gut compounding his own growing sense of helplessness.

"Nate, is he gonna be all right?" JD moved closer again, fighting his own fear, perched just over the healer's left shoulder as he peered down at the man on the bed. "Hey, Vin." His voice was soft and quivered with emotion.

Surprisingly, the sightless eyes slowly tracked the movement, came to rest on the dark head of hair, the pale rounded face, the anxious hazel eyes. Nathan sucked in a breath, his heart jumping into his throat as the cracked lips then parted, disappointment coursing through him when all that escaped was a sibilant hiss of air.

"C'mon, Vin, try it again," he urged gently, watching as a frown of concentration creased the tracker's ashen face.

Vin took a slow breath, opened his mouth again, his tongue slipping forward to flick at his lips. "Deeee...?"

The single word came out as more of a low, soft groan but it was enough to bring grins and grateful barks of laughter to the three men in the room. Tears of relief filled Nathan's eyes as he glanced first to Josiah and then JD in turn. A true smile lit his dark face as he then looked back at Vin. Leaning forward, he placed his hand on the tracker's forehead. The flush of fever was still on him and a light sweat slicked the pallid skin.

"That's right, Vin," he encouraged, "JD's here. Think ya c'uld try some water fo' me?" He reached for the cup again, the movement of his arm and the touch of his hand bringing that lost gaze to bear on him once again. The wide eyes blinked owlishly, their fierce light dulled by pain and confusion. He watched as Vin tried to focus, the dark pupils growing steadily to swallow up the blue.

"Thannnnn...?" The voice was stronger this time but a trickle of unease skittered up the healer's spine at the slurred pattern, the missing syllables, the almost drunken delivery. He swallowed hard, his concern growing as the injured man gave a tiny frown, lines of pain and effort fanning out around his mouth and eyes. Vin's hands fluttered weakly at his sides and Nathan's gut told him something wasn't right.

But then again, he reasoned, more than likely, Vin had scrambled his brains pretty good in that fall. Difficulty talking and remembering things were fairly common in those kinds of injuries. He would just have to wait and assess the extent of the damage when Vin was feeling better and able to cooperate. Then it would be a matter of watching his progress to see how much was permanent...or not. For now though, it was enough that he was awake and at least making an attempt to speak.

"That's right," he nodded. "It's Nathan. J'siah an' JD are here too. Ya got hurt a coupla days ago but yer gonna be just fine now. Gonna need ya ta take some water an' tea fer me. Ya think ya can do that?" he asked, his eyes encouraging gently as he once again lifted the mug. But Vin seemed not to hear him, the blue gaze sharpening a bit more to dart almost frantically about the room. "Vin?"

The eyes flickered upward and around, taking in the low ceiling, the sturdy walls, the three men hovering close by. Slender fingers twitched, hands reached for and grasped the bedding, felt the rough wool blanket and the softness of cotton sheets against skin. A deep frown etched its way across the tracker's face and Nathan fancied he could almost hear his thoughts out loud. The bandaged head then turned, auburn strands framing the pale features, the puzzled gaze going past Nate's shoulder, seeking, searching, looking for something...or perhaps someone.

A soft gasp escaped the injured man, shock filling his features as he surged sharply upward from the bed. Nathan was caught unprepared, moving swiftly to intercept him, dropping the mug and spilling water across the cot and onto the floor.

"Here now, hold on!"

"BEEEE...!" Vin's cry was anguished and full of fear, his body and legs getting tangled in the bed sheets as he fought, nearly toppling himself down onto the floor.

"J'siah, gimme a hand here!"

Sanchez swiftly moved in and tried to help Nathan restrain the distraught tracker, his hands firm but gentle against the younger man's frantic struggles.

"BEEEE...!"

"What th'hell's he yellin' about?" Nate barked as he dodged a flying fist.

"LISSS...LISSS...Noooo...!"

It was JD who supplied the answer. "It's Chris!" the youth exclaimed, his voice tight and rising above the racket Vin was now making, the sight of the injured tracker fighting like a wildcat while keening wails of anguish poured from his mouth sending chills of terror up and down the length of JD's spine. "He thinks Chris is dead!"

"Stop it now, Vin! Stop it! J'siah, hold 'im down! JD, get his legs!" Nate ordered harshly. "Gotta keep 'im from hurtin' his self more." Josiah moved fast for such a big man, strong muscles getting a firm grip even as the frantic struggles began to weaken. "Vin, listen ta me," the healer demanded. "...Listen ta me!"

The high-pitched wailing continued, became rough and coarse as Vin abused his throat, turned into a fit of coughing as the dryness there scraped painfully at his vocal cords. Nathan's hands reached out to frame the distraught man's face, shaking him, willing him to hear and understand. "He ain't dead, Vin, ya hear me? Chris ain't dead."

Glazed blue eyes were forced back to Nathan's face as heavy shudders wracked the slender frame. Vin's mouth, however, remained open, the howls dying down to moans and gasps for breath between bouts of harsh, dry coughing. Fear, panic, grief...it was all there in that tormented gaze and Nathan knew the pain of believing his friend was dead was ten times worse than any physical wound the tracker might have suffered.

"Vin, listen ta me. Chris got hurt but he's gonna be okay, ya hear me?" All he needed to do was convince him Chris was still alive. After that, anything else could wait.

"Look at me...CHRIS...AIN'T...DEAD!"

The stricken gaze filled with so much anguish locked on Nathan's eyes, focused there a moment before then lowering to his mouth. He repeated his words, more softly this time, distinctly emphasizing them and willing Vin to believe. The flash of sharp, hot pain that suddenly stabbed across the tracker's face took him by surprise, Vin nearly tearing out of Josiah's grasp as his body twitched and violently bucked. The tracker's hands flew to his head, grabbed at his ears, clawed through his hair, pulling and tearing, twisting the lanky strands and pressing tight against his battered skull. Vin's face went even whiter than before until finally, the blue eyes rolled upward and his body sagged within Josiah's grip. The beckoning darkness claimed the tracker yet again.

"What the hell was that?" Josiah whispered into the sudden silence as he lowered the limp form back down upon the cot.

"Don't know," Nate breathed, both relieved and alarmed as he reached for a damp cloth. "Some kinda seizure mebbe. Least now we know he ain't paralyzed." Dutifully, he checked his unconscious patient and then began to wipe the fresh layer of sweat from the fevered skin. He thought on it a moment before continuing. "I don't know, J'siah...it was like...like he...I don't know..."

"Like he couldn't hear you," JD finished the sentence even as Josiah and Nathan turned to look at him in shock. "He couldn't hear you, Nathan, that's why he was screaming." JD swallowed hard, his face pale and his eyes wide with fear.

"Vin's deaf."

---

Chapter 19

Arnold Davies was in a foul mood. For one thing, he didn't like having his schedule tampered with. For another, he didn't like having other men tell him what he could and couldn't do. And right now, sitting in the saloon having dinner, he was doubly damned good and tired of being told what he couldn't do. First by that huge, bearded grizzly who claimed he used to be a preacher, and then by that uppity ex-slave posing as a healer. Didn't they know who he was? What kind of power and influence he wielded? The kind of respect he commanded? Who were they to tell him what he could and couldn't do? Who he could and couldn't see?

For almost two days now, Davies had been trying to see Chris Larabee and he was fast running out of what little patience that he employed. When he'd gotten word the man was injured while off on Travis' fool errand, he had quickly presented himself at the door of the black man's room above the livery. Shaking his head, he'd scoffed in disbelief at the sign proclaiming, "Bones set, Wounds healed." It was disgusting, uncivilized, wrong. When would these freed black slaves ever learn their rightful place? Knocking on the door, Davies had demanded to see Larabee only to be very emphatically denied.

And every time since then, he had likewise been rebuffed.

Goddammit! He was supposed to have been in Parker City yesterday to meet with Ian Robertson, a longtime acquaintance, to outline his campaign strategy and drum up more wealthy supporters. He didn't need this damned delay or this extra aggravation. But every time he thought about giving up, about leaving without Larabee, the more stubborn his mindset became. Davies wanted extra insurance against Clayton Hopewell and if he had to drag the injured man out of a sickbed to do it, then so be it. He was determined to have what he wanted regardless of the cost.

Not once did it ever cross his mind that perhaps the man in question wasn't interested in his offer. It was simply immaterial to him what Chris Larabee did or didn't want. All that mattered was Arnold Davies and *his* plans for *his* future. When he left this filthy, little town, Chris Larabee would be coming with him.

Lifting one arm, Davies signaled to the young Hispanic woman behind the bar to bring him a bottle of whiskey. He earned himself a heated glare from the dark-headed man with a mustache at the corner table when his fingers lingered a moment too long upon her arm. Smirking, Davies poured himself a shot, tossed it back in one quick swallow and resigned himself to another night spent waiting. Helping himself to a second drink, he studiously ignored the pair of cool green eyes that quietly appraised his every move.

7777777

"Vin's deaf."

Nathan was shocked because dammit, JD was right. Why hadn't he figured that out first? It certainly helped to explain a lot, the slurred speech, the garbled words, the clutching at his ears, most of all the confusion. No wonder Vin had been so frantic, so panicked...so afraid.

"Nathan?" Josiah stood then, peering down over his shoulder.

"Yeah, I think JD's right. Makes sense from th'way Vin acted," the healer admitted. "Could explain why he wouldn't calm down."

The trio of men fell silent for a moment, each mulling over the consequences of what they had discovered, fear and uncertainty for Vin's future prominent in each of their hearts and minds.

"For how long?" The big ex-preacher voiced the soft question, his blue-gray eyes filled with heavy worry.

Nathan turned to look at him. "I don't know, J'siah. These things can be kinda tricky. Ain't no way t'tell how long or even if it's permanent." He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm sorry. I just don't know."

JD stepped forward, his young face puzzled, his gaze wide. "But if Vin can't hear, how're ya gonna talk to him, tell him what happened, make him drink tea and stuff...I mean, if he can't hear what you're sayin'...?"

"Good question," Josiah replied, shaking his gray head before falling silent, deep in thought. "Maybe..." he rumbled a moment later, then snapped his fingers, "...Mary's got some chalk and slates over at the newspaper office. Vin's eyes seem to be working okay. You can write what you need to tell him."

But JD was already shaking his head. "That won't work," he predicted, being privy to a secret Vin had held close to his heart for quite some time. JD finding out had been an accident, just a bit of rotten luck as he came across Vin leaving Mary's office one day. The tracker had sworn him to silence and JD had kept Vin's secret to himself.

Until today.

"Vin can't read or write. Mary's been teachin' him but he's havin' a hard time with it."

Both Nathan and Josiah turned to stare at him.

"What?" JD blustered. "I swear, it's true. I saw Vin coming out of The Clarion one day, found out Miz Travis's been givin' him lessons but Vin made me swear not to tell." He just hoped Vin wouldn't shoot him when he found out that he did. "I guess it's too bad he can't talk with his hands like I seen some folks in Boston do at one of those schools for the Deaf. That might come in handy."

Nathan could only gape at him wordlessly while Josiah paused, then let loose a soft rumbling chuckle. One shaggy eyebrow lifted as the big man slowly turned his speculative gaze upon the healer. "And they say, out of the mouth of babes."

JD's look of confusion was almost comical, Josiah's big hand landing on his shoulder and turning the younger man towards the door.

"We'll be back as soon as we can, Nathan," he advised, gathering up his hat and coat before ushering JD outside.

"Where are we going?" floated into the room on the soft evening breeze.

"To see a friend, JD."

7777777

Inez Recillos sighed, feeling more than a bit exhausted as she wiped a damp rag along the top of the polished wooden bar. Her day was finally drawing to a close and she was grateful closing time was near. The evening dinner crowd had been a little busier than usual, not surprising really given the recent turn of events. People were hungry for more than just food and drink and the congenial atmosphere of the saloon was where they tended to gather after finishing their labors for the day. They wandered in, singly or in groups, and took up residence at her tables, ordered a beer or two, sometimes food and then waited to hear the news. Mostly though, at least to her ears, they seemed to gossip, speculating on the fate of the two badly injured men. So far, Nathan and the others had done a good job of keeping most of the circling vultures away.

Determined to finish up, Inez mentally ticked off her list of chores. The supper dishes had all been washed and put away while clean, crystal clear glasses and mugs lined the shelves along the length of the large silver mirror. She had already restocked the cabinets with a fresh supply of whiskey but would wait until morning before bringing in another barrel of beer from the small ice house out the back. Putting aside her rag, she dusted her hands together and then reached to remove her cotton apron. She hung it on a hook beside the cash register, her gaze wandering as she did so and scanning the smoky room. Her rich brown eyes warmed with sadness and concern as they fell on the forlorn figure sitting alone at a table near the back.

Buck Wilmington had been in that very same chair for most of the long hours of the evening. He had walked in around suppertime, ordered a mug of beer and then sat there nursing his drink until it had long since soured in the glass. His broad shoulders were slumped and, uncharacteristic for him, he'd barely spared a glance in her direction the entire time. He'd looked at no one, spoken to no one, ordered neither food nor another drink. The sorrow emanating from the big man's frame was almost palpable and Inez's heart melted at the pain she knew that he was feeling. Sparing a glance for her few remaining customers, she went to him, all thoughts of their past verbal sparring and flirtations put aside as she sought to offer comfort.

"Señor Buck, would you like some dinner?" she asked in her quietly accented voice, one hand reaching out as if to touch his shoulder.

Startled, Buck glanced up, unable to completely hide the pain written on his face even as he gave her a half-hearted attempt at his usual boisterous grin. "Hey, darlin'...'preciate the offer but I'm good." As if to prove his point, he bent his elbow and hoisted his drink, saluting her with it but making no move to finish off the now tepid beer.

"It tastes better when cold," she advised. "May I get you another?" She reached as if to take his glass but he quickly moved it from her reach.

The dark head lowered, avoiding her sympathetic gaze. "Nah, thanks...think I'll just... finish this one off an' then mosey along to m'room..."

She stood watching him for a moment, debating with herself, but the ladies' man made no effort to finish off his beer. He merely stared at a spot on the wood grain of the table and appeared for all the world as if he'd sprouted roots. Sighing softly, Inez slipped into the chair beside him, primly folded her hands upon the table and searched for something to say.

"Today has been very long, no?"

Buck merely exhaled, making no reply to her question, and Inez had the distinct feeling that small talk was not really going to help.

"How are they doing?" Straight to the point and it didn't take a genius to figure out who she meant, but still, Buck flinched under the directness of her question.

"...'bout as well's can be expected...accordin' ta Nathan..." Buck shrugged one broad shoulder, now drawing patterns on the table with the tip of one long finger.

"That is good to know." When he offered no further comment, Inez tried again. "Because here, in this place, people talk...and I hear things."

Buck looked up sharply at that, instantly suspicious. "Things like what?"

She smiled to placate him. "In a saloon...people talk...they ask questions, Buck."

"Questions 'bout what?" he demanded, his spine stiffening as he sat a little straighter.

"They wish to know what happened."

"None of their damned business!" the ladies' man blurted loudly, his anger quickly rising.

Moving closer, Inez placed a small hand on his forearm, attempting to soothe him. "They are afraid, Buck. They know that Señor Chris and Señor Vin went off to hunt this thing for Judge Travis. Now they come back hurt...no one says what happened...and when people do not know, they say things...maybe true, maybe not...they fear what they do not know."

"Ain't nothin' fer them ta know," Buck spat defensively. "Chris killed th'damned thing."

"Well then, that is good." Inez sat back a little bit, chewing delicately on her lower lip. "Perhaps...if you say something...let them know it is dead...?"

"Yeah, well, Chris killed it and..." he returned, waving one hand dismissively, worried more for the two wounded men ensconced in Nathan's clinic than the rumors floating around the town. But then Buck's eyes glazed over and became unfocused as memories of their gruesome discovery just over two days ago then assaulted him. "... and..."

Inez waited quietly, patiently, as Buck's voice faded, his words choked off as renewed pain flooded his handsome features. She saw the telltale moisture that then filled his soulful eyes, a world of anguish in their startling deep blue depths. Her heart ached for him and she reached to touch him again, her fingers trembling slightly even as his large body shook and he slumped forward, burying his face deep within his hands. A loud groan escaped him and Inez moved even closer, one small hand resting on his arm, the other with her fingers twined amongst the thick curls of hair resting against his neck.

"Buck...?"

"Oh, God...Inez...all that blood," he moaned, unable to control the hard shudders now wracking his tall, muscular frame. "So much blood..." Tears slipped freely between his long fingers but Buck made no attempt to stop them. He couldn't hold them back now if he tried. He wasn't ashamed of the deep feelings he held for all his friends; he wasn't ashamed of caring for them. It was just easier to speak of it-to let them show-with Inez, with someone who understood, someone who knew, when Buck didn't have to pretend anymore.

"Buck...tell me..." she urged softly, her own brown eyes filled with liquid sympathy.

He took a deep breath, words sticking in his throat, visions passing through his mind as the nightmare of two days past replayed itself against the darkness of his closed eyelids.

"I can't...Oh, God..." he whispered in a ragged voice. "How...?"

She stroked him gently, patiently, quietly, letting the soothing touch on his neck speak for her...waiting, letting him know she was there, that he no longer had to be strong and fight. He could let go and be held safe within her arms. Her tenderness touched him deep inside, warmed him somehow, and made it easier to release the flood of anguished words and gruesome images.

"Not sure how it happened...figger that-that thing-must've attacked Vin. Knocked him over a ledge. The boy hit his head pretty hard an' he ain't woke up yet. Nate says the longer he goes without waking up...he ain't sure if there's anything else broke...won't know 'til... if..." He left the sentence unfinished, knowing Inez was a smart woman. She could figure it out for herself.

Buck then took a deep breath, pulled his hands away from his face, shoved aside the tepid beer and then stared sightlessly at a point across the room. One large hand moved to cover the slender fingers adorning his arm, needing to feel her touch, the assurance of warm skin living and breathing beneath his own.

"Reckon Chris found 'im...was tryin' ta go fer help when it happened..." The big man shuddered in remembered horror, faint stirrings of nausea coiling in his gut. "He fought it and managed ta shoot th'damned thing but..." Bile rose upward despite the tightness in his throat, threatening to erupt. "...but not before it nearly tore his arm off..."

A choked sob of anguish then escaped Buck and lifted into the softness of the saloon's smoky air. Small fingers tightened on his neck and arm even as a breathless gasp of horror escaped Inez's full red lips. Her dark eyes widened in disbelief and she pulled him to her, feeling the sobs that shook his large body, pillowing his shaggy head against her shoulder and holding on to him tight. "Dear God, no!" she breathed in silent prayer.

"His arm, Inez...so much blood...everywhere...Oh, God...Chris...!"

He didn't have to say anything more. Buck's actions, his pain and anguish, his grief, spoke louder to her than any words the ladies' man could have used. In return, Inez found she had no words to offer him, no sage wisdom to bring him comfort. Instead, she let her actions speak for her, holding him close and rocking him gently as he cried.

Behind them, unnoticed, Charlie Ferrell sat with a snide smile on his weathered face. An older man, a drifter and a ne'er-do-well, he was lazy to the bone, unable to hold any kind of job for more than a couple of days at a time and then just barely long enough to earn money to buy a waiting bottle of whiskey. In and out of trouble with the law since he was a teenager, he'd so far managed to avoid drawing attention to himself when it came to dealing with the town's seven hired peacekeepers, Charlie's live-and-let-live philosophy serving him well in that respect.

But now, Charlie Ferrell had a job, an easy one and one that he could do well. Watching as the pretty Hispanic woman joined the big regulator at his table, the drifter blended into the shadows and sidled closer to the pair. Settling himself nearby, he peered around the room, his eyes darting furtively, secretly snickering to himself as no one paid him any mind. Shamelessly, he listened in on the private conversation, storing away the words and gestures, the sounds of pain and grief, already counting his well-earned coins and the whiskey they would buy.

Several minutes later, Charlie Ferrell slipped quietly out of the saloon, intent on meeting up with his prestigious new employer. He never saw the pair of speculative cool green eyes that followed his progress or the red-coated gambler who then just as unobtrusively followed him through the door.

---

Chapter 20

The first gray light of dawn was just filtering through the morning sky when the dark silhouettes of several riders appeared on the edge of town. Having ridden straight on through the night, the foursome was tired, hungry and saddle-sore. But not one of them had been inclined to stop, their collective purpose being to reach the quiet town just as quickly as possible for the lives of two men were hanging in the balance.

With a silent wave of his hand, Josiah led them through the back alleys, remembering all too well the last time Chanu was here and the ugly nature of the reception that he had then been given. It wouldn't do to rile the townsfolk up yet again; some of them had mighty long memories and the death of Claire Moseley was still a frequent topic of conversation nearly a full year later. Even though the girl died at the hands of her own father, some still blamed Chanu for running away with her in the first place, for being the catalyst that set in motion the events that led to her untimely and tragic death.

The fact that she was his wife seemed to have gone completely unnoticed, most folks unwilling or simply unable to believe that a good Christian white woman would willingly give herself to a godless Indian heathen. For in spite of the recent influx of new settlers and the harsh lessons taught by the War Between the States, old prejudices died hard and a small town such as this was still apt to hang on to its old ways and long held religious beliefs.

As such, it had been long past dark when Josiah and JD arrived at the reservation, uncertain of their reception, but willing to brave the hard ride and hostile faces if it meant finding help for the injured tracker. They were relieved when Kojay openly welcomed them into the camp. With a quiet smile, he offered them food and water and a place to rest after their long journey. Ever mindful of the proper etiquette, Josiah respectfully declined, then gave a brief explanation for their unannounced arrival. The chief's stoic face filled with concern when he learned the nature of their urgent mission. He sent for Chanu, knowing his son would wish to hear of what had befallen the white man who had previously saved his life.

Chanu was still in mourning for the loss of his wife and unborn child, but his grief did not keep him from quickly gathering his things and retrieving his pony from the herd. Vin Tanner was a friend and a brother and there was never any doubt that he would return to town with them. The three men were ready to ride, heading back out into the shadows of the night, when they were surprised to find a fourth rider waiting for them at the edge of the encampment.

Kojay had simply shrugged and said, "The spirits tell me your healer needs my help."

Josiah's broad grin was the only necessary reply.

Now, leading the small band along the darkened back streets towards the livery, Josiah was exceedingly grateful for the older man's presence. Nathan was already exhausted and badly in need of rest. Kojay's presence would give Sanchez some much needed leverage to ensure that the healer did just that. Otherwise, with Chris and Vin both so badly injured, it would take a stick of dynamite to pry Nathan loose from his appointed chair beside their sick beds.

"Hold up here," Josiah called out softly, signaling for the men to stop and then dismount. "JD, take care of the horses and then go get some rest. Tell Yosemite to keep these Indian ponies out of sight. No sense stirring up trouble." Beside him, Kojay and Chanu remained silent, their eyes and faces dark and unreadable in the shadows. Knowing JD would do as he'd been told, Josiah then motioned for the others to follow him, leading the two men to the stairs that were tucked along the side of the big barn. Their footsteps were nearly silent as they followed him up the steps.

Sanchez knocked quietly on Nathan's door, listening intently even as his eyes scanned the sleepy streets below for signs of early morning life. He knocked again when Nathan didn't answer. Easing the door open then, he stuck his head inside, not surprised to find the healer sitting slumped over in a chair situated directly between the two occupied beds. A tray of half-eaten food from the night before sat on the small table beside the stove.

Signaling for Kojay and Chanu to enter, Josiah slipped inside the room and softly closed the door. He walked over to where Nathan sat and laid a gentle hand on the other man's shoulder. "Nathan?" he called quietly, trying not to startle the slumbering healer. "Nate?"

Even so, Nathan jerked upright in his seat. His eyes were wide and glazed. He glanced around him with a touch of panic, suddenly all too aware that he'd fallen asleep at his self-appointed post. He took a deep shuddering breath, ran both hands over his face, only then looking up to find Josiah standing above him. He gave the other man a small smile of greeting even as his broad shoulders slumped again with heavy fatigue.

"You been here all night?" Josiah asked with true concern in his gravelly voice.

But the healer shook his head, his thoughts sluggish and his expression dazed. "Naw, Buck come an' gimme a break fer an hour 'r so but Vin woke up hollerin' again. Didn't dare leave 'im after that." He ran one hand across the back of his neck, glancing left and then right, then seemed to gather himself to stand.

"Why don't you go lie down, Brother?" the big man offered. "I think between the three of us, we can handle it for a while."

It was only then that Nathan looked past Josiah and noticed the two other men now occupying the room. Sighing with recognition, he found a smile of welcome for them as well, his love for Rain and his own history giving him a special connection to these men who shared a similar background too. Despite his exhaustion, he forced himself to his feet and nodded a greeting in their direction.

"Kojay...Chanu...thanks fer comin'."

Kojay stepped forward. His ancient eyes steadily appraised the healer's tall frame and the lines of his dark face. "You are tired," he stated bluntly. "You should rest."

"Did Josiah tell ya what happened?" Nathan queried. He knew he needed sleep but was reluctant to leave his patients. He wanted to be here in case Vin woke up yelling once again. "They're both busted up pretty bad but I need yer help with Vin. It don't seem like he can hear me an' I was hopin' ya might be able ta do some 'o that hand talkin' to him. Try ta get 'im ta calm down."

Neither Kojay nor Chanu answered. Instead, the younger man drifted back into the shadows of the room, his steps silent, and watched with dark eyes as his father moved to stand beside the tracker's cot. Then just as silently, Kojay moved to stand at the foot of Chris's bed. Puzzled, Nathan glanced at Josiah, a question in his deep brown eyes.

Finally, Kojay spoke.

"Much evil has been at work here. The spirits will need to be banished. We must cleanse this room...and your friends...of their foul breath." The black eyes lifted, seeming to almost glow in the yellow light of the kerosene lamp. "We have much work to do."

"But I need ta..." Nathan protested, then Josiah's firm hand was on his shoulder, easily steering him towards the door.

"It'll be all right, Nathan. They're in good hands," Josiah counseled. "Besides being chief, Kojay's also a mighty powerful medicine man. You just head on over to my room at the church. I'll send for you if needs be."

Before Nathan could even utter another word, he somehow found himself outside his own room, staring at the closed wooden door. He stood there, stunned, unable to think or even draw a breath. He didn't quite know what to do, his exhausted mind unable to fathom this sudden confusing turn of events. An inner voice argued vehemently that he should open that door and go back inside, that Chris and Vin needed him. That he should shove his way in there and demand that the others listen to him, follow his instructions, his advice.

That he be allowed to stay because the two wounded men might die without him.

But even as Nathan reached for the door, his vision blurred and a wave of dizziness assaulted him. He swayed, then leaned heavily against the doorframe, closing his eyes and drawing in gulps of air, waiting for the nausea and weakness to pass. His hands trembled uncontrollably. Damn. He didn't need this. Not now. Not when lives were depending on him. Not when he was needed.

But Nathan also knew Kojay and Josiah were right. He needed to rest, needed to sleep, get some food into his weary body. The last few nights were wearing on him and if he didn't do something about it, he was going to wind up flat on his back on a cot right beside Chris and Vin. And damn, that didn't even bear thinking about.

With a deep sigh, Nathan finally lifted his head and pushed away from the door. His steps were heavy as he descended the stairs, his solitary figure making its way across the street and up the church steps even as the first of the watch fires were extinguished with the approach of early dawn.

Just inside the door of Nathan's room, Josiah listened to the heavy tread on the stairs. He knew how hard it was for Nathan to leave, but there really was no other choice. The healer was exhausted, about dead on his feet. He'd be no good to Chris or Vin unless he got some rest. For now, Kojay was here and Josiah was confident that his friends were in good hands.

Turning, he watched as Chanu spread his bedroll in one corner of the room while Kojay dug through the supplies that he'd brought with him. One shaggy eyebrow lifted in surprise. Josiah hadn't stopped to think about where the two men might stay but certainly keeping them out of sight in Nathan's room wasn't entirely a bad idea. It just might be safer too, for them as well as for the town.

A moment later, Josiah looked on curiously as Chanu rose to his feet and glided almost silently across the room. So far, the young man had spoken nary a word. Kneeling beside the cot, Chanu placed a hand on his friend's forehead and then moved it over the tracker's heart. The words he spoke were hushed and in a tongue that Josiah didn't understand. The gestures, however, were all too visibly eloquent.

Chanu lifted the medicine bag from around his neck and placed it on Vin's chest. Josiah watched silently as the brave then opened the hide pouch and extracted a piece of rolled cloth and a small black nutshell. Nimble, brown fingers opened the weathered material to reveal twigs of sage and other dried plants that Josiah couldn't recognize. Those same fingers then crushed the brittle leaves and sprinkled them in a circle around the bed. Still kneeling, Chanu began to chant, his voice soft and low, soothing in its rhythm. He picked up the shell and dipped one finger inside. His hand hovered over the tracker's face for a moment, then he used the red paint to draw symbols upon the pale, silent features.

Josiah had to turn away. His presence was intruding upon a private moment. Chanu was offering Vin some of his medicine, some of his own power, to help his friend find his way back. The voice continued to chant, providing strength and courage, calling to one who was lost. It was a powerful message meant for Vin's ears alone.

Across the room, Kojay was still sorting through bowls and earthen jars, larger twigs of sage and mesquite laid out across the table. Josiah eyed the strange assortment, a frown upon his face.

"What can I do to help?" he offered quietly, knowing the medicine man was preparing for his rituals.

The dark head lifted, the ancient eyes full of wisdom and understanding, even as the gnarled hands continued with their task. "The evil spirits must be cleansed," Kojay reiterated. He glanced across the room at Chanu's bowed head, then returned his gaze to Josiah. A half smile lit his face.

"Take off your clothes."

7777777

Arnold Davies was livid. Staring at his reflection in the floor length cheval mirror, not even straightening his dark green bow tie or smoothing his ruffled shirt front could hide the anger on his face or the florid color of his weathered complexion. The little ferret he'd hired to act as his eyes and ears around town had finally returned late the night before with some useful information.

No, he corrected himself mentally. Some *barely* useful information. A snide grimace quirked his mouth in remembrance.

Chris Larabee was injured. Davies already knew that much. But now, that slimy little weasel, Ferrell, had said he'd heard the gunman had hurt his arm. Actually, he'd said that the man's arm had nearly been ripped off by whatever *thing* that was that Travis had sent him out to kill. The Santa Fe lawyer had immediately demanded to know which arm, and Ferrell, the drunken idiot, his wide lips practically drooling at the coins dangling before his eyes, had been too stupid to wait to find that out.

Davies gave him two bits for the nearly worthless information and then literally kicked him out the door. After that, his night had been long and restless, serious doubts and unanswered questions plaguing Arnold as he mulled over this most recent setback.

Damn Orrin Travis anyways for interfering with his plans.

So, Larabee was hurt. A gunman with an injured arm...but which arm? His gun arm perhaps? Or maybe the other one? Was Larabee right-handed or left? Or could he shoot equally well with both? Davies was forced to admit he didn't know and actually, it made a hell of a lot of difference. Because if Larabee's gun arm was no good, if he couldn't use it, then the man was useless to him, useless to anybody, and not even worth the air it took for him to breathe.

And in fact, now that Davies really thought on it, without his gun arm, a man like Larabee would be better off left for dead. He'd wind up that way soon enough anyhow if he wasn't able to defend his reputation. Some smartass kid with a death wish would wander in to town, intent on making a name for himself, and *that* as they say, would then be that.

So long, Chris Larabee. Buried six feet down under a pile of rocks and dirt, just another nameless, faceless corpse beneath a crudely-made wooden cross not even big enough to bear his name, let alone a scratched-on date.

Pitiful really.

But Davies also knew he wasn't ready to give up just yet. He'd worked too long and too hard, planned too carefully to let this set him back. He'd come to this Godforsaken little town to fetch Chris Larabee and by God, he'd do just that, come hell or high water. He was determined to learn the truth, to find out the extent of Larabee's injuries, to see if the man was still worth his time, effort and money. And no pretend 'darkie doctor' or threats by a big bear of an ex-preacher were going to stop him from finding out exactly what he needed to know. No one would interfere with his plans.

Determination goaded his steps as Davies left the hotel and headed up the street. He ignored the usual morning traffic, the layer of dust and the smell of sweat and manure. Quickly finding himself at the base of the flight of stairs leading up to Nathan Jackson's quarters, he didn't hesitate as he grasped the rail, his portly frame literally bounding upwards. He knocked heavily on the door, then without pausing, grasped the knob and simply shoved the portal open. Davies swept inside, his steps suddenly faltering, his mouth dropping open in shock at the sight that greeted his eyes.

TBC.....cuz that's all for now....

Josiah's head was literally buzzing, the stifling heat of the room and the scent of sage, tobacco, yellow seed pollen and other desert plants combining to send him on a dizzying journey. The room was too hot, too stuffy, too close, and sweat layered his naked skin like a second woolen blanket. Blinking against the sting of salty tears, he glanced at his companions, amazed as always by their stoic expressions, the serenity that surrounded them, the pair of quiet voices raised in collective chant.

Kojay and Chanu, the old medicine man and his son, sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, ensconced between the two beds, their bronzed skin glistening wetly, caressed by the yellow softness of the light from a nearby lamp. Muted words ebbed and flowed around them, a sing-song litany of sounds and syllables foreign to Josiah's ears. Even so, they still possessed the power to deeply touch his soul. For Kojay and Chanu offered up the same pleas and prayers that filled Josiah's every thought, just in their own way, in their own time, in their own tongue...and the heat was overwhelming.

Josiah needed a break.

Gathering himself, he rose stiffly to his feet, stretching the length of his big muscular body and grimacing at the distinct crack of bone and muscle deep within his lower back. One hand on his hip, he groaned, soft and low, paying the price for sitting too long, riding too hard, getting too old. He shook his head then and grinned in self-mockery, strands of curling gray hair plastered wetly against his skull.

A glance toward the fire burning brightly in the black cast-iron stove, then Josiah moved further away from the oppressive heat. He sensed Kojay's quiet regard, knew the other man was watching him through dark eyes, could feel his gentle inquiry. He offered an apologetic smile, inhaled deeply and released a cleansing breath. Gathering up a towel, Josiah then wiped away the sweat dripping from his skin. He retrieved his clothes from a nearby chair and dressed as quietly as possible.

Longjohns and pants securely in place, the big man was just slipping into his shirt when a hard knock at the door surprised him. Before he could even answer the summons, the knob turned and the door swung sharply inwards. Josiah blinked against the sudden burst of yellow sunlight and the rush of fresh warm air. One hand lifted to protect his eyes as he squinted at the outline of a large bulky figure now filling the open doorway.

"What in the hell is going on here?"

Arnold Davies stopped dead in his tracks, shocked to no end by the sight that greeted him. He stared, his voice silenced, words quickly failing him following his initial outburst.

Two almost completely naked savages sat in the middle of the room, a room that was filled with the unholy smell of something burning, something unclean, something dirty. In front of him and to his left, Sanchez was only half-dressed, swaying, obviously drunk, not even worth his notice. And just past the man's broad shoulder, he spied the prone forms of the two wounded peacekeepers who'd been sent out on Travis' foolish errand.

The injured men were stretched out on top of cotton bed sheets, unmoving, barely even breathing, making Arnold question whether they were even still alive. The first man, Larabee, lay silent as death upon the bed, nearly the entire right side of his upper body and arm encased in layers of soft white muslin. The other, the one Davies knew to be Tanner, the tracker, lay on a small cot against the wall. Red paint marks and symbols streaked his face and arms and some sort of leather bag was perched upon his chest. A band of thick white cloth encircled his head and strands of long auburn hair stuck out at peculiar angles. But other than the bandages, a small towel across their privates was the only covering that they were given. The entire room reeked of stale sweat, urine and unwashed bodies, of rot and sickness, the heat from the stove, the stench of human filth.

Davies was outraged, his not inconsiderable temper letting loose as hot, angry words poured forth in a caustic flood.

"Get these filthy savages out of here!" he screamed, pointing a trembling finger in the direction of Kojay and his son. "And where is that big darkie, the one who claims to be a doctor? Why isn't he here? How dare he leave this man without proper care?"

Despite the buzz going on inside his head, Josiah clearly heard every word that Davies issued, a confused frown creasing his forehead when his thoughts finally caught up to the singular use of the word "man" instead of "men." He slipped sideways, sliding one arm further into his shirt, continuing to dress as a breathless Arnold Davies pushed his way deeper into the room.

"I want this place cleaned and these two Godless heathens out of here...now!" Davies grabbed the blanket that rested at the foot of the small cot and carelessly pitched it on top of Vin's prone body. It landed on the tracker's chest, dislodging the small leather pouch that quietly rested there. "Open a window and for God's sake, cover these men up. It's indecent to have them lying here naked!"

Kojay and Chanu remained silent but their eyes followed every move the portly stranger made. The sharp flip of the man's arm, the toss of the blanket and where it landed, and then Chanu rose quickly to his feet, his father more slowly and gracefully beside him. One hand caught the medicine bag as it tumbled sideways from its intended place of honor. Chanu's dark eyes narrowed menacingly, a slight 'curl' of his lips giving an indication of a growing snarl; the angular lines of his bronzed face filled with the first hint of dawning anger. A gentle hand on his forearm, however, quietly cautioned restraint and he silently nodded his head, bowing to his father's request.

"Well, what the hell are you just standing there for?" Davies hurled in Josiah's direction. "Go find what's-his-name? Jackson? I want him in here now."

Josiah slowly rotated his broad shoulders, slipping more fully into his shirt, and shared a private look with Chanu and Kojay. "Nathan's resting," he answered quietly, his pale blue eyes thoughtful and measuring. "He had a long night taking care of these two." Josiah then slanted his graying head toward the chief. "Kojay here is a powerful medicine man, chief of his tribe. He and Chanu came to help."

Davies whirled around, his features florid, pinning Josiah with a baleful glare as one knobby finger stabbed in Kojay's direction. "I don't care if he's the chief of the entire Indian Nation. They're savages and they're filthy. Get them out of here...now!"

A low angry snarl followed by a stream of unintelligible words from Chanu had Davies' head spinning in his direction. "What did he say?" The portly man was literally quivering with righteous indignation.

Realizing the situation was fast becoming tense, Josiah stood silent for a moment, pensive, his face calm as he slowly straightened his body to stand tall while his hands worked the buttons on his shirt. His gaze drifted to Kojay, then over to Chanu, took in Davies' outraged posturing, then drifted back to the proud features of the Indian chief. A sparkle of hidden mischief then filled the ex-preacher's eyes and the side of his mouth quirked upward in a tiny grin.

One hand reached up to tug his ear before Sanchez finally replied, "Well now, I've spent many long years working among the People, preaching to them, trying my best to teach them our ways, our religion...help civilize them so to speak." He shook his head sadly. "Tried my best to understand them and their ways too." His big shoulders moved up and down as if to tender an apology and then he sighed. "Lord knows I've tried, but I can't say as I ever rightly understood their language."

He watched as Davies' face turned a deeper shade of red, if that was humanly possible, working his way up to another head of steam that would surely further aggravate the situation. Josiah moved to cut him off.

"Best I can tell," the big man offered, appearing contrite yet knowing Kojay and Chanu clearly understood every word he spoke, "...the boy said something about burning tongues and being hungry." He then scratched his head thoughtfully, lips pursed while he peered intently at the lawyer. "Any idea what that could mean?"

He watched as Davies' face blanched, but only for a moment, before his color returned in full blazing force. Sanchez did his best to hide his mirth, his eyes sliding sideways, amazed as always by the calm, stoic expressions of his two silent companions. The Santa Fe lawyer began to stammer and splutter, his words incoherent, his breathing rapid, his pudgy frame quivering. Only his outrage, anger and no small degree of fear came through with any degree of comprehension.

Then, his own dark eyes sparkling merrily, Kojay muttered something soft and low, made a savage cutting motion in front of his mouth, his hands fluttering in the air for a moment before he shared a knowing look with his son. Davies, now somewhat frightened for his life, took a quick step backwards.

The man was at a loss. The situation was out of his control and suddenly, everything he had worked so hard to achieve was in danger of falling apart. The acquisition of Chris Larabee, his political career, his aspirations of being governor, all his carefully laid plans and concocted schemes, his considerable fortune, his very future. Arnold didn't know what to do. Being on the losing end was an entirely new experience for him. But being a coward and a conniver at heart, he fell back on tried and true strategies that he knew worked best.

He bluffed.

"This is completely intolerable." He turned and pointed at Chris Larabee's prone and silent form. "I want this man dressed and ready to ride in an hour. It is obvious that Mr. Larabee cannot receive proper medical care in this environment, and I, in all good conscience, cannot leave him in this condition and still consider myself a friend to Orrin Travis."

The fact that Vin Tanner was also injured, and completely ignored, did not go unnoticed by the others. Josiah scratched his chin, fingering the stubby bristles there, confused by this turn of events. A deep frown etched its way onto his face and aged his weathered features. The silent exchange between Chanu and Kojay did not escape his notice.

"Well, now," he drawled softly, thinking hard, "that's gonna be kinda difficult to do."

"And why is that?" Davies demanded, fairly bristling, much like a resentful porcupine.

"Man's gotta be conscious in order to sit a horse," Josiah advised, now leaning his big muscled body back against the door and crossing his arms upon his chest. "Chris is hurt. He ain't woke up yet." Something about this whole thing was now setting off alarm bells inside Josiah's head. A feeling of unease skittered up his spine wondering what was behind this sudden concern for the gunslinger's welfare. Davies might be a friend of Judge Travis but what did any of that have to do with Chris?

"Then I will hire a wagon," Davies pronounced with more confidence than he actually felt. "Regardless, I want him ready in an hour."

Dead stillness greeted his demand.

No one moved.

Then Josiah shifted, easing forward into the room, his actions quiet and slow, gentle, non-threatening, deceptive. He dipped his head, one thumb rubbing pensively across his bottom lip, the gray line of his brow drawing downward like a gathering of giant storm clouds. He deepened his voice, then spoke calmly, close to Davies' ear, as if taking him in his confidence.

"You try to take Chris Larabee outta here," he rumbled softly, "and burning tongues won't be the only meal these here boys will be enjoying."

Silence.

Then finally, Davies drew a stunned breath, tiny noises of protest squeaking out between the fishlike gaping of his mouth. His shocked gaze flew from Josiah's weathered visage to the mask-like countenance of bronzed faces across the room. Back to the giant grizzly of a man and then again to the heathen savages who stood sentinel between Davies and his prize. A heft of the younger one's hand, a small flash of metal, the stuttering of his frantic heartbeat, and then the Santa Fe lawyer was beating a hasty retreat, his wide quivering form all but tumbling through the open doorway.

Behind him, Josiah, quiet and unmoving save for the thumb still stroking his lip, quirked an eyebrow in Chanu's direction. His pale eyes gleamed merrily at the sight of a silver knife that had somehow found its way into the young brave's hand. Tanned fingers held a determined grip on an elk bone handle worn smooth from years of use.

Chuckling softly, a wide grin split Josiah's face and his laughter was contagious.

"Guess he didn't feel like sticking around for breakfast."

---

Nathan awoke feeling more rested but his constant worry over his two seriously injured patients had not abated in the least. Taking a quick moment to clean himself up, he then hurried over to the boarding house for a bite to eat before rushing back to his small clinic above the stables. His hands filled with fresh supplies and bandages, he opened the door and entered just as Josiah was lifting the sash on the window across the room. A crisp, warm breeze swept through the open doorway, carrying with it the tangy aroma of tobacco, sage, sweat and human urine. Nathan's nose twitched at the familiar scents.

Fully dressed now, as were Kojay and Chanu, Josiah turned, a smile of greeting lighting his tired features, his relief at seeing Nathan evident in the slump of his broad shoulders.

"Welcome back, brother," he greeted solemnly, then moved to assist the healer with his burden. "I trust you rested well?"

Nathan dipped his head but avoided answering Josiah directly. Instead, he set down his supplies and turned, letting his worried gaze roam over the silent forms of the two badly injured men. "How're they doin'?" he inquired as Kojay wiped a damp cloth over the pale skin of Larabee's brow. On the floor beside Vin's cot, Chanu sat with legs folded, his head bowed, hands on his knees, his eyes and face dark and inscrutable. "Either one of 'em woke up yet?"

"No," Josiah sighed in obvious disappointment, "but Kojay's had some success finally getting some water into Chris and..." He held up a set of soiled sheets, a slight grin lifting the corner of his mouth. "Vin had a little accident."

Nathan's relief was short-lived, a frown wrinkling his forehead, as he took in the off-pink color staining the formerly white cloth. "Looks like he's passin' some blood." He moved to the tracker's bedside, stepping carefully around Chanu, and rested one hand on Vin's forehead. "No fever," he said in a satisfied voice, nodding grimly to himself. His hands then briefly ran over the remainder of the slender body, paying careful attention to the flank areas as he gently poked and prodded. "Not too surprisin', I guess, given how he landed," the healer announced. "Gonna have ta keep an eye on that, make sure it don't get no worse. What about Chris?" he asked, turning his attention to Kojay.

Ancient eyes in a wizened face turned at Nathan's inquiry. "He has taken water...but that is all." Turning back to the bed, Kojay continued to stroke the cloth over Larabee's jaw and mouth even as his other hand fingered the soiled bandages covering the gunman's arm and chest. "There is still much evil here. This must be cleaned again."

Nathan walked over to the other bed, thankful for the medicine man's presence, grateful beyond words for the help so freely offered. His hand reached out to touch the injured blond's cheek and he frowned at the cold and clammy texture of Chris's skin. "Yeah," the healer agreed, "Gotta change them bandages but if we don't get more water into 'im..." He turned away, frowning again, leaving the thought unfinished.

Rummaging around inside his medicine cabinet and among the various jars lined along the shelves on the wall, Nathan found the salves he wanted to use and then set about gathering the rest of his supplies. Josiah quickly supplied a large bowl of hot water for washing and the pungent smell of brewing coffee filled the room not long afterwards. Everything was nearly ready when Nathan remembered an idea that had struck him the night before as he fell into an exhausted sleep. Turning, he went to the wooden chest in the far corner of the room and extracted a threadbare patchwork quilt. It had been a gift from a former patient but up until today, the healer had no use for it.

"Josiah," he called out, "Find some rope and hang this 'cross the room."

The big man caught the cloth as Nathan tossed it to him, a quizzical expression creasing his weathered features. "What for?"

"Gonna see if that'll help keep Vin calmed down next time he wakes up."

Josiah raised one eyebrow at him, clearly not understanding. Nate turned to see that he had Kojay and Chanu's attention as well.

"Figger he keeps gettin' upset when he sees Chris, so if he cain't see Chris..." Nathan shrugged his shoulders as if that was all the explanation needed. In truth, he wasn't so sure it would work himself, but reckoned it was at least worth a try. Anything to keep Vin quiet so that they could try talking to him when next he woke.

"You sure that's wise?" Josiah asked, doubt evident in the gruff tone of his voice.

All of them knew there was a special bond between Chris and Vin, one that transcended the customary barriers of friendship and brothers-in-arms, almost from the moment that they had met. Buck loved to tease them about it while Josiah, given his philosophical nature, simply accepted their silent connection as the communion of two hearts and minds, one soul. Granted, that bond had been stretched to the breaking point lately, what with all that had passed since Ella Gaines rode into town, but to place something between them, a physical barrier now...when both men were badly injured...

"Wise? Pro'bly not," Nathan admitted with a shake of his dark head. "But it's the only thing I could think of ta keep Vin calmed down long 'nough fer me ta talk to 'im." Picking up his supplies, the healer moved to Chris's bedside, setting most of his things on the small table beside it and the overflow on the floor. "I reckon it's at least worth a try," he offered before turning his attention to the injured gunslinger. Older hands reached over to assist Nathan as he removed the layers of bandages swathing Chris's arm and chest.

The small clinic then fell silent, the outside noises of the daily commerce and life of their tiny town falling away beneath concentrated efforts. Kojay and Nathan focused on their work on one side while Josiah and Chanu erected the small barrier between the pair of sickbeds. Josiah then poured himself a cup of coffee and sipped the hot fragrant liquid before settling back in a chair with his head resting against the wall. His eyes slipped closed and he dozed lightly, resting some, waiting to be ready at Nathan's beck and call. Chanu resumed his seat on the floor beside Tanner's bed and at some point, he began chanting softly once again.

The sun rose overhead and light shifted, shadows turning and twisting within the room, the passage of time unnoticed by the men inside. Nathan and Kojay were nearly done with their ministrations to Chris's injuries when the silence penetrated their awareness.

Chanu had stopped chanting.

"He is awake."

Lifting his head, Nathan ignored the aching muscles in his back and grabbed up a cloth with which to wipe his hands. Standing, he made his way around the bed and ducked beneath the hanging curtain. Tapping Josiah's shoulder as he passed, he woke the big man and indicated with a wave of his arm for the ex-preacher to help Kojay finish up with Chris. The healer's dark eyes then lit with pleasure at seeing Vin awake and apparently in a much calmer state of mind. Perhaps his plan had worked after all. He moved closer cautiously, quietly, slowly, so as not to startle the wounded man.

Chanu still sat on the floor, his attention fixed on the tracker's face, one hand resting on the injured man's arm. Blue eyes, slightly glazed and unfocused, stared back at him, a slight frown of confusion creating tiny lines along the bridge of Vin's slender nose. Those same blue eyes then slowly lifted to fix Nathan with a silent, solemn gaze.

"Chanu," Nathan whispered softly, "it's real important ta keep Vin quiet. Don't do nothin' ta upset 'im, okay?"

The dark head gave a quick nod, then the young brave rose gracefully from the floor. He perched himself on the side of Vin's bed, close enough to touch but no longer touching, watching intently as Nathan came to stand by his side.

"Vin?" The healer raised his voice just slightly. "Vin, can ya hear me?"

There was no response from the injured man, just a slow blink and then the switching of that fathomless gaze from one man to the other.

"See if you can talk ta him? Ask him if'n he knows who we are?"

Dark bronze hands moved effortlessly into the air, fingers dancing quietly, a gentle sign of greeting. For long moments, Vin simply stared, then finally his hands raised and silently, slowly, returned the gesture. The solemn mask of Chanu's face finally cracked and he smiled. Nathan grinned as well, a deep sigh of relief escaping him and loosening the knot of fear inside his chest. It seemed that Vin understood. Perhaps they were on the right track after all.

"Okay," he continued, "Tell him stay quiet. I got some questions an' he needs ta be still."

Nathan waited while Chanu's hands and arms spoke for him, then asked, "Is he hurtin'?"

A pause, then, "A little," replied the brave's quiet voice.

"Can he hear my voice?"

The brief question was translated, the answer short and succinct.

"No."

"Does he hear anythin' at all?"

Dazed blue eyes remained fixed on the movement of Chanu's hands and fingers like a welcome lifeline. Since awakening to find his Indian friend sitting beside him, Vin had no answers for the confusion that rioted through his brain. Thought was difficult, words and understanding seeming to come to him from a great distance away. His replies to Chanu were slow, a struggle for him given his weakened and befuddled state. The slight frown deepened as he concentrated on his answers, wondering where he was and how he got there. His arms and hands felt heavy and fatigued, his body not his own, and the back of his head throbbed like the pounding of a tribal drum.

"There is much wind inside his head, like a great storm across the mountain."

"I'm not surprised," Nathan mumbled, as much to himself as to Chanu, "given the bad knock he took to the back of his head."

Vin's eyes then sharpened slightly and he gestured again, fighting against the soreness pervading his body, the ache of badly bruised bone and muscle. His fine-boned hands moved quicker now, stronger, a slight look of panic shadowing his handsome face.

"He asks why?" Chanu translated.

"Why what?" Nathan queried, then saw Chanu gesture towards his own ears. "Does he remember what happened?"

The question was silently repeated and the healer watched as Vin's gaze deepened, settled, seemed to turn inward, seeking answers. Arms and hands moved with effort, hesitating, searching, the line of the tracker's lips pressed tightly together as he worked to find the memories of where he'd been, what he'd done, what had happened to him.

"Hunting...he was hunting..."

"Yeah, him an' Chris rode out for the judge..."

Chanu interpreted only to receive a shake of Vin's head.

"No, alone...he hunted alone..."

"Where was...?" but Nathan stopped short, not wanting to risk upsetting the injured man by mentioning Larabee's name just yet.

"An old man...many dead sheep...a place where water feeds the desert..."

"That sounds like near where we found him," came Josiah's quiet voice, his hands full of a basin of bloody water as he crossed the room towards the stove. Setting it down, he wiped his hands dry and then retrieved a mug of water, ducking back underneath the makeshift curtain. Kojay was just finishing the last of Chris's bandages and together, they were going to try and get some liquid into the injured gunman.

"There was something behind him...growling...big...like a bear...in the bushes." Chanu waited as Vin's hands fluttered to a halt, a look of consternation drawing the tracker's brows close together. "It attacked...and then nothing."

Blue eyes lifted to stare quizzically at Nathan's face, then back at the tanned features of his Indian brother, waiting, expectant.

"He got knocked down and hit his head," Nathan supplied, nodding his approval as Chanu relayed this to Vin. "Reckon he's got a pretty bad concussion. That's why he can't hear but give 'im a few days an' he's gonna be right as rain." Or at least, Nathan surely hoped so. The fact that Vin was awake and able to communicate with them went a long way towards relieving the healer's unspoken fears.

One dark hand reached out and gently patted Vin's arm, offering comfort and strength, assurance, then moved upward to check for signs of fever. Satisfied when he found none, a wide grin split the corners of Nathan's mouth, lighting up his face with open relief. He moved away to prepare some tea, hoping Vin would stay awake long enough this time to take some broth as well.

Behind him, knowing Vin probably had more questions, Nathan felt rather than heard movement and wasn't surprised when Chanu spoke yet again. "He worries...this animal attacked him...killed many sheep...it is dangerous. More men must be sent to hunt it. It is sick."

Something about those words caused a painful lurch of fear in Nathan's heart, tumbling a sick feeling deep into his gut. He turned quickly, spilling the hot tea, the smile falling away from his lips. The healer stepped closer to the bed, his eyes flicking sideways, fearful, towards the temporary partition, knowing Josiah and Kojay could hear as well.

"What'd'ya mean sick? Sick how?"

"To attack a man...kill sheep without eating...this serves no purpose. It is not right." Chanu turned to look at Nathan. "I do not know the white man's word for this sickness but it is a sickness here." He pointed to his head. "In the mind..."

"Rabies..." Nathan breathed fearfully, having kept that dark thought at the back of his mind for many days since he'd seen the carcass of the beast that Chris had managed to kill. But not before... "Oh, my God!"

"He says...it did not bite him but we must hunt it down...kill it quickly."

"Too late for that," Josiah intoned, his voice deep with resignation as he gently swept the quilted partition aside. Kojay sat in a chair on the opposite side of the injured gunman's bed, his ancient face lined with fatigue and sadness as he cleaned up bandages and salve from the small table beside it. Vin's eyes turned towards him at the movement, widening with fear as they unerringly found the still figure on the other side of the room.

"Chris already killed it...but not before it got him first."

---

Ezra's green eyes sparkled with mischief, his smug grin more than a bit self-satisfied as he watched Charlie Farrell scuttle out of town aboard an ancient relic of a pack mule. It was amazing really what the hint of a little physical violence and the use of verbal intimidation could accomplish in the hands of someone who was properly motivated.

Properly motivated. Yes, undeniably he was. Funny thought that, Ezra decided, coming from a man who just a few days ago was contemplating leaving this tiresome little hamlet in search of more lucrative ventures. Well motivated indeed, for it seemed as if his oftentimes questionable loyalties had yet again been made to suffer an abrupt turn of conscience.

But then perhaps, the gambler silently pondered, he was simply not as fickle as he had always led himself to believe. Or at least then, not as deceitful as Maude had raised and tutored him to be. Certainly the turn of events surrounding his attempt to abscond with the ten thousand dollars of blood money paid by Clayton Hopewell had shaken certain core beliefs that Ezra held about himself. And how could he explain the funds he had freely given to Li-Pong to assist her in returning to her family? And then there were the circumstances of his timely arrival in liberating his comrades in the fight back at the tiny Indian village.

Ezra sighed, deciding that perchance, he simply wasn't that so-called third kind after all.

Of course, he supposed he could be forgiven for his larcenous attempts to finagle a plot of land out of that widowed homesteader. After all, a medical clinic would have been highly beneficial to the local citizenry, not to mention a financial boon for himself as well as Nathan. The wealth of gold on that land was just lying there for the taking. He would have made good use of it. Too bad Nathan couldn't have been persuaded to see it that way as well.

A quiet laugh then escaped his lips as Standish shook his head. At what point had these men, his so-called friends, become so much more important to him than the promise of easy gold? He could well imagine Maude's disgust over this latest discovery of yet another tragic flaw in her beloved son's previously questionable character. But then again, Maude's approval was not something he'd been completely privileged to ever have.

Not unless she needed him to run a con and even then...

Ezra gave himself a mental shake, dispelling his errant thoughts and giving one last look towards the fleeing human parasite before tucking the loose coins he held back into the pocket of his coat. The money he'd offered as payment for information had been merely an inducement to loosen the vermin's tongue. Oh, Ezra had no doubt that he would have parted with more than a few coins if absolutely necessary but there had been no small amount of enjoyment, as well as an almost perverse sense of satisfaction, in literally scaring the man to within an inch of his very life. The glare that he'd employed would have done Chris Larabee proud.

Ezra chuckled privately at that. Good Lord, he was becoming a ruffian!

Amused and yet also resigned to the corruptive influence of his current compatriots, the gambler decided that it was time he shared the knowledge that he had gleaned from his conversations with Farrell and earlier with Davies. There was more going on here than met the eye and it seemed as if the very existence of their merry little band of seven was once more being placed at risk. Somehow, this time though, Ezra was determined not to let that happen, not when it was within his power to possibly alter the outcome.

And why he should possibly want to left the gambler laughing at himself just that much more.

It didn't take Ezra long to find Buck and JD. The two men were on the porch in front of the sheriff's office, Buck seated in a wooden chair with his long legs propped up on top of the railing and JD sitting beside him on a stack of crates that left him swinging his feet freely in the air. The dark-headed ladies' man was engrossed in reading the daily edition of The Clarion while JD was playing a game of toss with a small leather bag of marbles. Nodding politely to a couple of townsfolk, Ezra approached his friends and stepped up onto the porch with a firm word of greeting.

"Good day, Mr. Wilmington, Mr. Dunne." He touched the brim of his hat.

"Ezra," JD replied while Buck acknowledged him with a brief dip of his head.

The gambler turned and narrowed his eyes against the sun's bright glare, his sharp gaze roaming the dusty street. His words were intended solely for the two men beside him and not for any errant pair of listening ears that happened to be wandering by. Privacy was a necessary commodity.

"Gentlemen, I have come into possession of some information that I believe may be vital to us all, especially as it relates to the health and safety of our wounded comrades, and it would be prudent if we convened to a more confidential and secure location in order to effectively conduct our affairs."

JD frowned, nearly dropping the bag of marbles as he attempted to weed his way through the wealth of five-dollar words inhabiting Ezra's vocabulary. "Conduct our what?"

Buck slowly lowered the newspaper, crumpling it in his hands as his chin lifted. His blue eyes turned pensively towards the gambler. The look on Ezra's face told him that the other man was serious. Buck's curiosity was piqued even as the skin prickled in warning along the back of his neck. "He means we need to talk, JD...in private."

"Indeed."

Heaving a quiet sigh, Buck eased his legs down and rose slowly to his feet. He gently folded the newspaper and left it sitting in the chair. A quick glance up and down the street, then he tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and turned to amble inside the office. JD hopped down and followed him with Ezra bringing up the rear. The gambler quietly closed the door behind them, taking one more peek out into the street before lowering the shade across the glass. Buck settled on the edge of the desk, leaning with one arm folded across his thigh, while JD slipped into the chair behind it. Both men watched as Ezra checked out the cells, only satisfied once he'd ascertained that they were empty.

"What's up, Ezra?"

Ezra walked back across the room, coming to stand next to the window, surreptitiously peeking through the glass with one eye and then towards his companions with the other.

"It would seem, gentlemen, that the Honorable Arnold Davies, Esquire and Attorney-At-Law, has come to our fair municipality under less than honorable circumstances."

"Aw, hell, Ezra," Buck complained. "He's a lawyer. That means he's a shyster and a snake. You oughta know that." The veiled reference to Ezra's brief impersonation of a lawyer in order to gain information from a prisoner was met with a genuine smile.

"Be that as it may," the gambler continued, "Mr. Davies apparently hired an informant to keep him apprised of our whereabouts and to deliver any and all information pertaining to the health of Messer's Larabee and Tanner forthwith."

JD sat up straighter in his chair. "You mean he was spying on us? Why?"

"Nathan said Davies paid a call this morning," Buck interrupted, thinking back on his brief visit just before high noon. "Got downright pushy 'bout takin' Chris outta here, but J'siah an' Chanu put a stop to that." The grin beneath Wilmington's mustache did little to hide his obvious delight at whatever tactics Sanchez had employed. However, it made Ezra shudder, knowing all too well the fierce beast that sometimes lurked beneath the ex-preacher's usually placid surface. "What I cain't figger out is why?"

"I believe I may have the answer to that particular query," Standish supplied, his fingers brushing lightly across the glass before he turned and moved closer to the others. It didn't take him long to relay his own personal confrontation with Arnold Davies—minus the biting insults, obvious sarcasm and his own pecuniary ambitions—along with the Santa Fe lawyer's declared intention to hire Larabee for himself. What Ezra couldn't tell them was whether or not Davies had actually succeeded.

"Unfortunately, my...informant...was exceedingly ignorant of the actual specifics as to whether or not Mr. Davies had in fact succeeded in hiring Mr. Larabee or whether our Mr. Larabee intends to accept the offered position."

"Nah, Chris wouldn't do that," Buck asserted confidently. "Not without tellin' me..."

"But why would Davies want to hire Chris?" JD's frown deepened, agitation making him squirm. He remembered all too clearly his own fear over each of them going their own way, not once but twice, since he'd become a member of the Seven. The first time had been just after they met and saved the Indian village from the Ghosts. The second had been when Marshall Bryce came to town, briefly replacing them for a time. But in the end, the bond had been re-forged, stronger and stronger, their numbers whole once again, withstanding the test of time... until recently.

"I believe that may have to do with Mr. Larabee's knowledge and forthright handling of Governor Hopewell."

"Hopewell?" Buck retorted. "What's that yellow-bellied snake got ta do with any of this?"

"If certain rumors are to be believed, then Mr. Davies is contemplating the position of territorial governor for himself. As such, Mr. Larabee could make for a formidable ally."

"Not to mention a hired gun to watch his back," JD snorted in disgust, swiveling in his chair and kicking absently at the desk. "If he's that afraid of Hopewell, then why not hire all of us? Why just Chris? Seems to me the more guns you have, the better."

Buck turned to look at the younger man, weary patience etched upon his face. "JD, the man cain't go traipsing around in public with seven gunslingers stickin' to his hip. He's gotta think about appearances."

"Indeed," Ezra concurred. "And while Mr. Larabee does seem to have a preference for somber clothing, when appropriately clothed, his appearance would not attract any undue interest amongst the public masses."

"Unlike you," Buck teased, his reference to the gambler's colorful manner of dress easing the solemn moment.

"Yes, well," Ezra replied with a small, self-deprecating grin, "One dresses as one must, Mr. Wilmington. However, we are still left with an untenable situation."

Standish turned to pace the length of the room as he spoke, spinning on one heel, only to return again. "As I see it, Mr. Larabee is gravely injured and currently unable to speak in his own defense. Second, my informant assured me Mr. Davies intends to abscond with Mr. Larabee at the earliest possible opportunity."

"He can't just take Chris!" JD protested, sitting forward in the chair. "Besides, what about Judge Travis?"

"What about Judge Travis indeed?" Ezra returned. "I fear, gentlemen, that we must tread lightly in this situation. It would not do to offend our current employer and yet we must remember that Mr. Davies is also his associate."

Buck shifted, that gnawing feeling in his gut growing tighter by the minute. "So what're ya suggestin' that we do, Ezra? I ain't just gonna let 'im take Chris outta here without so much as a by-your-leave."

"And let me assure you, Mr. Wilmington, neither would I," Ezra hastened to placate. "I am merely suggesting that for the time being, a more prudent course of action would be extremely beneficial."

"Well, beneficial all ya want, Ezra," Buck smarted back with a wave of both his hands. "But I still ain't gonna let that fat weasel get away with takin' Chris. He'll wind up eatin' a six-gun full of lead 'fore his feet have hit the door."

"Agreed," the gambler relinquished, dramatically rolling his eyes. Sometimes Ezra wondered why he even bothered. He truly did. He could well understand Buck's fierce protectiveness where his oldest friend was concerned, but in this case, those same feelings were more likely to buy him a hangman's noose around his neck. "But I believe we should also make preparations to ensure Mr. Larabee's continued safety and well-being...and perhaps save you the trouble of being fitted for the gallows," he added with a pointed glare.

"All right then, dammit!" Buck growled almost angrily, his voice growing thicker with agitation. "What is it, Ezra, you think we oughta do?"

Standish was silent for a brief moment, taking a slow breath and gathering his patience around him like a cloak. Finally, he offered, "I believe that for the time being, it would be wisest not to leave Mr. Larabee unattended. Granted, given his current condition, that is an unlikely scenario but it is best to be advised and therefore prepared should another attempt be made to remove him from the premises."

"Nathan and Josiah are with him and Vin practically all the time anyways," JD added helpfully. "And now that Kojay and Chanu are here..."

"Yes, but forewarned is forearmed," Ezra insisted firmly. "Secondly, I believe that we should be more cognizant of Mr. Davies' whereabouts and..." A sly grin crossed his handsome features. "...perhaps we can do our part to ensure that it is in Mr. Davies' best interest to depart from our fair town with all due haste."

Silence greeted him for a moment, then a big grin lit Buck's face and he laughed. "Ezra, you sly ol' devil, you!"

---

The small clinic was almost eerily silent. Josiah and Kojay had gone to rest in the sanctity of the town's small church. Chanu lay on a pallet on the floor, his eyes closed, apparently asleep. Nathan sat at his table, his tall frame poured into the stiff-backed chair, studying his medical textbooks, lines of concentration etched across his face.

Rabies, more widely known as hydrophobia. One of the most feared and dreaded diseases known to humankind. Almost as feared as smallpox, measles and influenza and pretty much just as deadly. No definitive treatment, no definitive cure. There wasn't much information written about it other than it came from the bite of an infected animal and was usually fatal to its human recipient. A long, slow, torturous process filled with confusion, seizures, hallucinations, paralysis and ultimately death.

Nathan sighed miserably, rubbing both hands over his face as depression settled heavily upon his shoulders. If Chris had rabies, if that dog or wolf or whatever that monstrous beast had been, if it was sick like Vin suspected...God, he didn't even want to think about the hard road that lay ahead...although Nathan supposed he could always hold out hope. There were, after all, rare instances where victims survived, where symptoms hadn't developed. It was very rare but Nathan supposed that it could happen. Perhaps if the animal wasn't really sick yet or maybe its bite wasn't infected so much, or maybe the bite marks on Chris's arm weren't too deep, if it didn't reach his bloodstream...

Yeah, Nathan admitted dejectedly, and one day elephants would fly and a black man would be elected governor. Somehow, he just didn't think that it was possible. The wounds were too extensive, too deep, too obviously torn and bloody from the start. Shaking his head sadly, Nathan resumed his reading, hoping and praying all the while to find some small scrap of information that would help him once again turn back the hands of Fate.

Some time later, a soft knock interrupted his focused reading. Lifting himself from the chair, Nathan moved to open the door, his eyebrows climbing in surprise even as a smile of welcome crossed his dark-skinned face.

"Evenin', Miz Travis," he offered cordially, stepping aside as the blond-headed woman returned his greeting and quietly entered the room. Closing the door behind her, Nathan then moved to take the cloth-covered tray laden with food from her hands, placing it on the table while moving aside his books. The small room immediately filled with the smell of fried chicken and fresh-baked bread.

"I thought you might like something to eat," Mary offered somewhat shyly.

"That's right nice of ya, Miz Travis," Nathan acknowledged with a nod.

"Gloria sent you a piece of her cherry pie as well." Standing in the middle of the room with her arms folded around her middle, Mary seemed awkward and uncomfortable. She glanced at the two injured peacekeepers. "Josiah said that Vin was awake earlier and I thought he might like something a little bit stronger than broth, perhaps some chicken noodle soup if that's all right?"

"I'm sure Vin'll be grateful for it. He don't seem to like my cookin' all that much," the healer admitted with a rueful laugh.

Mary nodded, hesitant, her light blue eyes remaining fixed on the floor for the most part, but at the same time, Nathan could see her stealing sideways glances at Chris and Vin. It was obvious the woman's curiosity had gotten the better of her, but underneath it all, he also knew there was her concern for two men whom she considered friends. And despite her widowed status, even if it was still considered improper for her to be visiting the sick bed of not one but two injured men, Nathan couldn't find fault with Mary for her caring.

"Would ya like ta sit a spell, Miz Travis? Mebbe take some tea?" he inquired politely as he pulled out a chair and gestured for her to sit.

Mary immediately shook her head, her face coloring with heated embarrassment. "Oh, no, thank you, Nathan, but I appreciate the offer. I just wondered how they were doing." This time she did look directly at Chris and Vin, her gaze encompassing the bandages and the all too pale and silent features. She didn't seem surprised to see Chanu resting on the floor, but then again, Nathan knew she had spoken to Josiah.

"Well," Nathan began as he uncovered the tray and eyed the mounds of food. "Like J'siah told ya, Vin was awake earlier but there's somethin' ain't right with his hearing. Chanu's been talkin' to 'im with his hands. Seems like Vin understands 'im so I ain't too awful worried 'bout it just yet."

No sense in letting Mary know that he was afraid Vin had scrambled his brains right good in that fall and might never regain his senses. Nope, no point in that at all.

"What about Chr...Mr. Larabee?" she inquired softly, the fingers of one hand clutching repeatedly at the cotton material of her sleeve.

Nate turned, the relaxed look falling away from his face, deep frown lines reappearing and curving the bow of his mouth. "Fraid I ain't got much good news there, Miz Travis. Chris still ain't woke up yet an' them wounds look mighty nasty. That arm was busted up pretty good."

"Will he be all right?"

The healer sighed, having already lost count of how many times he'd asked himself that very same question. He shook his head as he turned away from the table, offering her a small smile even as his brown eyes focused on the patient in question. "I just don't know yet, ma'am. I just...don't know..."

Mary sighed as well, tears of worry sparkling in her eyes. She bit down on her lower lip to hide the delicate trembling. Fear for Chris's life tied a knot inside her chest, making speech just about nigh impossible. One small hand lifted and clutched at her slender throat, hoping to ease that pain. Vin and Chris were both very special men; they held a very special place within her heart. To lose one or both of them was simply unthinkable, not after all they had done, after all they had meant to so many different people. The townsfolk here, the Indian village, the migrant Chinese workers, the girls enslaved by Wickes...even the party of homesteaders they'd escorted at Orrin's request. So many lives touched by their brave deeds, by their heroic efforts. Certainly a far cry from that first day when Mary had vilified Chris on the front page of her newspaper.

God, she had been so wrong!

"Miz Travis, you sure you don't want some tea?" Nathan inquired solicitously, a little bit concerned by the washed out color of her complexion. His kind words seemed to startle her, her hand dropping away from the death grip at her throat and the glazed look fading from her eyes.

"No, no, I...thank you, Nathan, I have to go pick up Billy over at Mrs. Potter's." Mary turned as if to leave, then her steps faltered, one hand slipping downward to touch the pocket of her dress. She turned wide blue eyes to Nathan once again, her voice dropping to a soft whisper before she hesitantly offered, "Josiah also said you were worried about the possibility of rabies."

Nathan was surprised. As far as he knew, they hadn't mentioned that likely risk to anyone outside of this small room. His concern must have shown on the healer's startled face because Mary was quick to reassure him.

"Don't worry, I promised Josiah I wouldn't speak of it." She stepped closer, pulling a piece of folded newspaper from deep within her pocket. "But I did do some research in my files and I came across this article from the Kansas City Evening Star. It was printed a couple of months ago. It might be helpful." She offered it to Nathan, then waited quietly as he read.

When Jackson made no immediate response, Mary hastened to venture, "It says this Dr. Pasteur saved a young boy's life by injecting him with this medicine."

"It's called a vaccine," Nathan replied without bothering to raise his head. "Says here it's still experimental an' ain't no guarantees that it will work."

"Yes, but it might," Mary insisted eagerly, waiting until Nathan's gaze lifted to meet hers before she continued, a hint of desperation softly coloring her voice. "You could at least try."

Jackson glanced down at the paper in his hand, so much hope and so much promise, all so far away. He shook his head. "The Pasteur Institute is in Paris, Miz Travis. Ain't no way I could get my hands on any of that in time to do Chris any good. Even if the vaccine did work, it'd get here way too late ta be of any help. Chris just ain't got that kinda time."

The glittering tears and quivering lower lip tore at Nathan's gentle heart.

"I'm sorry, Miz Travis, I truly am."

"I just thought...maybe..." Embarrassed by her emotional outburst, Mary turned and fled the room, the door closing none too quietly behind her. The noise, however, did little to disturb the injured peacekeepers, one too deeply ensconced within a world of silence while the other was all too close to passing beyond the borders of human life.

Nathan sighed deeply, feeling equal parts helpless and frustrated yet again. He stared at the silent paper in his hand. The healer then turned to find Chanu awake and sitting cross-legged on his pallet. Solemn eyes regarded him quietly from beneath a darkened brow.

"She is a woman who speaks with her heart."

"Yeah," the healer acknowledged, nodding, remembering other times as well when Mary Travis' compassion had landed her in one heartache or another...or nearly gotten her killed. Her defiance that day in the face of a drunken lynch mob still held the power to leave Nathan filled with awe. She was a strong woman, of that he had no doubt. He just hoped she was strong enough to face the days ahead.

His pessimism growing, Nathan admitted he hoped they all were. Suddenly, he had no appetite.

"You hungry, Chanu?"

---

Chapter 23

Vin Tanner wasn't sure what it was that woke him. Perhaps he'd simply been asleep too long. Or maybe it was the throbbing ache in the back of his head that seemed to echo with his every heart beat. Then again, maybe it was the deafening silence that literally roared between his ears. More likely it was the growing pain in his backside, the constant pressure from not moving, a sure sign he'd been laying in one position for way longer than was strictly good for him.

Actually, he reasoned, now that Vin thought about it, it was probably because he needed to piss.

Bad.

Drawing a breath, the tracker opened his eyes, squinting a bit at the yellow sunlight as he waited for the four walls and ceiling to focus and solidify around him.

Nathan's room. The clinic. The smell of medicine and herbal tea and various potions and mixtures assaulting his sensitive nostrils. Light and shadows, a figure sitting slumped at the square wooden table - Nathan - reading. A small quilt strung across the middle of the room, patchwork, faded, holding something back, blocking his view.

Of what?

Vin frowned, irritated by the curtain, the feeling that it wasn't right, that it shouldn't be there furrowing his brow. Why was it there? What was it he couldn't see? It made the place too small, too tight, closed him in. He couldn't breathe.

He must have made a noise then, some small out of place sound, a groan perhaps, something that roused Nathan from his studies. The dark head lifted, turned in his direction, a white smile breaking out across the darker skin. Brown eyes lit with pleasure and the healer pushed back his chair, stretching the length of his frame, exhaustion written on his face and in the tightness of his broad shoulders. Vin watched as Nathan moved to his bedside, one hand reaching out to touch his forehead, checking again for fever. The tracker did his best not to flinch.

Nathan said something, his lips moving, but Vin couldn't hear him. He stared upward in frustration, hearing the sound of the wind inside his head, the terrible ache receding only slightly as he turned and pressed his bristled cheek against a sweat-dampened pillow.

There was that damned curtain again. What the hell was that doing there?

Nathan waved a hand in front of his face, gaining Vin's attention, his dark fingers moving in simple but eloquent gestures. When did Nathan learn to speak with his hands? The tracker frowned, the lines of his brow wrinkling, pulling tight the skin across his face. It felt bruised and swollen, stiff, tender and burned raw from the sun's harsh yellow glare. When had that happened? And how? He usually wore a hat, didn't he? Damned thing should've protected his face. That's what it was supposed to do. He must have lost it somewhere.

But where?

A chamber pot floated before his eyes, Nathan's sympathetic smile reminding Vin of his silent misery. He needed to piss. The pressure was becoming almost unbearable. So why the hell did he have to use a chamber pot? Why couldn't he go outside? There was a perfectly good outhouse just down the stairs behind the livery. Besides, he'd be damned if he'd use that thing in front of another man. Yep, he'd just shuffle on down the stairs, take a piss and then head on off to the saloon for a good stiff drink of whiskey. Vin nearly snickered at the idea of leaving Nathan holding the pot...literally.

That struck him for the most part as funny. Except what the heck was he doing here in Nathan's clinic in the first place?

Vin rolled stiffly to his side, tried to sit up, groaning at the sudden rush of pain, forgotten memories flooding back in to torment the ache residing in his skull. He clutched at his head, felt Nathan's supporting hands on his shoulders and upper arms, offering comfort and a steadying grip. He could almost hear that soothing voice, saw the full lips moving, urging gentle caution.

"Whoa, now. Take it easy, Vin."

Nathan was pleased to see that Vin was once again awake. Little by little, it seemed as if the tracker was sleeping less and waking up more often. And as far as the healer was concerned, that was a good sign. Now, if only the dizziness and disorientation would pass, along with Vin's inability to hear. But from all the reading Nathan had done so far, there was every reason to hope it would. Time was a great healer of all wounds.

Reaching once again for the chamber pot, Nathan freed Vin from the bedcovers and then held it up before him, all the while steadying the smaller man with the help of his other hand. He ignored the attempted glare and nearly silent grumbling aimed in his direction, taking it as a good sign that Vin's natural independence seemed to be slowly reasserting itself as well. He reached for the front opening of Vin's union suit only to have his well-intentioned hand sharply slapped away. He couldn't help but chuckle at the disgruntled look on the tracker's sun-kissed face. Nodding, Nathan turned his back but didn't move away, offering his friend at least that small amount of privacy to tend his personal needs.

A moment later, he heard Vin hiss softly, as if in pain, but refrained from turning around until he knew the man was done. Taking back the pot a moment later, Nathan wasn't surprised by the pink-tinged color of the fluid or the questioning look in the tracker's soulful eyes. He offered a reassuring smile and a quick pat to Vin's nearest shoulder. Nathan didn't have a way to tell him it was all right and Chanu had gone out hunting with his father. An explanation would have to come later, when words were more abundant and spoken by silent hands.

Stepping outside the clinic into the hot sunlight of late evening, Nathan emptied the pot, returning inside just in time to see Vin stand and sway dizzily on his feet. Setting aside the pot, he hurried to the tracker's side, catching hold of him around the waist.

"Here now, hold on there, Vin. Where d'ya think yer goin'?"

With a determined glint in his eye, Vin set aside the hands that held him back, shuffling forward a bare two steps and placing a heavy hand upon the makeshift curtain. Nathan watched patiently, curiosity needling him, as the long-haired man pulled the faded fabric aside. A soft cry then escaped the nearly silent tracker, his eyes falling on the bruised and battered figure of his best friend, the fierce pain in his heart matching the pain in his head as full awareness came crashing in with all the speed of a hurtling locomotive.

Vin remembered.

He and Chris had gone hunting. Now Chris was hurt, his gun arm badly damaged. Worse than that, the beast they'd hunted probably had rabies. And it had bitten Chris, numerous times. Rabies meant certain death, slow, horrible and agonizing.

Chris Larabee was going to die.

And there was nothing Vin could do.

His fingers gripped the quilt tightly as the tracker's arm fell heavily to his side. Anguish filled his soul even as hot tears scalded his cheeks and face. He pulled the material down and away, relinquishing it to the floor, leaving it to Nathan's care. Vin's only thought was that he refused to have any barriers between him and Chris. Not now, not when his friend lay dying, not when Chris Larabee needed him. He vowed that the blond gunslinger - his best friend, his brother not in blood but in soul - would not face his fate alone.

Exhaustion and misery quickly sapped Vin's small reserve of strength and Nathan gently but firmly urged him back to bed. The healer tracked Vin's every move, staying close in case that he should fall. Vin sat wearily on the edge of the cot, accepting the cup of water pressed tenderly into his hands. He drank without thinking, recognizing the easy gestures for water, drink and pain, uncaring of how Nathan knew these things, not bothering to even answer. He was too tired in mind, body and spirit to ponder those simple questions.

Nathan's concern grew as he eased Vin back into his bed. The younger man's color was definitely off again and it was obvious he was deeply troubled. The reason why was pretty apparent as Nathan picked up the quilt and attempted to once again hang it between the beds. Vin's quick denial and angry frown had him nodding his head in resignation and understanding. The healer gently folded the blanket, his large hands caressing the soft material even as Vin's eyes were steady upon his back. Nathan then walked across the room and placed it back inside the wooden trunk.

No walls. No barriers. Nothing hidden from sight. Everything out in the open.

Nathan knew that now. Sighing, he realized he shouldn't have expected any less.

It took some strong encouragement to get Vin to drink a little tea, less so with the rich chicken broth that Nettie Wells had brought by earlier, but somehow Nathan managed it and Vin kept it down. The liquid nourishment was necessary to help him fully recover. Nathan was also grateful to Chanu for the timely lessons in making signs with his hands. It was only a few words but they were the important ones, ones that allowed Nathan to communicate, albeit slowly, with his disadvantaged patient.

Finally, with Vin settled and apparently dozing lightly, Nathan went back to prowling through his textbooks. He found it hard to divide his time between reading about head injuries and rabies but there was currently only so much that he could do. But while Vin was making some improvement, it might be two to three full weeks before he knew if Chris had contracted the disease. And even then, he reasoned, holding on to the frail chance that it offered, they only had Vin's suspicions to go by.

Nathan sighed. Two to three weeks of waiting and watching, an incubation period they called it, a time of not knowing, trying to keep a flicker of faith alive. That is, if Chris even woke up again. So far, there'd been barely a spark of life from the gunman since they'd returned to town and the longer Chris went without waking up, the harder it was for Nathan to hold out hope. The words on the printed page spun inside his head - fever, headache, loss of appetite, aches and pains, nausea, muscle stiffness, salivation - the early symptoms they might expect to see. Later on, there would be increased sensitivity to light and sound, anxiety, confusion, delirium and hallucinations. Death would ensue from convulsions or paralysis; the heart would stop; the throat would spasm.

The healer shuddered and plowed his face into the sweat-slick palms of his trembling hands.

God, what a horrible way for Chris to die! What a horrible way for any man to die!

An opportune knock at the door interrupted his gloomy musings and Nathan went to answer it with a heart made heavy by impending grief. His polite expression of greeting faltered at the figure looming in the doorway.

"Mr. Davies," Nathan offered, barely refraining from snarling the portly man's name given the details of his earlier visit. The healer had been as mystified by the lawyer's actions and demands as had Josiah, Kojay and Chanu. That was, until Ezra stopped by. The gambler had been full of timely information and regaled them with his plan to rid them of the loathsome curmudgeon's presence. Now, it took all of Nathan's hard won composure to even speak to the man in a civil tone of voice. "What can I do for ya, sir?"

Davies managed to affect a contrite appearance. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Jackson, but I've received a telegraph communiqué from Judge Travis. He is requesting an update on the situation and on Mr. Larabee's condition...Mr. Tanner as well," he added with a quick look towards the smaller cot. Davies then took off his hat and held it apologetically in his hands. "Would you mind if I came in?"

It was an unconscious gesture for Nathan to step aside, his better judgment being overridden by manners ingrained in him from his life as a former slave. He allowed the odious man's presence in his clinic, quietly closing the door behind him and shutting out the heat and light of the dying day.

Davies knew he was playing a dangerous game but he reasoned this was his last chance to find out just how badly Larabee was injured and whether or not the man was of any use to him. If any of these six men found out he was lying about receiving a telegram from Travis, they'd run him out of town on a fast rail with his head between his legs.

Arnold turned to appraise the dark-skinned healer. "Any information you deem worthy for me to pass along to Orrin would be greatly appreciated, Nathan." He smiled slightly, appearing to offer an apology for his boorish behavior earlier. He had no doubt that as close as these men seemed to be that his confrontation with the ex-preacher had been passed along to all the others. Arnold Davies was in full damage control mode, the same ability to be a wolf in sheep's clothing that served him well as a politician and a lawyer benefiting him now.

"I'm not sure how much I can tell ya, Mr. Davies," Nathan offered cautiously, wondering at the change in the man's demeanor. He glanced over his shoulder, his worried gaze encompassing both Chris and Vin, pleased to see that the tracker still seemed to be resting peacefully. "Vin took a hard knock to 'is head but I think he's doin' well. His hearin's messed up some but I 'spect that'll get better with a little time."

Davies tried hard to pay attention, to appear interested. The fact was, he could have cared less about the scruffy tracker. "And Chris?...I mean, Mr. Larabee, of course?" A careless slip of the tongue there and Davies silently berated himself for the faux pas. He had to be careful not to tip his hand.

Nathan frowned, not missing the interested glitter in the man's eyes, knowing full well that his plans included taking Chris away from them... whether Chris was willing or not. But if Judge Travis was asking for details, Nathan felt obligated to reply.

"He got tore up pretty good by that wolf, if that's what that thing was," he answered with a sigh. The healer scratched idly beneath his nose with one index finger. "Most o' the wounds lookin' pretty good, no sign of real bad infection yet, at least not from that."

"Excuse me?" Davies was obviously puzzled by that pronouncement but Nathan decided not to enlighten him about the possibility of rabies. There was no sense in borrowing trouble before trouble then came calling. It wouldn't do for word to get out and cause a panic around the town.

"His arm got busted up pretty bad too but I got the bones put back together best I can." Nathan still had nightmares about the damage done to Larabee's arm. It would be awhile before they knew if he'd ever use it again. That is, if Chris didn't die from rabies first.

"His arm?" Davies inquired, his eyes gleaming with obvious interest. "Which arm? His gun arm?"

"Yeah," Nathan replied, noticing the other man's sudden agitation and curious as to its cause. "His right arm. Figger he used it ta try an' protect his self."

"How bad is it?" The lawyer was practically quivering now with agitation and his voice had risen, the gruff tone laced with an edge of apparent panic. "Will it heal? Can he use it?" If Larabee's gun arm was no good, then Davies had a sudden vision of all his hopes and dreams vanishing before his eyes. He would have no way to outwit, outmaneuver and outplay Clayton Hopewell, no head for his security detail, no one who knew and could exploit the territorial governor's strengths and hidden weaknesses.

No one to guard him against a hired assassin's bullet.

"I don't know yet," Nathan admitted with a healer's sense of innate honesty. "Chris ain't woke up so I don't know what works and what don't." He frowned, not liking the way the lawyer's face flushed red or his increasingly frantic movements. "You feelin' all right, Mr. Davies?"

Arnold ignored the question, turned and began to pace. His short quick steps took him from one corner of the room to another. His composure completely shattering, he began to loose a litany of progressively loud and vicious curses. His plans were falling apart right before his eyes, and all because Larabee had been so stupid as to go and get himself injured. All because Orrin Travis, the sanctimonious bastard, had gone and interfered with Arnold's plans.

All because this damned darkie didn't know what he was doing.

"Damn it, when will you know?" The florid face was livid with anger and impatience. "When will you know? This is intolerable. Absolutely intolerable." He threw his hands upward in frustration. "What the hell kind of a doctor are you?"

"Hold on now," Nathan quickly protested. "I ain't never said I was no doctor."

But Davies continued on as if he hadn't even spoken. "What good is a gun man if he doesn't have a gun arm? What good is he, I ask you? None! Absolutely none! He's worthless, totally worthless, not even worth the air it takes for him to breathe. Why I wasted my time in this backwater little town is beyond me. All my time and effort spent here wasted. For nothing! Nothing!"

The lawyer turned and stared heatedly at Nathan, completely ignoring the sick beds and both of their injured occupants. He missed the fact that Vin Tanner was half way off his cot, his sleep having been disturbed by the confrontation in the room even if he couldn't hear it. The tracker's face was set in a hard mask of anger, his own pain ignored by what he perceived as the other man threatening Nathan Jackson. Vin didn't know what Davies was ranting on about but the look on Nathan's face alone was enough to set the young man searching for his gun or at the very least, one of Nathan's knives.

On the larger bed, unbeknownst to any of the room's other occupants, swathed in layers of bandages, his body riddled by weakness, pain and fever, Chris Larabee chose the worst possible moment to finally awaken.

Davies sucked a deep breath, absolutely furious. "Without that gun arm, Chris Larabee is useless to me, you hear me? Perfectly useless! He's no good to anybody! He'd be better off dead and buried! He'll wind up that way soon enough as it is!"

Nathan had heard enough. He stepped closer, purposefully invading Davies' personal space. "Mister," he said in a low and dangerous voice, his dark eyes lit with angry intent, "I don't know who you think you are, but you better get outta here 'fore I do somethin' I ain't gonna regret!"

The Santa Fe lawyer bristled at the blatant threat, his hackles rising at being spoken to in such a manner and by a former slave at that. He opened his mouth to deliver a blistering retort but then the sharp sound of a bullet ratcheting into a chamber stayed his angry voice. His eyes darted to the wavering figure behind the healer and Davies found himself staring down the barrel of Vin Tanner's sawed-off mare's leg.

Sudden fear lurched like a lead ball deep inside his gut, his breath rushing outward in a quick explosive rush. Then, even more intimidating than the rounded muzzle of the gun, Arnold looked into a pair of steely ice-blue eyes, a killer's eyes, and he knew in that moment, that Vin Tanner would shoot him down like a stray dog in the street if he so much as even flinched.

Davies froze, unmoving, any further words he might have dared to utter locked within his chest. Only when Nathan half turned and calmly placed a hand along the barrel of Vin's gun, pulling the sight away from its intended target, did the lawyer finally move.

Faces grim and silent, Nathan and Vin both watched as Arnold Davies turned and fled out the clinic door. The smell of fresh urine permeated the air, and this time, it wasn't Vin's.

Shaking his head, Nathan then pried the gun loose from Vin's fingers, carefully laying it aside and pausing briefly to wonder how the injured man had managed to get his hands upon the weapon. Last time he'd seen it, the mare's leg had been tucked away beneath the bed beside the tracker's other meager possessions. He'd have to remember to ask Chanu about that when the young Indian brave returned.

Moving carefully, the healer eased Vin back down upon his cot, gently patting the young man's shoulder to silently let him know that all was well. He eased the long legs back under the covers, then pulled the blanket up high, a smile playing about his lips at the quizzical expression upon the handsome face. Once Vin was settled, only then did Nathan turn to check his other patient. He was surprised and shocked to find green eyes open and staring fixedly at the wooden door.

"Chris?" he called out quietly, going to the bedside, then helpfully lighting a kerosene lamp against the encroaching twilight. "Chris, can ya hear me?"

Bending lower, Nathan tried to capture the vacant gaze. Across the room, he felt rather than heard Vin lift part way up upon the cot, the tracker's attention now riveted on the bed across the room.

"Chris?"

Ever so slowly, that cool silent gaze turned in his direction and seemed to try and focus. Nathan smiled gently, his hands itching to reach out and touch, to check for fever, but he didn't want to startle the newly awakened man.

"How ya feelin'?"

There was only silence to his question. Those seemingly still green eyes merely turned away from him and focused on the heavy white bandaging covering the wounded chest and arm. They stared intently at the pieces of hard wood Nathan had used to hold the bones in place. Chris didn't speak, hardly seemed to even breathe, all of his awareness apparently fixed on what lay hidden beneath the muslin layers.

"Chris?"

There was the barest hint of movement of the gunslinger's injured right shoulder, a quick flash of pain crossing the sun-burned face. The dry and cracked lips parted, loosing a soft hissing groan. Fingers that were stiff and swollen remained unmoving, sticking out from the swirls of white cloth like darkened sausages for an offering. Green eyes that had been quiet and somewhat lost then filled with something else, something deep and inexplicable that tore at Nathan's heart.

Even as the healer watched, praying for a response, Chris shut him out and retreated from the waking world. The weary blond head turned away and the injured man slipped back into the darkness of a silent welcoming void. The despair and anguish clearly written in those expressive green eyes confirmed what Nathan had only just suspected.

Chris Larabee had heard Arnold Davies' damning words.

TBC

---

Author's Note: Since we are never given an exact timeline for when "The Magnificent Seven" takes place, I have taken 'literary license' with the following historical facts.

(1) The above referenced medical event actually took place on July 6th, 1885, in Paris, France at The Pasteur Institute. At that time, Dr. Louis Pasteur and his colleagues injected the first of 14 daily doses of rabbit spinal cord suspensions containing progressively inactivated rabies virus into 9-year-old Joseph Meister, who had been bitten by a rabid dog two days before.

This experiment was not undertaken lightly and was not without significant risk. Dr. Pasteur is quoted as saying: "The child's death appeared inevitable. I decided not without acute and harrowing anxiety, as may be imagined, to apply to Joseph Meister the method which I had found consistently successful with dogs." The vaccine was successful and the child recovered without sequelae. This success led to the establishment of many "Rabies Clinics" and the saving of thousands of lives worldwide.

Dr. Pasteur is also credited with developing the "germ theory of disease" and his work became the foundation for the science of microbiology and a cornerstone of modern medicine. He established the basic rules of sterilization or asepsis. By preventing contagion and infection, his method of sterilization revolutionized surgery and obstetrics. Dr. Pasteur is also credited with developing "pasteurization", a process by which harmful microbes in perishable food products are destroyed using heat, without destroying the food.

(2) The Kansas City Evening Star was first published in 1880.

<b>Chapter 24</b>

Ezra Standish hurried along the darkened boardwalk, his quick eyes flicking right and left, checking and assessing. The shifting shadows of firelight would briefly illuminate the dark green hues of his tailored coat as he stepped from wood to dusty alley and then back again. His footsteps echoed softly through the apparent stillness of the evening but his stride was determined, a clear purpose resonating through his frame as he made his way towards the bulky profile of the town's fanciest lodging.

A swift glance over his shoulder, his gaze capturing the distant outline of dusty figures in the street, and Ezra quickened his step. Small beads of sweat lined his brow, the night air humid and moist, and his breath rushed from him in tiny gasps of exertion. It suited the gambler's purpose to hurry and a small, nearly malicious grin quirked the corner of his expressive mouth before he ruthlessly quashed it down.

Reaching the hotel, he eschewed the front entrance, opting instead for the stairs leading up the back way, making sure to take the steps at least two at a time to add urgency to his otherwise immaculate appearance. Turning at the landing, one elegant hand reached for the doorknob, twisting it sharply before swinging the portal open. One last glance over his shoulder and Ezra slipped noiselessly inside.

His footfalls were muted by the brocade carpet lining the polished oak floor as the gambler made his way along the length of the corridor. He gave the fancy gold numbers that adorned each entrance only a cursory glance, knowing from previous reconnaissance exactly which was his intended target. Reaching the third room on the left, the hotel's second best appointed suite, he paused only to straighten his jacket, adjust the cuffs of his sleeves, then rapped quickly upon the darkly stained wooden door.

Ezra waited the brief span of only a few seconds before hastily knocking again. Heavy footsteps and a muffled voice filled with irritation answered his impatient summons.

A click and then turn of the knob, the tiny squeak of hinges needing oil, and a shaft of light filled the open doorway. Arnold Davies blinked in annoyance and genuine surprise at the slightly disheveled man waiting upon his doorstep. But before the portly gentleman could speak, the fast-talking conman slipped inside, causing the lawyer to take a hasty step in retreat. His graying eyebrows flew upwards as the younger man hurried to secure the door behind him.

"Ah, Mr. Davies, good evening, sir," Ezra rushed to speak. "Please forgive me for disturbing you at this late hour but a matter of great importance has come to my attention and it is highly imperative that we converse."

Davies could only watch in shocked silence as the southerner quickly crossed the room, reached out to pull aside the edge of the drapes and peered into the darkened street below.

Ezra checked outside the window, noted the same shadowy figures gathered loosely in the dusty road not far from the saloon, then allowed his gaze to slide over his shoulder to where the other man watched him with a quizzical yet decidedly irritated look.

"Mr. Standish," Davies began, his voice rumbling with displeasure, "I am not in the habit of entertaining ex-cons within my private quarters so unless this hotel is now on fire, which I somehow doubt it is, I strongly suggest you leave."

Ezra turned to placate the obviously angry man, his hands raised in apparent supplication as he released the curtains and hastened to plead his case.

"I assure you, Mr. Davies, I would not have presumed to bother you had this been other than a most pressing concern. And truth be told, sir, it is my sworn duty," Ezra placed his right hand over his heart, an earnest expression on his handsome features, "as set forth by Judge Travis himself to preserve and protect the growing populace within this quaint and yet provincial hamlet."

The gambler ducked sideways to risk another quick glance through the brocade curtains. "Indeed, it would be remiss of me if I did not inform you of certain events transpiring, sir, even now as we speak."

Ezra then fell silent, anticipating, playing his audience, waiting expectantly as he continued to gaze out the window, letting the pregnant pause of the moment speak much louder than words. The lengthening silence served to build the calculated suspense and it didn't take much before he could practically sense Davies twitching with anticipation.

"Well, man, what the hell do you have to say?" came the barked demand.

The gambler then straightened, let the fabric fall away from his hand, and affected a most reluctant look while remembering belatedly to remove his hat. He twirled it absently by the brim, long fingers dancing over the dark material. Standish bobbed his head, then swallowed hard against words that seemed to literally crawl from within his throat.

"Well, sir, it has been brought to my attention that..." Here he paused as if suddenly reluctant to discuss the subject matter in question, swallowed again, gave Davies a seemingly nervous glance. "...there are certain parties with whom I am acquainted that have suggested..."

Davies wasn't in the mood for any prevaricating. "Spit it out, Standish, and stop wasting my time."

Ezra tugged hesitantly at his right ear, then rimmed the edge of his collar with one hand before he straightened his well-built shoulders. When he spoke, the southerner's voice was clipped but still honey-smooth to the human ear. "A rumor has been circulating that you plan to remove Mr. Larabee from these surroundings. As such, I feel I must warn you against such hasty actions."

"And why is that?" Davies demanded, surprised and angered at having his plans made public. Angrier still at so far being thwarted in achieving his goals.

"Well, sir, Mr. Larabee has, if you will, attained a certain status—a 'persona grata' so to speak—within this town and there are extremely interested parties who are determined that you shall not remove him without a fight." Standish affected a conspiratorial air, lowering his voice dramatically. "I have even heard mention, sir, of the words...tar and feathers," adding a delicate shudder that was less counterfeit than the gambler would have liked.

For his part, Davies looked appropriately horrified and Ezra rushed on, knowing his success in ridding the town of the loathsome man depended on pressing his advantage.

"Even now, there is a somewhat unruly gathering of questionable personages outside of the local tavern. As such, I felt it incumbent upon myself to warn you of their apparently dire intentions. And may I add, sir, that while I clearly abhor such uncouth misdeeds, I am but a single member of the local constabulary and I do not believe that my presence alone will be enough to dissuade these miscreants from their intended crimes."

Clearly unsettled, sweat peaking on his brow, Davies hurried past Ezra to the window, his pudgy fingers roughly pulling aside the fabric. His worried gaze immediately rushed to the collection of men gathered in the street, watching in horrified fascination as several torches were lit and the carcass of a large white chicken was hoisted high into the air. The smell of sulfur on the night breeze reached his nostrils through the sliver of an opening below the sash. Davies turned, eyes wide, his mouth suddenly dry as fear quivered in his belly.

"What...wh-what shall I do? Where are the rest of your men? You have to protect me."

Ezra stepped forward, allowing himself another look past Davies and into the darkened street below. Tilting his head, his mouth twisted in a parody of a sad, little smile.

"I'm afraid, Mr. Davies, that my compatriots are otherwise occupied. There is, sir, only myself." Ezra's grin quirked a little wider at the knowledge that JD and Buck were part of the apparent 'lynching party' and the gambler was quite certain that the figure carrying the large chicken and wearing a distinctive brown bowler hat were actually one and the same.

But what Davies didn't know could only benefit their cause. *Their cause?* Good Lord, Maude would be perfectly scandalized.

The muffled sounds of raised, angry voices reached their ears and Davies grabbed hold of Ezra's coat sleeve, pleading. "You have to protect me. It's your sworn duty. You gave Orrin Travis your word."

The gambler straightened, carefully removing himself from the heavy hand, and only barely refrained from wiping off the imprint left behind. Years of perfecting his 'poker face' kept him from sneering at the other man in disdain.

"As I have said, Mr. Davies, I am only one man and, as such, I do not believe that to be an effective deterrent. I have, however, come up with an alternative which I believe will remove you from the immediate threat." The trap was closing around the odious man and Ezra's green eyes crinkled slightly at the corners with hidden glee, a little 'tell' he knew his mother had often exploited.

"What? What is it?" The crimson face was sweating profusely, pale eyes wide with panic.

"I have taken the liberty of securing you an exceptional mount at the local hostelry and I believe it would be prudent for you to depart as quickly as is possible. I realize, sir, the hour is quite late but the blacksmith assures me this steed is sound in body and spirit and exceptionally fleet of foot. You can be certain he will carry you safely to your chosen destination."

In reality, the animal was nothing more than a barn nag, flea-bitten and sway-backed, but entirely suitable for the purpose Ezra had in mind. Yosemite had practically paid him for a chance to be rid of the ancient 'albatross' and Arnold Davies would be lucky if any of his considerable backside did not end up blistered, red and raw.

"B-but my books...my luggage, my belongings...?" Davies protest was only half-hearted as the growing mob outside his window moved slowly down the street. The flickering torches cast ghostly shadows over grim faces and silent wooden store fronts.

"Allow me the privilege of securing your belongings and making all the obligatory arrangements. If you will merely send me word of your location, I shall see to it that you are reunited with your personal effects. After all, it is the least that I can do."

Hand placed over his heart, Ezra came close to choking on his own tongue while uttering those last few sentences but the conman managed to effectively keep his temper—and his composure—in check. He merely had to glance at the panic-stricken look on Davies' face, see the rapid rise and fall of the massive barrel chest, watch the rapid ticking of the pulse in the thickset throat, to know he had effectively sprung his trap. Now, all that remained was sending the obnoxious man merrily on his way.

"Please, sir, our time is surely fleeting."

Davies took one more harried look out the window then rushed to Ezra's side. Grabbing the gambler's right hand, he pumped it hard, his fetid breath almost causing Ezra to recoil in sudden revulsion.

"I won't forget this, Standish." Reaching into his coat pocket, Davies extracted a twenty-dollar gold piece. He pressed it into the gambler's unresisting hand. "This is to cover any of my expenses. You keep the change for yourself. You've saved my life and I am in your debt, sir."

And then Davies was gone, grabbing up his gray felt hat and stuffing it atop his head. The rotund figure disappeared through the wooden door, like a rabbit down a hole, leaving a silent and contemplative Ezra Standish lingering in the middle of his hotel room.

"Not at all, sir, not at all..." the gambler whispered into the suddenly silent evening.

A glance at the barely open window, a quirk of an eyebrow at the coin resting in his hand, then Ezra settled his hat atop his head and moved across the room towards the hefty mirrored bureau. Finding a clean, white handkerchief, he used it to wipe off the gold coin in his grasp and the slather of sweat left over on his palm. Lifting the coin, he then bit into it, assuring himself of its authenticity, smiling slightly at the cold metallic taste before carelessly flipping it into the air and depositing it into his pocket.

Going to the window, he then eyed the 'angry mob' making its way along the shadowed thoroughfare. Spying the tall figure he sought, knowing the familiar features were turned upwards in his direction, Ezra lifted two fingers to the brim of his hat, signaling mutely of his success. Gaining a nod of the dark head in return, he then turned to contemplate the empty room.

Arnold Davies was gone.

*Good riddance,* Ezra saluted silently, grinning suddenly at the thought that he was now twenty dollars richer than when the night began.

77777

Standing over his work table, Nathan grimaced and briefly stretched the muscles of his neck, back and shoulders. His strong fingers then retrieved a pumice stone and proceeded to grind the medicinal herbs and plants that Kojay had collected. Adding a small amount of warm water and powdered yellow mustard, it took only a few minutes to create a dark, strongly-scented paste that he planned to use for a poultice on Chris's badly injured arm.

Over the last day or two, the deeper wounds had started to fester and Nathan was worried about the signs of growing contamination. God help him, though, if he couldn't find some way to halt the spreading infection because the very thought of having to cut off Chris's arm sent a spike of visceral fear stabbing through Nathan's gut. He'd seen too much of that in the war, seen what could happen to a man, the hollow empty look in their eyes afterwards. It turned his stomach sour to think of being responsible for doing that to Chris, even if it meant that he saved the gunman's life. Nathan swore he'd fight long and hard before being forced to make that difficult decision.

Shifting his stance, the healer sighed once more, shaking his head, working without pause to mix the healing medicines. He knew the long days already past were only a herald of even longer days still to come.

Since first awakening, the blond gunslinger had been semi-conscious at best, barely offering to open his eyes, hardly seeming to respond at all, and making it damned near impossible for Nathan to get water or medicine past the stubborn lips. Kojay had offered to take over when the black man's frustrations got the best of him. He had watched in amazement as patient coaxing and gentle hands set to work and made slow but steady progress where he himself had not.

"You are tired," answered the calm and soothing voice, Kojay's focus never leaving his patient's face even as gnarled fingers massaged the length of Larabee's neck, gently encouraging him to swallow. "It makes you impatient." The dark eyes lifted, their gaze placid and serene. "You should rest again."

Nathan had stiffened at the quiet reprimand, prepared to argue, but the throbbing between his eyes and the very real aches and pains in his body dictated otherwise. He knew that Kojay was right. It was a healer's curse, he supposed, bearing the task of caring for two badly injured men while ignoring the needs of his own body. To take upon himself the burden of caring for Chris and Vin even in the face of the help that he'd been given. It wasn't the first time Nate had pushed himself too far and, heaven help him, he somehow knew it wouldn't be the last. 

Kojay had then prepared some tea for him, following which Nathan slept straight through for nearly ten hours, his body awakening in the same position as when he'd fallen asleep. Despite being stiff from lying in one place for so long, the healer had felt refreshed, his mind and thoughts clearer, secretly amused at being given a taste of his own medicine.

And wouldn't Vin Tanner just laugh himself silly if he knew that Nate had swallowed some of his own 'horse piss' as the younger man liked to call it.

That brought Nathan's thoughts around to his other patient and a small smile to light his dark-skinned face.

Vin, at least, was making progress, especially under Chanu's watchful eyes. The tracker was staying awake for longer periods of time and finally able to keep solid food on his notoriously unreliable stomach. He'd stopped passing blood some two days past and his balance and orientation looked to be improving as well. Vin could now walk outside to the privy without falling on his face. That didn't mean, however, that all was well with the younger man, especially when it came to his worries over Chris and his inability to hear. But Tanner's natural independence was starting to reassert itself as he got stronger which made for more than a few trying times that grated on Nathan's nerves.

Lately, the sharpshooter had started to refuse any of the healer's potions to assist with the fierce headaches that still plagued him and Vin's impatience to be outside was clearly testing Nate's resolve. Right now, sitting on the wooden porch above the livery was about as much as the healer would allow him and only then under Chanu's constant vigilance. But even as Nate thought it, the door slowly opened and his contrary patient shuffled stiffly back inside.

Vin pushed away the helping hand offered at his elbow, scowling sufficiently in the backlight of the doorway for Nate to realize he'd probably had another one of his dizzy spells. Chanu's quick look and nod of the dark head only confirmed the healer's guess. Ducking aside to hide an amused grin, Nate had to admit that the young Indian brave certainly had a way about him, especially when it came to dealing with a certain ornery headstrong tracker. It was a sure bet that Chanu had been the one to force Tanner to come inside.

Nathan watched surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye as Vin made his way over to his cot, saw yet again the look of concern that arrowed across the open space towards the motionless blond, and caught the tiny grimace of pain as the bruised form lowered to the pad of fresh straw ticking. He shook his head. Damned fool was too danged stubborn for his own good. And didn't that thought just widen the smile gracing his dark features.

"His fever is rising. We need water."

Jackson jumped slightly at the soft voice that was suddenly close to his ear. He had been so absorbed in his own thoughts and in watching Vin that he'd failed to notice Kojay's approach. The elderly Indian chief was still keeping vigil at Larabee's bedside while attempting to coax more medicine and fluids down the nearly unresponsive throat.

"Damn!" Nate huffed, his brown eyes flicking across as he rapidly dried his hands. Guilt pricked his conscience as he moved to the bedside and quickly assessed his other patient. While he'd been distracted, Chris's fever had apparently worsened. The slack face was now flushed with reddish highlights, the damp skin layered with rounded droplets of sour sweat.

It was not a good sign.

The healer cursed again, quickly biting off any further outburst at the questioning look he received from Vin.

"Gonna have to wet him down...try ta keep it from goin' higher..."

Vin tugged at Chanu's sleeve, his puzzled expression clearly asking for an explanation. The exchange was rapid and all too silent, the tracker's intentions clear as the battered man then eased himself upward from the cot and reached for a nearby bucket.

"Oh, no, you don't..." Nate scolded as he rushed to Tanner's side. A quick tug-of-war ensued which ended up with Nathan holding the bucket and Vin scowling while flat out upon his back. "You stay put..." he ordered of the tracker, one finger extended as a warning, spoken words not necessary to convey the strength of his command.

"Make sure he don't go no where." This last was to Chanu and Kojay as Jackson headed for the door. He needed fresh cool water to bathe Larabee's fevered body and Nate would be damned if he'd let Vin wear himself out by trying to go and fetch it.

Jackson's hand was barely on the door when a sharp cry from Vin brought him swinging back around. The tracker was struggling upward, his face full of panic and fear, one hand extended towards the sick bed across the room while Chanu kept a firm grip upon his nearest shoulder.

Turning as well, Kojay gave a soft grunt and quickly moved towards Larabee's prone figure at the same time that Nathan discovered the cause of Vin's distress. The injured gunman's arms and legs were twitching restlessly upon the bed while the square line of his jaw was clenched tight as if in rigor mortis. Dropping the bucket, Nate rushed to the bedside, his hands reaching out to hold and restrain as the seizures rapidly increased in strength and the entire length of Chris's body began to spasm violently upon the mattress.

"Hold 'im, Kojay...don't let that arm get loose..."

The elderly Indian chief hastened to obey, chanting softly under his breath as he worked, attempting to be equal parts gentle and yet prevent any further damage to the injured limb. Teeth clenched against the strain of holding on tight, Nate offered up a silent prayer, hoping that in his weakened condition, Larabee would not be able to sustain the convulsions for very long. Still, they held fast to the thrashing form, trying to ride out the fit, knowing it was fever and the poison in Chris's bloodstream that were contributing to the problem.

It seemed like an eternity of helplessness passed as the body beneath them bucked and jerked, and then a line of slick saliva snaked its way outward from the corner of Chris's mouth. Cold fear shot through Nathan at the strangled sound that he emitted.

"He's choking!" Brown eyes were huge with heightened fear. "Chanu, get me a spoon!"

Within seconds, a rounded silver object was roughly thrust into his hand and Nathan had no time to wonder why Vin Tanner was the one who'd quickly placed it there. Releasing his grip on Chris's torso, he grabbed hold of the tensed jaw, prying with his bare hands at the tightly clenched teeth, using the edge of the spoon to wedge his way between them. Shoving the cold metal inside, he used it to manipulate Larabee's tongue, pulling and holding it forward to prevent the man from choking. His efforts were rewarded by a huge rush of air followed by a rapid exhale that sprayed bits of moisture in the air.

Relief poured through him as Nathan reflexively wiped at the frothy droplets on his face. Thank God he'd at least been able to keep Chris from swallowing his tongue. Nate then resumed his hold on the gunman, one hand safeguarding the position of the spoon, the other on the heavily bandaged torso. Only as the violent movements began to lessen did he notice another pair of hands that had ensnared the gunman's legs.

Chanu, Kojay and Nathan did not release their hold until the injured man's body fell suddenly and completely quiet. Blowing hard, they fought to catch their breath even as the acrid tang of urine filled the air around them. Reaching to the bedside table for a damp cloth, Nathan quickly wiped the lax features, then lifted each of the unresponsive eyelids. He checked the dilation of Chris's pupils even though he knew the man would now be deeply unconscious.

It was called a postictal state. Nathan knew this from his studies in his medical books. A patient's body and mind simply shut down in order to recover from the overload of activity caused by the sudden seizure. The amount and type of damage inflicted would be difficult to determine with no way to tell how long Chris would remain unconscious or if he would even awake. Nathan shuddered in remembered horror of the men he'd seen in the war, soldiers who had woken up paralyzed or worse yet, their brains so addled they'd been left nothing but drooling idiots.

The healer knew he'd rather die than see that happen to his friend.

Desperate to combat the raging fever, he turned to Chanu, his voice conveying urgency and more than a trace of fear. "Chanu, find JD. Tell him to git over't th'saloon 'n ask Miz Inez fer a bunch a that ice she got in her shed out back. All that she can spare."

The young brave nodded silently, stepping quickly towards the door, halted halfway by Nathan's next command.

"An' bring some whiskey……" Forestalling questions, he added, "Gonna use it t'bathe him with, cool down his skin."

As the door then closed behind the young man, Nathan felt the heat of another concerned gaze trained in his direction. Turning his head, he nodded to Vin, trying his best to issue reassurance that he wasn't entirely sure that he could give.

"Gonna git this fever down...it'll be all right, Vin."

But the truth of his worry was held in the look that he shared with Kojay, knowing the older man felt his concern, had seen the devastation such fever seizures had wrought and understood how precarious the life was that was hanging in the balance.

<hr>

<b>Chapter 25</b>

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, please," Ezra pleaded, his features alight with a self-satisfied smirk. "Such accolades are hardly necessary...not to mention somewhat...gratuitous in nature if you will. I was merely doing my part to ensure the continued tranquility of our fair little hamlet."

Laying one long-fingered hand against his chest, Ezra held a glass of fine brandy in the other as he canted his head. Smiling, his gold tooth flashed brightly in the yellow light cast by the gleaming lamps in the saloon. To say he was highly pleased with himself was an understatement. He had successfully rid the town of the loathsome Arnold Davies, Esquire, and captured a twenty dollar gold piece in the process. Now if he could just find a buyer for all the fine haberdashery and personal items the lawyer had left behind, he could turn himself a nice, tidy profit.

"Well, you can eat all the bacon you want, Ez, it was still one helluva an idea," Buck hooted. White teeth flashed beneath a dark mustache even as he hefted his second mug of beer. "I say good riddance to Mr. Davies, boys!"

"Yeah, that was pretty awesome," JD chimed in from beside him. "Makes the two bucks I gave Mrs. Li for her chicken well worth it...although you should have seen the look on her face when I tried to give it back."

"Didn't help that the poor thing was missing half its feathers," Buck encouraged with a hard nudge to the younger man's shoulder, the move nearly causing JD to spill his drink.

The hour was late and while Nathan was still at his clinic tending to Chris and Vin, the other four men had adjourned to the saloon for a small and somewhat private celebration. Their shared chorus of amiable laughter following that night's adventures did much to ease some of the current tension surrounding the group of regulators.

"Brothers, I'd say Mr. Davies received a little bit of divine retribution," Josiah added, a big, toothy grin splitting his face and easing the somber expression he'd worn only moments before. The smell of alcohol and bathing salts and pungent salves still invaded his senses from the time spent assisting Nathan in his labors.

"Well, call it what you like," Wilmington practically crowed, his glass hoisted high, "but I'd say ol' Ez here had a moment of divine inspiration." Patting the smaller man's shoulder conspiratorially, he teased, "Almost like you'd had a bit of...personal know-how...'bout such things, huh, Ez?"

Ezra shuddered somewhat indelicately at the not-so-subtle reminder. He'd been close enough to being tarred-and-feathered on several occasions, including a not so distant run-in with an entire clan that had taken exception to his expertise in gambling. But that particular knowledge was not something he cared to share with his current associates. Better that they remain ignorant of that portion of his oftentimes not-so-glorious past.

"Why, Mr. Wilmington," Ezra murmured, lips pressed softly against the rim of his crystal glass, "I have no idea what you mean."

Buck's booming laughter, accompanied by a hoot from Sanchez, thundered loudly into the smoke-filled air. The sounds issuing from JD's throat could only be described as a snicker. But Ezra's tight grin of acceptance supplied a wordless counterpoint to the ribbing from his friends. They would never know just how close to the truth they were. But Standish believed in keeping his cards 'close-to-the-vest' so to speak and even though his hard-won place in this town had earned him more than a measure of respect and acceptance, there were some aspects of his past that were best buried and forgotten, never to see the light of day.

After all, appearances were everything.

Lifting his glass, the gambler saluted, "Gentlemen, I give you the Honorable Arnold Davies..." Green eyes shrewdly assessed his companions, then cocked his auburn head in an affected gesture of respect. "Long may he ride..."

77777777777

Sitting on the porch outside of Nathan's room, feeling the warm sunshine soak right through to his bones, was more than Vin Tanner dreamed he would ever have again. The fierce headaches that had plagued him for the last few days were finally starting to recede and best of all, he was starting to hear again, muffled words and sounds, but certainly more than the awful rushing silence to which he had initially awakened.

Muscle and bone and tendon were all still stiff and sore, his usual grace of movement and easy motion more like the herky-jerky of a puppet on a string at times. And his lower back ached something fierce though whether that was from the fall or from lying around all day was something Vin couldn't quite decipher.

The nausea and the dizziness were passing as well, his appetite improving every day, at least as much as was possible given the reasons for his near incarceration in Nathan's little room. Warm mush was a poor substitute for bacon, eggs and biscuits. And Vin hated being kept indoors. He much preferred the fresh air and freedom outside to the sterile smell of potions and antiseptic the healer kept close to hand.

True freedom had even seemed a bit closer that morning as Nathan had finally allowed him to traverse the stairs, with assistance of course, and the tracker had made a beeline for the nearest privy. No more pissing red and using that embarrassing pot while Nathan kept his back turned for him. And even that small act of independence had been the sweetest relief Vin had felt in days.

A quick sponge bath had him feeling cleaner but more than a bit worn out, much to his chagrin. Still though, he'd successfully hidden it from Nathan, insisting that being outside on the porch would do him more good than lying about in a rickety old cot. Besides, it gave Jackson a chance to clean the sheets which were getting to be more than a bit ripe given the length of time Vin had spent on using them.

A cup of hot coffee, a slight breeze to ruffle his hair, a quiet moment all to himself and Vin was starting to feel like a new man. Now all he needed were some refried beans and rice, a few thick slices of bacon, maybe some of Nettie's apple pie and life would be perfect.

Well, not quite perfect, he amended quickly, a slight frown marring his angular features. Nowhere near perfect really as long as the man he considered his best friend lay just inside that door, more torn up than Vin had ever seen him and near about close to death.

The serenity that Tanner had only just achieved came crashing to a sudden halt, worry creasing his brow once again and crinkling at the corners of his sorrow-laden blue eyes.

For nigh on three days, Nathan and Kojay battled the high fevers that had laid claim to Chris Larabee's body, the sudden seizures awful in intensity and hard to predict, difficult even more to treat. More than once they had packed the gunslinger in ice until Inez had no more to spare and some of the local patrons grumbled about the tepid beer that they'd been forced to drink.

Alcohol baths hadn't seemed to help much either, cool water-soaked sponges time and time again carrying away sweat and filth from waxen skin that was too often flushed and burning to the touch. Efforts to get food and water down the injured man's throat had usually been for naught, the deeply sunken eyes and gaunt cheeks, the blistered lips and hollowed belly adding just that much more to Nathan's growing fears.

Worst of all though was Chris's arm. Vin had seen it more than once, wincing in silent sympathy at the ravaged, bloated skin, the purple fingers turning blacker by the day, the red streaks trailing upwards towards the swollen shoulder. Each time the two healers had changed the bandages, each time they'd lanced the wounds, cleaned away the filth and the pus, Vin had wondered how much longer it would be before Nathan was forced to make the decision to cut off Chris's arm.

It was a future too horrible for the tracker to even contemplate and something he would never wish even upon his enemies. The memories of it alone brought back the scent of the putrid liquid to his nostrils, stripped away his appetite and turned the coffee sour in his mouth. Moving gingerly, Vin set the cup aside, his gaze lingering on the battered tin only briefly before lifting to scan the dusty streets below.

Kojay and Chanu were at the livery, saddling and loading up their horses, both men having decided it was time to return to their people. Word had come a bit earlier that several of the children had fallen ill, possibly as a result of tainted meat delivered by the well-meaning but oftentimes incompetent Indian agent appointed by the Army. Gifted with some of Nathan's extra supplies, they were anxious to be on their way.

Luckily, Chris's fever had finally broken late that morning, the wounds on his arm and chest starting to clear, the red stripes fading just a touch. Nathan said the gunman's breathing had seemed easier and there had been no more of the frightening seizures for almost a day.

The cautious optimism in Nate's eyes would have been easy to latch onto except Vin knew better than to hope for much more than that. The fact was that while the physical wounds on Chris's body might have taken a turn for the better, the wound to his friend's soul might be much deeper than anyone of them had reckoned.

When...and if...Chris woke up again, the loss of his gun arm was going to be a terrible blow. So much of who he was, what he was, what he did and who he believed himself to be was tied up in his talent and ability with a six-shooter. If he lost that...lost who he was or what he was...well, Vin hated to think what the consequences might well be.

Oh, he knew sure enough that there was more to Chris than blazing fast speed and skill, more than the nimble fingers and sharp eyes, the cock-sure grin and wicked glint in those sometimes cold green eyes. There was a hidden depth to Chris that the other man kept buried, presenting to the world the "bad element" as he'd called himself on that day not so very long ago.

Flashes of that other man appeared every once in awhile, no matter how hard Larabee tried to bury it. Times like carving a small wooden horse for a fatherless young boy, sitting quietly on the boardwalk reading a book of poems, protecting Mary Travis from her own stubbornness, trying to save Hank Connelly from the demented ravings within the man's own mind.

Rescuing Vin Tanner from a killer who had hunted him down and tried to hang him.

No, Chris Larabee was definitely more than just a hired gun, and he'd never been a cold-blooded killer, even on his worst and darkest and most drunken days.

The problem was would Chris see it that way? Or would he see only a man who was now a cripple? A man with just one arm?

Vin couldn't help the involuntary shudder that rippled up his spine. He knew Chris's mindset well enough to know the answer to those questions, even if he didn't want to acknowledge it. And, if he were being completely honest, he knew the answers because they were the same answers he himself would give if it were him.

A man out here with just one arm might as well be dead and buried.

A gunslinger with one arm was as good as dead anyways.

And Chris knew that.

Vin's gloomy ruminations were cut short by a gentle tremor of the wood beneath his feet, a slight shift in the air around him. He glanced up, taking in the dark head that appeared at the top of the staircase as Chanu approached. His Indian brother had come to say goodbye.

Sharp eyes beneath black hair appraised him silently, the tanned face as stoic as always. A quick glance at the closed door of Nathan's clinic along with a small tilt of Chanu's head and Vin knew that his friend sensed his worry. But the words of false hope and hidden fears were left unspoken between them.

Shifting in his chair, Vin huffed a quiet sigh before climbing a bit stiffly to his feet. He stretched a little, felt the protest of sore and abused muscles as they tightened at the gentle movement. The blanket around his shoulders slipped unfettered towards the ground. Extending his hand to greet the one offered in return, he exchanged a firm grip and a silent nod, the gesture all too powerful in its simplicity.

Releasing his hold a moment later, Vin made a slashing motion away from his chest, a simple 'thank you', a silent 'goodbye' and 'travel well, my friend' all in one sign. The gesture was just as silently returned and then Chanu was gone.

Watching Kojay and Chanu ride out a few moments later, Vin couldn't help but return to his gloomy thoughts of Chris Larabee's future and the possibility that the loss of Chris's gun arm might not be the only thing left for the man to face.

Something about dying a slow, cruel death as a slobbering, deranged madman left Vin shuddering in his boots.

7777777

Darkness.

Pain.

The smell of potions and an unwashed body.

His own.

Breathing.

The soft sound of someone snoring.

Not his own.

Who was it?

Even before he opened his eyes, Chris knew he was in Nathan's clinic. He wasn't entirely sure how he had gotten there but the feel of Nathan's bed beneath him and the heaviness covering his arm and chest were more than enough to convince him that the damage must be bad. Restless, aching, sore, he tried to move.

Son of a bitch!

Pain stabbed through him leaving Larabee breathless, panting, but he made no outcry despite the burning agony. Instead, Chris bit down, took his lip sharply between his teeth, digging in hard. Sweat trickled across his brow, trailed the length of his neck and into his hair, pooled in the hollow of his throat. His heart thundered in silent counterpoint. Air hissed quietly inward as his lungs expanded, the moan that threatened to escape somehow stilled by sheer strength of considerable iron will.

Waiting until the hot misery had subsided just a bit, Chris then forced his eyes open, taking in the shifting shadows and the gray light drifting in through the distant window.

Evening or dusk, whichever you preferred to call it. That part of the dying day between afternoon and night when light was fading and the dark shadows had yet to fully claim it.

How long had he been there?

How badly was he hurt?

Confusion. Sluggish thoughts. Fog clouding his mind.

What the hell had Nathan fed him?

Searching for answers.

Needing to find...

Needed to find...

Vin...

Vin?...

Where was Vin?

A sun-splashed canyon. Dirt. Rocks. Blood.

Vin bleeding. Dying.

Needing help.

A flash of brown fur, sharp teeth and then...

Pain. Gunshot. More pain. More blood.

This time, Chris couldn't hold back the groan.

"Easy, Chris."

Nathan.

Nathan's voice.

Almost immediately, a cool cloth was there, wiping his forehead, his cheeks, tracking the sweat that salted his skin, easing his aches. Eyes too dulled by pain and illness couldn't make out the dark features but Chris knew Nathan Jackson was near by his side.

"Here now, drink this fo' me..."

Warm liquid, sweet tasting, laced with honey, the faint smell of mint and lemon. Lips parted and he swallowed, mouth too long parched to protest the faintest trace of bitter medicine. More soothing touches and soft words and his eyes struggled to find the familiar face hidden amongst the shadows.

A light flared briefly and Chris turned his head away from the sudden, hostile glow. Sharp pinpricks of heated ice stabbed beneath his eyelids even as he shut them against the unwelcome intrusion, his upper lip curling in a soundless snarl of pain. A damp cloth was placed upon his brow, the near silent words of apology almost unheard beneath the rustle of cloth and splash of water.

More touches and more cool water, another drink of lukewarm tea. Somehow, Chris thought that he should protest the intimacy so obviously forced upon him and yet, the gunman couldn't find the strength to even care. The lethargy invading his body and soul seemed to want to draw him even deeper into the hellish pit of darkness from which he'd only just emerged.

Again, Chris wondered why that was, where he'd been, what had happened and most of all, where was Vin?

His thoughts turned inward, trying yet again to find answers within the labyrinth of his own befuddled mind. Not liking the visions or the thoughts that vividly assaulted him with the memories of days past and things he wished he could forget.

An old man with a herd of sheep, dinner with the judge, riding out with Vin, going on the hunt for some wild animal. Rocks, hills, trees, the dry desert.

Vin's horse but no Vin.

Vin's body lying broken in the dirt.

Blood and heat. Life slowly seeping away. The harsh sun overhead.

Gleaming teeth and a vicious snarl. Pain in his side and in his arm. Bone snapping. The smell of rotting and decay, more blood and death.

Death.

His and Vin's.

Words seeped into his consciousness.

*Worthless.*

*Not even worth the air it takes for him to breathe.*

*Useless.*

*No good to anybody.*

*Better off dead and buried.*

Memory returned and the room came into sharp focus as Chris tried to move his right arm, felt the heavy bandaging, ignored Nathan's quickly gasped demand. Pain lanced upwards, engulfed the right side of his body in waves of jagged heat and fire. He drew a sharp breath and opened his eyes against it, his head turning into the light. The dark face above him swam into view.

"Easy now, Chris. Don't go tryin' ta move that."

Nathan's hand reached out, obviously intending to wipe away the sweat beaded on his face, change the cloth covering his brow, but Chris ducked away. The stubborn set of his chin, the bright glare of heat-filled green eyes, brooked no argument. Beside him, Nathan chuckled, clearly pleased at the show of temper.

"Well now, that's more like it...welcome back, Chris."

Welcome back.

Welcome back to what?

His gun arm was useless.

He was useless.

Despair and loss settled heavily in Chris's chest, weighed him down, made it hard to breathe. The sight of Vin Tanner sleeping safely on a cot across the room did little to alleviate the grief and darkness eating at the gunman's soul. Closing his eyes, he shut Nathan out, shut out the world, withdrew inside himself with misery and failure as his only companions.

Why the hell couldn't he have died?

<hr>

<b>Chapter 26</b>

Stepping out into the crisp morning sunshine, JD Dunne paused to take a deep breath, his chest unconsciously puffed out as he examined the street before him. His hands rested on the butts of his Navy Colt revolvers, fingers flexing around the ivory grips. As he watched, a pair of loaded wagons rattled by, dust billowing up beneath the wheels as the recent lack of rain left the road dry and full of ruts. His hazel eyes appraised the drivers, recognized one of the local ranchers and his eldest son with their weekly load of trade goods.

Glancing further down the way, he nodded to himself upon spying Mrs. Potter sweeping the boards in front of her store. The shiny glass front was pretty this time of day. Further on, Mary Travis stepped out of The Clarion, bright hair polished by the sunlight, her hands full of the morning edition. A smile lit her face as she quietly greeted the nearest person, offering a paper before stepping quickly to meet another.

Two young children playing 'Cowboys-and-Indians' darted out into the street and ducked around the freight wagons. Their shouts startled a sorrel horse tied to a hitching rail outside the livery. Off to the side, Henry Dobbins, the shotgun rider, was loading several bags on to the morning stage while the driver, Billy Horton, was inspecting his four-up as they stood quietly in their leathers.

A door opened across the way and two of James' hired hands stumbled out, their hats and gun belts in one hand while they shaded their eyes with the other. Heads hung low, they were clearly suffering from the aftereffects of a night spent drinking heavily. Buck sauntered out behind them, thumbs tucked together at the waistband of his pants, a broad smile plastered beneath the line of his dark moustache. He nodded in JD's direction and the younger man could almost hear the quiet chuckle that accompanied the subtle wink.

JD was helpless to hold back the silly grin that filled his boyish face, a genuine feeling of contentment swelling within his heart and warming him to his toes.

The sleepy town was calm and quiet, just the way folks liked it, a sense of peacefulness permeating the dry and dusty air. To young Dunne, everything was once again as it should be and it seemed like ages had passed since life had been this agreeable.

Well, maybe not quite everything, he quickly amended in deference to the two injured peacekeepers, and certainly not forever, but at least for the last several weeks or more and definitely since before Ella Gaines had bothered to show her lying face. The seven men—minus the two—were back working together again, standing solidly shoulder to shoulder as brothers-in-arms.

Just the night before, when some of the ranch hands got too roostered, Buck had stepped in to corral them with a timely assist of a bottle to the head of the rowdiest one from Ezra. Josiah had helped to haul the drunks to jail after which Nathan had sewn up the cuts inflicted by the broken glass. And since Chris and Vin were hurt, Buck, along with JD, had picked up extra patrols and other duties to help out Nathan and Josiah who were busy tending the injured men. And Ezra had stayed in town, supposedly to 'keep his services available should the need arise,' not even once hinting at a trip to Eagle Bend to fleece some more of the locals. 

It was strange, he thought, how quickly and easily they all pulled together again, just like they had in the beginning.

And to JD, it felt good.

Damned good.

This was the way it was supposed to be. His life was once again close to perfect.

JD exhaled loudly, the sound of it as near to happiness as anything he had known in weeks. Giving one last glance around the town, he settled his hat atop his head, then turned on one booted heel. The folded yellow paper tucked safely in his pocket was burning a hole against his skin and a sense of curiosity drove him forward with a renewed determination to his step.

He was halfway to the saloon when a voice hailed him from behind.

"Hey, JD. Whatcha doin'?"

Hiding his impatience at the interruption, JD half turned, continuing to walk a bit sideways even as Casey fell in along beside him. Wearing a plaid shirt and tan pants with suspenders, her braided pigtails tucked up under her hat, it was easy to see how the Nichol's brothers had mistaken her for a boy. 

"Mornin', Casey," he responded, his irritation fading at the dimpled cheeks and bright smile she flashed in his direction. Nettie Wells must have driven into town with her niece to do her shopping and check up on Vin and Chris.

"Where ya headin' in such an all-fire rush?" The young girl's eyes sparkled with undisguised interest.

"Got me an errand to run," he replied as one hand lifted to tap the hidden paper.

"Oh, well..." Casey skipped a few steps to keep up with him, her booted feet dancing on the dry boards, her expression hopeful. "Thought mebbe you'd like ta go fishin' with me?"

JD pressed onward, his stride not slowing. "Can't, Casey. Got me some important business to tend to."

A small frown pulled at the corner of Casey's mouth, her eyebrows drawing downward in disappointment. Her hat bounced and she steadied it with one hand as she bobbed along beside him. "Important business? What kinda important business?"

Dunne spared her a brief glance, deciding that as much as he liked Casey's company at certain times, now was just not one of them. His irritation leeched into his voice as he replied, "I gotta head to the saloon, okay?"

"The saloon?" she parroted, clearly surprised. "Ain't it kinda early in the day?"

This time, he shot her a hard look, hazel eyes flashing as JD did his best to discourage her from tagging along. "Ain't plannin' on drinkin'. I gotta deliver an urgent message."

The relief in the young girl's voice was nearly palpable. "Oh, well, I'll come with ya then." Her smile returned in full force as Casey figured it wouldn't take JD long to wrap up his business and then maybe he'd take her fishing. Or they might go riding, perhaps race a bit. After all, JD's horse was getting a bit long in the tooth and her own pony was in apple pie order. 

But JD stopped dead in his tracks, turned and fixed Casey with a heated glare. "A grown man can't have a young girl followin' him everywhere he goes."

Heedless of the hurt inflicted by his quick words, Dunne stalked off, his hands once again gripping the butt of his revolvers as he checked the street in both directions before crossing. Casey's reply floated across the way and slapped JD squarely in the back, nearly causing him to stumble.

"So who's a grown man?"

Moments later, still scowling from the insult, young Dunne pushed his way through the batwing doors of the saloon. His eyes needed a moment to adjust to the darkened interior. He tipped his hat to Inez who stood behind the bar cleaning shot glasses before heading towards the stairs. Taking them two at a time, JD huffed a deep breath as he reached the landing and then quickly moved down the hall to Ezra's door.

Knowing that the southerner was probably still abed at what Standish considered an 'ungodly hour of the morning,' JD wrapped loudly, his knuckles stinging at the inadvertent abuse. When there was no reply, he called out, knocking yet again before trying the knob, a bit surprised to find the door unlocked. Swinging it open, JD stepped inside then closed it, the click of the latch shutting out the deserted hallway behind him.

The room was cast in pearl-gray light and dark shadows, the large four-poster bed commanding the focus of one's attention. Beneath the plentiful covers, JD could just make out a lump he presumed to be the gambler. Stepping further into the room, he cleared his throat, suddenly hoping like hell that Ezra didn't sleep with his hideaway gun tucked beneath his infamous 'feather pillow.'

"Ezra? Hey, Ezra, you awake?"

The lump moved ever so slightly and then a voice that was clearly irritated spoke from beneath the bedding.

"Mr. Dunne, unless this entire establishment is currently being consumed by the very fires of Hell, I would advise you to rethink your present position and desist from interrupting my slumbers lest I be tempted to puncture you with a leaded projectile."

"Huh?"

A heavy sigh, full of aggravation, issued from beneath the blankets.

"Simply put...get out!"

JD nearly snickered. "Uh, no can do, Ezra. Johnson sent me over. Said to find you right away."

Was that a growl? JD could have sworn the gambler growled.

"And why, pray tell, would the ever-so-diligent Mr. Johnson send you to find me?" JD had to swallow a chuckle as the last half of the sentence rolled silently through his head.

"At this ungodly hour of the morning."

Yep, things really were getting back to normal.

Reaching inside his breast pocket, JD pulled out the paper the telegraph operator had given him to deliver. "Got a telegram for you. Arrived just this morning and it's marked urgent."

There was a slow rustle of the bedcovers and then Ezra emerged from beneath them, sitting up with what sounded suspiciously like a grumble even as he ran one long-fingered hand through his hair to tame the errant strands. The gambler was wearing a buttoned-up nightshirt with a cuff of ruffled lace at the end of each sleeve. Stepping closer, biting back a grin, JD offered the paper, waited until Standish took it, and then moved to draw back the heavy curtain covering the nearest window.

Daylight flooded one corner of the room and slanted across the bed, leaving Ezra blinking owlishly in the sudden glow. Sniffing, he opened the envelope and removed the message, squinting just a bit as he focused on the scrawled letters written in a less than legible hand.

Something akin to relief first crossed Ezra's face before being replaced by the gambler's usual mask and it left JD all the more curious to know just what the note contained.

As he waited, one corner of Ezra's mouth quirked upward in a smirk, shrewd green eyes then filling with merriment as the southerner informed him, "Well, it seems as if the illustrious Arnold J. Davies, Esquire, has relocated himself into the welcoming arms of the good people of Linn Creek."

"So?" JD could have cared less and the single word was almost belligerent.

Ezra waved the paper in his hand. "It seems he is now requesting that I send forth his belongings posthaste."

"Post what?" JD queried, a puzzled frown pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"At once, my young friend, as in immediately, with all due speed, without delay," Ezra replied before he put aside the telegram and settled back down into the bedding with a deep sigh. The gambler obviously had no intention of rising. "We really must improve your vocabulary, Mr. Dunne. Your education, I'm afraid, has been sorely lacking."

"But Ezra, aren't you going to..."

"No, Mr. Dunne," Ezra interrupted, irritation creeping its way into the honeyed southern tones. "I am most decidedly not. Now if you would be so kind as to secure the door on your way out, I would be most appreciative."

JD shrugged and figured he didn't need to be told twice to leave, even though technically he had, but he still couldn't resist a parting shot as he made his way out the door.

"Hey, Ezra, you wearin' silk?"

7777777

Sitting in bed, his bare back resting against the iron headboard, Chris stared blankly out the nearest window of Nathan's room. To all outward appearances, he looked calm, settled and completely relaxed. Those, however, who knew him better, would recognize the quietly seething emotions and angry thoughts hidden behind a pair of narrowed, cold green eyes, the tension and dark feelings written on the lean, freshly-shaven face.

Since finally awakening some five days ago, nearly a full two and a half weeks since he'd been hurt, the gunman had managed to tolerate the constant poking and prodding, fussing and tending that went along with being forced to endure the healer's care. But this morning, after Nate shaved his beard for him, Chris's hard-won iron control had snapped, one too many mugs of medicinal tea that tasted like horse piss forced upon him against his will.

The tepid, foul-tasting liquid had ended up covering the front of Nathan's shirt and leaving a good-sized puddle darkening the wooden floor. And, despite the pain of his wounds, Chris had also vehemently refused to take laudanum as the drug left him muddled-headed, feeling like he'd been on a recent heavy bender.

The censure in the healer's eyes had earned him a surly snarl from his ungrateful patient, snapping Jackson's normally long tether on his patience. Throwing up his hands, muttering about a couple of pains in his backside, the black man stormed from the room, slamming the door firmly shut behind him for extra measure.

Across the room, still bundled in blankets on a narrow cot, Vin Tanner moved nary a muscle or a twitch, seemingly deep asleep despite the altercation.

Larabee, however, knew better.

Nothing escaped the tracker's notice, no matter how hard Jackson said the man had hit his head.

After Chris was finally able to stay awake for longer than a few minutes at a time, Nathan had shared the details of their search and the circumstances under which the wounded men had both been found. Worry over Tanner's hearing loss and physical injuries had briefly interrupted Chris's ruminations over his own personal battles but Nathan had assured the gunman that Vin was making good progress on the road to what he hoped would be a complete recovery.

Chris wondered, however, if Tanner was traveling that road much quicker than Nathan realized as the tracker seemed to be making excellent progress.

In the morning, Vin took his meals at Nathan's small table and there was clearly nothing wrong with the younger man's appetite. Just before noon, he sat outside on the porch, quietly watching the town. Sometimes Tanner pretended to nap or shared a card game with Ezra or JD. An afternoon stroll 'just to stretch his legs a bit' and dinner at the saloon completed his daily routine.

It was strange but for a man who preferred the outdoors, Vin was spending an awful lot of time cooped up near the clinic. The tracker even seemed content to sleep on the narrow cot rather than return to his own bed in his covered wagon. Seeing as how Vin was usually chomping at the bit to be let out, stoutly asserting that he was fine, his 'docile' behavior was frankly making Chris suspicious.

Why, he wondered, was Vin still hanging around when he could clearly manage on his own?

Chris knew he sure as hell didn't want to be there and as soon as he could manage it, his ass was out the door—with or without Nathan's consent. As to where he would go or what he would do, Larabee hadn't decided yet. He just wanted out, to be left alone...all alone...with his misery and pain.

And his damned useless gun arm.

The pounding of booted footsteps taking the stairs to the landing interrupted Chris's thoughts. He scowled, not in the mood for company, silently willing whoever it was to go away. A moment later, his frown turned into a full blown growl of frustration as the door banged open and a tall figure blew loudly into the room.

"Mornin', you ol' dog!" Buck boomed, his voice bouncing off the walls. "Nathan said you was awake and feelin' orn'ry. Thought mebbe you'd like some real food instead o' that mush he's been feedin' ya."

The ladies' man settled a heavy tray onto the end of Chris's bed. Turning, he slammed the door closed with a shove of one large hand. The resultant noise sounded like a shot going off and rattled the walls and windows.

"Keep it down, Buck," Chris groused, a quick glance to the cot across the room.

"Oh, hell, Chris!" Buck challenged, moving towards the tracker's blanketed form. "Ol' Vin here's still half deaf." He made as if to swat the curly brown head then apparently thought better of it. A puff of air ruffled the tousled strands as his hand passed just overhead. "Boy couldn't hear a cannon goin' off even if he's sittin' on it."

The big man then leaned down over the sleeping form and hollered, "Ain't that right, Vin?"

Chris winced, expecting at any moment that Buck would be staring down the barrel of Vin's mare's leg with an itchy trigger finger on the other end. But Tanner didn't move. To his credit, Vin didn't even flinch, leaving Chris to once again question just how much the tracker could really hear.

Chuckling as he pulled up a chair beside Chris's bed, Buck settled his tall frame with a creak of the fragile straw webbing and removed the checkered cloth covering the tray laden with food. The warm aroma of scrambled eggs, beans, bacon, biscuits and coffee filled the air and despite Larabee's lack of appetite, his stomach clearly thought otherwise and rumbled hungrily at the smell.

Now Chris knew for sure Vin was playing possum. There was no way the tracker slept through the smell of food, let alone Inez Recillos' biscuits.

"Here ya go, stud," Buck chattered jovially. "Reckon some of Inez' fine cooking is just what th'doctor ordered!"

Buck placed one of the two large plates directly onto Chris's blanket-covered lap, the dark wool material in sharp contrast to the pristine white bandages covering his chest, shoulder and right arm. Wilmington arranged the utensils for the other man but stopped short of tucking the red-and-white checkered napkin into place. Then, pouring a cup of coffee from the battered tin pot, he deposited it on the bedside table where he knew that Chris could reach it.

Taking up a knife, Buck stole one of the biscuits from the second plate clearly intended for Vin, buttered it and popped it in his mouth. He grinned, chewing around a mouthful of heavenly bliss.

"Ain't nobody makes biscuits finer than Inez," he encouraged, helping himself to yet another of the buttery confections. "Just the thing ya need to put some meat on them scrawny bones of your'n," he gestured, fingers laden with melted lard and errant flour. "Eat up, Chris, a 'for ol' Vin there wakes up an' hogs 'em for his self."

The food did indeed smell good but Chris had little enthusiasm for it despite the noisy grumblings of his gut. He sat unmoving, staring blindly at the heavily laden plate. Buck, oblivious to the other man's lack of response, chattered noisily.

"Nobody cooks like Inez, neither. No, sirree. That little gal's sure got some way about her. That's fer danged tootin'." He swallowed, then poured himself a cup of coffee. "Beans an' tortillas is mighty tasty too. Already had four of 'em this morning m'self'." 

Taking a drink of the hot liquid, Buck smacked his lips, sighing noisily with approval. His blue eyes gleamed with good humor, his pleasure in the morning clearly evident in the broad grin on his face. Then, noticing Chris's fixation and the reason for it, Buck flushed with embarrassment. He covered up his mistake with a hearty, "Here, lemme get that for ya, buddy."

Ignoring the glower on Chris's face, Buck set aside his coffee and quickly sliced up the piece of steak. It was a task a normal man could easily perform, a man with two hands, and Chris bristled angrily at the dependency forced upon him, at the silent reminder of his own helplessness. Buck, however, continued to prattle, attempting to smooth over the awkward moment.

"I tell ya, Chris, one of these days, that little gal is gonna realize just what she's missin' out on with ol' Buck here. And when she does...whoo, hoo, hoo!"

Wilmington pressed the fork into Chris's good hand, wordlessly yet pointedly encouraging the man to eat. Larabee's fingers were unresisting, holding the silver utensil loosely before force of habit had the gunman spearing the nearest pile of eggs in a movement that could only be described as furious.

"Had me a busy night last night, yessir. Me an' Josiah an' Ezra corralled a coupla ol' James's hired hands who took ta drinkin' their weekly pay. Shoulda seen ol' Ez knock one o' them boys galley west with a bottle full of Inez' finest."

The food tasted like dry sawdust in Chris's mouth but he chewed and swallowed it anyways, swallowed back his anger and the bitter taste of bile. He knew it was the only way he'd be free of Nathan's care, free of this room and this town and all its watchful eyes.

The only way he'd be free to do what he had to do.

"Nathan had ta stitch up the big one over at the jail..."

Chris ate even as Buck pretended not to notice his friend's obvious hostility and moodiness. Wilmington's good-humored nature filled the room as he chatted, jumping smoothly from one subject to another, providing a distraction, avoiding the one topic no one wanted to discuss.

"Blossom got herself a letter. Said her fella's 'sposed ta be gettin' outta Yuma next month..."

A lump of dry biscuit lodged in Chris's throat despite a determined attempt to force it down. He followed it with a quick gulp of hot coffee, hissing at the welcome blister of pain that stung his lips and gullet. Tears burned his eyes but he forced them away, refused to allow even that small show of weakness.

"Man better not set one foot inside this town if'n he knows what's good fer 'im."

Scrambled eggs went down more easily but he might as well have been eating dirt for all the notice Chris gave them.

"He come near Blossom an' I might have ta shoot 'im down like a mad dog..."

Adding salt and pepper along with a mouth full of smoked bacon did little to help the taste. Chris set aside his fork and forced himself to drink some more of the black coffee.

"Speakin' a dogs, man, that sure was one helluva monster you plugged..."

Flashes of brown fur, snarling teeth, the foul smell of blood and death...

Chris quickly put down his cup, swallowing hard, fighting to hold back the sick feelings rolling queasily inside his belly. The thought of loosing what little he'd just eaten was nearly as bad as the memories stirred up by Buck's careless words.

"You'd a been prouda ol' JD, trackin' ya down like fleas on a coonhound..."

Feeling suddenly breathless, Larabee shivered a bit at the layer of sweat that now dampened his skin. He didn't want to think about what had happened, how it had changed everything, ruined his life, his arm. He didn't want to remember, but Buck continued on, seemingly oblivious to Chris's agitation.

"You got that sucker smack dab right between the eyes..."

A sharp retort, the acrid smell of gunpowder, the splatter of blood as the bullet found its mark, whining, a whimper of pain from a dying throat.

Or did that cry come from him?

"That thing sure was huge all right. And ugly too an' ya know how I hate ugly!"

Chris deliberately let his mind go blank, focusing on nothing at all, using sheer force of will to shut out the visions and the words. God, but he wished Buck would just shut the hell up. Leave him the hell alone.

"Deader'n a doorknob..."

*Shut up, Buck.* Chris could feel a low growl rumbling in his chest.

"Cain't figger out why it jumped ya like that..."

Wilmington stuffed the last of the biscuits meant for Vin in his mouth, continuing to talk around the flour and butter, careless with his words.

"Vin reckons it musta been sick in the head..."

Buck froze, his voice dying off suddenly at the pointed look he got from Chris, the blond head snapping upward to pin him with a cold, hard glare.

"I mean, uh...yeah, Vin said..."

Well, shit. Yeah, now he'd gone and done it and Buck mentally kicked himself in the butt. The tasty biscuits turned to a cold, solid lump in the pit of his stomach.

"Listen, Chris... it don't mean nothin'...ya cain't..."

Cursing himself mentally, Wilmington sighed and dropped his dark head with a dejected shrug of his broad shoulders. What could he say? The damage was done. One hand lifted to rub his jaw, unable to hold the sharp green gaze that was too intelligent by far.

Too intelligent not to know what Buck had inadvertently let slip.

Hydrophobia.

Rabies.

And the thing had bitten Larabee.

Nathan was *so* going to kick his ass.

His face flushed with embarrassment and distress, Buck decided a strategic retreat, with his big booted foot stuck clearly in his mouth, was his only option. "Yer gonna be fine, Chris. Ya just need some time ta heal up an' git yer strength back."

Buck gathered up the second plate, gesturing towards the empty spot he had left. "I'm just gonna go get Vin some more biscuits. Don't want that boy ta kick up a row cuz he ain't got none."

Vin was already gonna be pissed at him anyways for spilling the beans.

Shit.

The ladies' man stood and stumbled backed towards the door, fumbling behind him for the latch. "I'll just...I'm gonna just...gonna get...ya know..." A quick flash of white teeth in a parody of a grin, a wave of one hand, and Buck scooted out the door leaving nothing but silence and seething anger behind him.

Silent as death, Chris stared at the space Buck had just vacated, his thoughts running in circles around his head. The words 'hydrophobia' and 'rabies' struck fear deep inside the gunman's heart. There was a time, back home in Indiana, when he'd seen a longhorn cow with the sickness, staggering, stumbling and drooling while it bellowed loudly in agitation. His Pa had shot it and then burned the carcass, the two of them keeping a long watch at the fireside to prevent scavengers from picking at the leavings.

And the damned thing had bit him...several times...broken his arm.

A shudder rippled up Chris's spine, firing up the pain in his body, and he sucked in a cramped breath. But the pain of his wounds was nothing compared to the searing agony now tying his gut in knots.

The injured gunman shoved the plate away, no longer needing to even make a pretense of trying to eat. His voice, when Chris finally spoke, was soft, barely audible, raspy from disuse and the bitterness of tightly controlled emotions.

"S'that true?"

After a long moment, the covers on the cot across the room stirred a bit and Vin's curly head emerged. Since Nathan had stormed out of the room that morning, Tanner had stuck close by, pretending to sleep, knowing that Larabee wouldn't appreciate finding out he had a 'keeper.'

But it was important that the gunman not be left alone, if not for his own sake, then for the sake of those who cared about him.

And for the safety of the town.

So, in spite of Buck's boisterous arrival, the younger man had stayed tucked beneath the covers, continuing the deception he had assumed with Nathan's blessings. Now, however, Vin rolled over and squinted at Larabee, noting the angular profile and the tick of a small muscle running along the length of the tight jaw, the throbbing vein on his forehead.

There was no way he could lie to Chris.

Not now.

The tracker sighed.

Chris deserved the truth.

"Mebbe..."

TBC