He'd gotten used to drifting, to living life on the run, as insubstantial an existence as the shifting desert winds. He was a solitary wanderer cast aimlessly upon a desolate seascape of sand, rock, cactus and weathered mesquite. Always riding, constantly on the move, occasionally daring to sleep in the saddle yet keeping one eye always open. Day after endless day, mile after blistering hot mile, he glanced time and again over his shoulder, then circled back every couple of hours to check along his trail.
Too much death—or the promise of it—behind him, so very little to offer ahead, and yet he couldn't afford to let his guard down in case a bounty hunter or a posse somehow came across his tracks.
Every once in a while though, too exhausted in body, mind and soul, he stopped just long enough to scrounge for food, perhaps trap a scrawny, dried-up jackrabbit to make a thin, barely edible stew. Rarer still, snake meat if he was fast enough to avoid the deadly bite. At those times, when he could hardly stand let alone think straight, he craved more than just a moment's rest. He longed to sleep soundly for days, someplace safe and dry, to sink into the welcoming relief of a hot tub of water and warm, clean-smelling linens.
But always as night approached, weary to the bone, ever cautious, he spurned the comforts—and the hidden dangers—of civilization to sleep out under the safer canopy of the stars. The thin bedroll he carried was little comfort to his sore back, the rocky ground cold and hard, his only warmth a small campfire, the solitary desert nights long, lonely and empty.
A large, black, blaze-faced gelding was his one true and steady companion.
Eventually though, it was the need for grain and provisions that would drive him to the nearest town, to take whatever small job he could find to earn a few dollars to replenish his meager supplies.
And to allow his exhausted horse to rest.
Now, here he sat in a darkened corner of the saloon in some nameless town, watching and waiting, battered slouch hat pulled down low over his brow as keen blue eyes scanned the room's many occupants. Men and women, drifters and cowhands, a banker or perhaps a lawyer, the gaudily-painted whores with their low-cut dresses who kept them company but only for a price.
Out of habit, Vin kept his back to the wall, one hand on his glass, the other hidden beneath the table and resting on the butt of his loaded gun. Even here Tanner was cautious, distrustful, the barkeep's friendly smile doing little to reassure him that the man wouldn't sell him out for a five hundred dollar bounty—if he had known of its existence.
Ben Logan.
That was the name he'd used when asking for a job, a job that had him sweeping the floors, cleaning glasses and spittoons, unloading crates and restocking the liquor long after the saloon doors were closed for business. It earned him a bed on the floor in the storage shed out back and a few extra coins for his "honest" labor. He'd hated to lie, proud of the fact that he was a "Tanner," but then it didn't seem the wisest move to use his given name, not when there was a price on his head and certain death waiting for him at the end of a hangman's noose back on the panhandle plains of Texas.
By Vin's reckoning, another couple of days should see him free and clear to purchase the coffee and flour he needed, maybe even some hard tack, but mostly a bag full of oats to pack along for his faithful, well-deserving horse. Tonight though, the ex-bounty hunter had allowed himself a small reward, a brief respite, a couple of glasses of whiskey to warm his soul and wash the sour taste of fear and desperation from his mouth.
Bessie, one of the working girls, had drifted over at his appearance earlier, murmuring suggestively in his ear while a hand groped his crotch beneath the table. The other hand had played with the long strands of hair curling at the back of his neck, tickling and gently teasing. Smiling politely, he'd removed her questing fingers from his body before turning down her offer of a bath and a shave and the "something more" that she'd hinted at that would ‘curl his toes and leave him blind.'
Vin had a pretty good idea of just how much that kind of treatment would cost him and knew it was something that right now he could not afford. She'd taken his rejection well, smiling slightly before kissing him lightly on the mouth. He'd had to wipe away the red grease paint she left behind. Rounded hips swaying, Bessie had then sashayed off in search of "greener pickin's" and left "Logan" to keep company with his whiskey.
Thirty minutes later, Vin was still toying with his second glass, ignoring the hunger gnawing at his belly, and thinking of turning in for a couple hours of sleep before work when a brisk gust of wind seemed to blow open the double set of wooden batwing doors. Shadows thrown by the smoky kerosene lanterns danced and shifted as his blue eyes narrowed imperceptibly at the intrusion, the hunter's keen senses instantly on alert.
A tall, dark figure dressed all in black stood silhouetted against the dwindling sunlight, his face hidden by the low edge of his dust-covered, straight-brimmed hat. A full-length duster cloaked the ominous form and swirled around the man's long legs, the material flapping almost silently in the tobacco-laden air and shifting dirt. The yellow light from a chandelier picked up the white ivory handle of his gun, the immaculately polished length of the barrel, the gleaming silver Conchos on his gun belt blinking like stars in an inky summer sky. Noise and conversation instantly dwindled; chairs shifted nervously, wooden legs scraping across the floor as customers shifted for a better view.
Like an apparition, menacing, deadly, dangerous in appearance, the newcomer stood silently appraising the entire room. Tension and hostility oozed from every line of his tall, lean body. Broad shoulders, square jaw, lips set in a tight white line, eyes hidden, the message was still instantly clear.
This was not a man to be trifled with and if you crossed his path, death would be swift to follow.
He was a gunslinger.
A killer for hire.
A man without a soul.
Vin had seen his kind before.
Intrigued in spite of the warning knot lodged inside his gut, Tanner watched as the silent black wraith released his grip on the saloon doors and strode purposefully across the room. Men and women alike scattered to move quickly out of harm's way, a slight grin quirking Vin's lips as they scurried like frightened rats before a violent storm. Reaching the bar, the grim specter just as quietly signaled the barkeep, the softly rasped command of "whiskey" barely heard in the growing silence.
Nervous, fearful, amber liquid was sloshed into the nearest glass before the tumbler slid sharply across the polished bar to be captured by one long-fingered hand. Grasped, lifted, tossed back and swallowed, the movements were quick and tense, two fingers tapping for a refill before the glass was even empty.
Wary and yet somehow amused, Vin settled back to watch what he suspected would be quite a show.
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It didn't take long for the vultures to start circling round.
Whether it was in the form of man, animal or winged beast, Vin knew that Death had a way of attracting scavengers, the low life, the foul scum and hungry predators that lived off the rotten and decayed flesh of the recent dead. And something about the stranger at the bar fairly screamed that he was a walking corpse. To Vin's eye, the man was more desolate and alone in a room full of people than if he was riding the open prairie headed straight for the gates of Hell.
It was a familiar feeling that Tanner knew all too well.
He shook his head, shifted uncomfortably in his chair before sipping from his glass, still watchful and yet so very patient.
A few minutes later, a red-headed whore he knew simply as Sue Ann sidled up next to the tall, dark form, one hand sliding up the man's arm before she jumped back, clearly startled by the low snarl that issued from between the thin, tightly curled slash of his lips. A smarter woman would have fled before such open hostility, but then undeterred, she waded back in, grabbed the whiskey bottle from the barkeep and refilled the stranger's glass. She then poured one for herself as well. This time though, she pressed up against him, cradled his upper arm between her ample breasts, going up on tiptoe to whisper suggestively in his ear. Her belly pressed into the length of the gun holstered at his side and she wiggled against him, giving him a good sampling of her ‘wares.'
The man tensed, but to Vin's surprise, he didn't pull away. Emboldened, Sue Ann's pink tongue darted out, flicked the lobe of his ear and he jerked his head sideways, then surprisingly let loose with a cold and nasty chuckle. The rasping sound of it sent an icy chill snaking down the length of Tanner's spine.
Those closest to the dark stranger should have been wary of it, should have wisely backed away from such a evil noise, but vultures weren't known to be the smartest of creatures and the human form was clearly just as dumb. A moment later, they were loudly swarming the bar, money exchanging hands and voices eager as Sue Ann announced the new arrival was taking on any and all comers in a ‘winner-take-all' old-fashioned, whiskey-drinking contest.
Over the protest of the bartender, several of the whores grabbed glasses and bottles from behind the bar, the cheering crowd easily parting for them as the stage was swiftly set at a nearby quickly abandoned poker table. Sue Ann scooped up the money, surreptitiously stuffing some of it down the front of her dress, before ushering her new "champion" to his impromptu designated place of honor. Vin barely had time to pull his feet back out of the way as an overeager young man nearly tripped over him in his rush to join the gawkers.
Shaking his head, Tanner grimaced, knowing the upcoming festivities would mean more work for him in the long run. Broken glass to sweep up, soggy stale cigars to dig out from between the wooden boards, empty whiskey glasses littered everywhere and more dirty brass spittoons to wash, not to mention all the blood he was likely to have to scrub up from the floor. Vin drew back further into the shadows, silently cursing the new arrival who now seemed to be the very essence of the Devil come to life.
He had pause to reconsider that a moment later when Sue Ann swept the black hat off her newest customer in order to use it to hold the collected ante.
Shocked, Vin sucked in a sharp breath, his chest tightening, back rigid, the whiskey glass all but forgotten in his suddenly idle hand.
Dear God in heaven, not a devil at all...but an angel.
A fallen angel...just like his Mother had once read to him about.
A fallen Angel of Death.
Golden blond hair, like ripened wheat on a sunny day, just long enough to brush his shirt collar, a single darker lock of it plastered with sweat lying upon his forehead. Angular features, gaunt and tired, lined with days of trail dust, but still animated enough to radiate a fierce intensity. Handsome, but in a man's man sort of way, a day or two's growth of beard only adding to his rugged good looks and commanding presence.
Definitely world-wise and weary, Vin mused silently, but so much death and destruction written on that face, those features, lost, lonely, beautiful, fallen...
And then those eyes...surrounded by the background halo of yellow lantern light and golden hair.
Even from across the room, Vin could tell they were green, fierce green, intense, burning...
Burning up with fever and yet no one else there seemed to even notice...or perhaps they didn't care.
They were all too busy placing their bets and fighting for position, some even being so bold as to slap the golden-haired man on the arm or on his shoulder...until a single fist whipped out and grabbed the shirt front of the last man who'd dared to touch him. The strangling grip and lethal glare made words unnecessary before the poor stupid bastard was brutally thrust away.
Mesmerized, unable to help himself, Vin stared at the fallen angel, his hawk-like gaze taking in the pallor of the skin beneath the layers of grime, the warm flush riding high upon the sharp cheekbones, the slick layer of sour sweat bringing an unhealthy glow to the otherwise striking features. Only then did he also notice how the man protected his left arm, held it stiffly to his side, all movement, all action—all threats—coming from the right, from his gun hand.
The angel was also injured.
Vin frowned, unsettled by that realization and yet puzzled as well to the reasons why.
Shaking his head, he had to wonder how this man, this gunslinger, wounded and sick, had let himself be foolishly drawn into a drinking contest. He was clearly at a disadvantage, but just as clearly not inclined to care, at least from what little Vin could tell. Was the man simply stupid? Or possibly insane?
Or maybe he had a death wish?
Vin felt suddenly sick, bile creeping up the back side of his throat. Swallowing against the rather bitter taste, he set his whiskey down abruptly, no longer thirsty at the thought of having to clean the ‘fallen angel's' thick red blood from within the cracks of the dusty floor. Bewildered by his reaction, Vin wasn't sure why he even cared; he only knew that strangely, he cared very much about what happened to this mysterious man.
It was crazy. It was stupid. It was just asking for trouble. But then he'd done stupider things in the course of his short, young life, like getting himself framed for a murder he didn't commit and ending up on the wrong side of the law. That had been all sorts of stupid, near-like five hundred dollars worth of dumb.
So why now? Why here? And why this unknown man?
Two hours later, the ex-bounty hunter still had no reasonable answers. Instead, he had watched from his silent corner as the ‘fallen angel' had taken on all-comers, one sloppy, filthy drunk after another stumbling away from the table, some falling flat on their faces, others making it at least as far as the door or a conveniently located spittoon before puking up their guts.
And still the blond-haired man remained steady, steely-eyed, sweating and flushed with fever yet barely a tremble to his fingers or a hitch in his breath as he swallowed still another shot of amber liquid. When the last man finally tumbled over backwards in his chair, those still sober enough and those left standing let loose a rousing cheer at the black-dressed man's winning drink. But to Vin's amusement, none dared venture close enough to touch him or congratulate him with a slap upon the shoulder.
Shoving back from the table, the gunslinger tried to stand, staggering heavily in his inebriated state. Sue Ann, who had been glued to his side all night long, was quick to lend a shoulder and placed an arm around the narrow waist. Laughing, she squirmed against his body, helping him to his feet, providing a counterbalance when he lurched roughly to the right. Gazing down into her face, he laughed with her at his clumsiness, a sloppy, drunken grin now sprawled across the wickedly handsome features.
A drunken grin that was just as suddenly gone when an extra hand tried to help itself to the cash inside the black hat still sitting on the table.
Quick as a striking rattler, the owner of that hand found himself with a mouth full of cold metal, the pissed-off gunslinger not nearly as drunk as the amount of whiskey consumed might have otherwise implied.
Vin swore softly, admiringly, at the lethal speed with which the man had drawn his gun.
A true gift that—or a curse—depending on your point of view.
"You lose, amigo," snarled in a low and deadly voice was enough to have the would-be thief nearly pissing his pants before slinking away almost on his belly. The redhead laughed some more, bright and brittle, distracting the blond, then scooped up the money-laden hat and tucked it safe within the crook of her other arm.
The threat now gone, the gunman's drunken grin returned, a short bark of malicious laughter accompanying it as the whore whispered more soft words into his closest ear. Something bawdy and sinful, Vin was sure, given the way she hungrily licked her plump, greasy lips, her heavily painted eyes gleaming with noticeable greed.
But the tracker couldn't tell whether that look was for the man leaning heavily against her side or the hat full of paper money and gold coins she gripped so hard it turned her knuckles white.
A bad feeling settled in his gut as Vin watched the whore then manhandle her ‘prize' across the room and towards the stairs. She managed to keep one hand locked on the waistband of his pants and an even firmer grip on the night's winnings with the other. And though the man's right arm lay across the redhead's bare shoulders, his gun now dangling loosely in his grip, the injured arm Vin had detected earlier remained cradled protectively at his side.
Laughter and raucous shouts of whiskey-laden encouragement followed them as they stumbled and staggered their way up the stairs, a brief pause at the top while the woman pretended to adjust her dress.
It was then that Vin saw the signal, the silent acknowledgement that he'd unknowingly been waiting for all night long.
Two men seated by the farthest window, nearly silent shadows much like him, separate from the crowd. There was a glance from the redheaded whore, a nearly motionless nod from the larger of the two figures below, and a few minutes later, when the unfamiliar pair got up to leave, Vin Tanner found himself inexplicably compelled to follow.
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Night brought with it a concealing curtain of darkness, an element as familiar to the tracker as a comfortable, well-worn coat. Skirting the dancing orange light thrown by the many street fires, Vin made his way more by feel than by sight, careful as always to avoid attracting unwelcome attention. He quickly traversed the length of the sidewalk, then ducked back into the alley that led to the wooden stairs behind the still lively saloon.
The rooms on the second floor were for the exclusive use of the working girls and their paying clients. And while Vin had never been up there, a hunter by nature, he could easily guess which room belonged to the redheaded whore. Tucking himself in to the large pile of crates stacked beneath the landing, he tugged his hat low and settled in to wait for his intended quarry.
As always, greed was an impatient mistress and it wasn't long before the dubious pair came scurrying in to the alley. Their voices were soft, excited, thick with anticipation and heavily accented, one of them obviously Mexican, the other with a southern twang...most likely Georgia or Tennessee was Tanner's experienced guess.
And just as clearly not too smart for they then made no effort to disguise their steps as they all but stomped their way up the stairs.
As they passed overhead, the stench of filth and unwashed bodies wafted over the tracker. He wrinkled his nose in disgust even as he smirked at realizing he could have trailed the pair by scent alone. Only after the upstairs door closed behind them did the former bounty hunter then leave his chosen hiding place, mounting the stairs with a stealth born of caution and a healthy instinct for self-preservation. After gaining the hallway on the second level, he spied the men climbing out the window at the far end, the landing of the overhang their obvious destination.
It was exactly where Vin had guessed they'd set their trap, a large corner bedroom that most likely had an adjoining parlor.
Slipping like a shadow along the length of the corridor, the tracker just as silently drew his gun before peeking around the edge of the open window. The night breeze caressed his face, lifted the long hair from around his shoulders and carried the stench in the opposite direction, the chance for a clean breath of air more than a welcome relief.
Breathing deep and slow, willing his heart beat to settle, Vin was just in time to see the duo disappear into the second, light-filled casement. Carefully easing out after them, he grimaced at the sharp bass grunt that was followed in rapid succession by the sound of breaking glass and a loud thud.
No gun shots.
They'd taken their prey without a fight.
Not good but the ‘two-on-one' odds didn't concern him.
Sneaking closer, the tracker peered through the open window, frowning at the dark form lying face down on the floor beside the large, rumpled bed. Unmoving, one hand lay in a pile of broken glass and a wet pool of liquid that had spread to a braided rug. The thieves were already rifling through the gunman's pockets and grinning at their anticipated bounty.
The redheaded whore, Sue Ann, was nowhere to be seen.
Without hesitation, Vin climbed silently into the room and brought the barrel of his mare's leg to bear against the back of the nearest man's head.
"Git offa him," he snarled, low and menacing, one man tensing in surprised fear, hands lifting over his head, while the other made a check move, intent on going for his gun. "I wouldn't," Vin warned just as softly, "lessen ya want yer friend's brains blown all over this here floor."
Neither man moved, nor did they speak, and it was only then that Vin realized his dilemma. The ex-bounty hunter couldn't very well turn the pair over to the local law without the risk of being captured and hung himself. His reward poster was plastered in every sheriff's office from Texas to as far north as Denver, Colorado.
Damn, he cursed silently, jaw tense, teeth gritted in irritation before he quickly decided, "G'on, git." Vin just hoped like hell he didn't live to regret this. The loaded mare's leg flickered in the direction of the open window, the meaning obvious. "...fore I change m'mind," he added for extra measure.
The pair hesitated slightly, weighing their options, the brief thought of two-against-one clearly passing through the Mexican's mind before he made the mistake of glancing into the suddenly smirking face and the glacial blue eyes that knowingly appraised him.
"I see either of ya come mornin' an' I might not be so forgivin' an' forgettin'." He kept his voice low and soft, menacing, deadly.
Vin then cautiously took a step to the side, eyes never leaving them, allowing the two men to finally move. The waves of fear and cowardice coming off them smelled worse than a drunk on a three-day bender, or maybe, he speculated, it was just their collective unwashed human filth. Shifting his gun, Vin then pointedly made no effort to put it away. When they didn't move fast enough to suit him, Tanner added meaningfully, "...or mebbe I'll just tell this here feller what ya tried t'do to ‘im. Reckon he might have a more agreeable nature."
At any other time, Tanner might have laughed at the sight of them trying to squeeze through the window together. It reminded him of rabbits scurrying down a hole. But Vin was still too angry, still too oddly concerned about the injured man lying silent as death and unmoving upon the floor.
Once he was satisfied the would-be thieves were gone, Vin holstered his gun, stepped to the window, closing it softly before firmly setting the lock in place. A quick glance into the street below and he pulled the curtains closed. Stepping to the fallen man's side, Vin knelt down, absently noting the missing duster and the studded leather gun belt now lying on a table beside the bed. His hands were gentle as he then rolled the gunman over.
A soft groan greeted his efforts and the tracker released the breath he hadn't even been aware that he was holding. Scowling in concern at the amount of blood forming a glistening red trail over the right side of the lax features, Vin probed gently where the shirt front was unbuttoned at the base of the injured man's neck. He was relieved to find the pulse strong and for the most part steady.
A noise from the adjoining room, the twist and click of a doorknob followed by "Damn, Jesse, there's nearly seventy dollars here," and Vin surged upward from the floor to grab hold of the redheaded whore. He swung her sharply around, pinning her against the wall with a decisive and painful thump. Gold coins and dollar bills scattered as they were dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers.
Using his hand, ignoring the bite of her fingernails as she clawed at him, Vin smothered her gasp of surprise. Long fingers on his other hand seized the smooth elk horn handle of a knife tucked into a sheath at the small of his back. He swiftly used the length of the lethally sharp blade along the side of his forearm to press tight against the soft flesh beneath her chin.
"No noise," he ordered gruffly, satisfied by the fear that covered her gaudily painted face.
Her eyes searched frantically over Vin's shoulder, scanning the empty room, then returned again to lock on Tanner's furious face. She struggled to breathe beneath his bruising grip, small puffs of air escaping through her nose, and wedged this close against her, Vin could see the red hair she sported was not her natural color. She reeked of the cloying scent of cheap, store-bought perfume, a whore's trick often used to mask the overwhelming stench of filth, sweat and sex.
The odor turned his stomach.
"I let go, you stay quiet, you just might live, got it?" Vin demanded with a slight press of the silver blade. Her tiny squeak of agreement was enough to allow him to slowly remove his hand.
Recognition suddenly dawned and quick as a cat, her fear turned to something else.
"Why, Ben...Ben Logan, ain't it?...I got a customer right now, sugar," she all but purred beneath his grip, her hands moving to caress his chest, "but you come back by later and ol' Sue Ann here'll sure give you somethin' good to growl about." She even went so far as to swivel her hips in his direction, doing her best to brush against Vin's groin even while pinned against the wall.
"Got no use for an ugly, one-eyed whore," Tanner snarled, the knife tip flashing upward, threatening. "An' I seen how ya treat yer customers." A flick of his head pointed out the oblivious man on the floor.
Sue Ann's eyes rounded, denial forming on the tip of her tongue, but then like a chameleon, she changed colors yet again.
"No, it ain't like that," the whore whined, wilting suddenly in his grasp. "I didn't mean him no harm. I was just supposed to get the money." She sniffed pathetically, fake tears forming in her eyes. "Jesse, the big one, he made me do it, said he'd beat me if I didn't. I tried to tell him no but he hit me, hit me hard, made me bleed too. I couldn't work for days. He scares me, scares me real bad. I didn't know what else to do so I..."
"Shut up!" the tracker grated sharply. He emphasized his irritation with a hard thrust of his forearm against her throat, cutting off her tale of lies. "Ain't neither one o'them ya-hoos smart ‘nough t'pull this off." Taking a deep breath to control his anger, he then added, "Now when I let you breathe again, yer gonna do ‘xactly as I tell ya, when I tell ya an' keep yer trap shut. Got it?"
This time Sue Ann nodded and when Vin released her, she remained silent. But her hands trembled as she gathered the lacey robe she wore over her red, close-fitting underclothes. The garments did little to cover the pale flesh beneath.
Vin watched her a moment, nodded in return, then put away his knife. He moved to kneel beside the fallen man, glanced at the soiled bed, then looked up at her from the floor. "Strip them sheets offa there an' get some clean ones. Yer gonna help me get ‘im off the floor."
"I ain't no nursemaid," Sue Ann immediately protested, chin lifted in an attempt at defiance.
"Do it!" Vin growled, his patience wearing thin.
Terrified by the icy coldness of his blue eyes and the promises she saw in them, the whore scurried to do his bidding. Within moments, the bed was stripped and remade with clean linens before the two of them wrestled the inert form up on to it. She stepped back, watching warily, as Tanner reached down and began to unbutton the black shirt.
"Water."
She grabbed the pitcher off the washbasin, poured a mug of water, and then held it out to him. Vin glanced up at her, at the mug, shook his head in disgust and returned to his task.
The woman was useless.
Sue Ann set the water down on the bedside table and backed away. She stood watching, silently wringing her hands, and then frowned as she realized what he was doing.
"H-he can't stay here," she stammered even as Vin peeled back the black material to reveal a smoothly muscled chest. "I gotta work, Logan. Paulson charges me extra for this room. I cain't have no drunk taking my bed."
Vin shot her a look of pure disgust but continued with his task, his hands pulling and tugging at the gunman's clothing. "Seems t'me...ya done earned yer keep already," his remark a veiled reference to the money she had stuffed in the front of her bodice down in the saloon.
"No, he...he cain't stay here. You take him someplace else," she demanded.
Furious, Vin straightened and stalked across the room. Beside the open door to the parlor, he bent over and retrieved several of the gold coins and scattered pieces of paper bills littering the floor. Walking over to her, he grasped her right hand and shoved the money into it, clasping her fingers tightly around it with his own.
"Git outta here," the tracker ordered harshly before he sharply released her. "Git outta here an' keep yer mouth shut." Vin turned his back on her and returned to the bedside. "Tell Bessie I wanna see ‘er. You wanna work, use her room."
The whore took a halting step, her eyes fearful and wary, unsure whether or not to take ‘Logan' at his word. When he made no move to stop her, her steps quickened; relief coursed through her as she reached the door, the money still clutched tightly in her hand.
"Sue Ann..." His voice stopped her headlong rush, the coldness of it twirling her around to face him. She froze, suddenly immobile, at the slow flash of the knife blade as he held it up, twirled it in the light, slowly ran a calloused thumb along the length of the edge. His mouth quirked in an evil grin, Vin's eyes never left hers as he said, "Used t'hunt buffalo fer a livin'...pretty good at skinnin' ‘em, too."
Terrified, she hurried from the room at the implied promise of his words.
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Mousey brown hair, plain features and a tendency to be a little thick around the middle kept Bessie Sullivan from being one of the prettier working girls, unlike Sue Ann with her brilliant red hair and generous curves. But what Bessie lacked in looks, she more than made up for with her talents as a whore. When she had offered to curl Logan's toes earlier, it hadn't been a boast.
When the quiet, young man had first showed up looking for a job, she'd been quick to notice him. Tall and lean, square-jawed, long curling brown hair and the most amazing sky-blue eyes. He'd made her mouth water even as she itched to get her hands on him.
Or better yet, her tongue.
Emboldened by his appearance in the saloon that evening, ever hopeful, she'd been quick to approach him. Her hands, seeking and teasing, had stroked the fullness at the crotch of his pants, quickly finding that he carried more than enough to satisfy a woman. And there was something about him that told her he knew how to use it too. Too bad he'd firmly but politely refused her proposition.
So when Sue Ann had knocked on her door and said Logan wanted her, she'd been surprised yet quick to bid her current customer a hasty goodbye. Hurrying down the hall, it was all she could do not to twitch at the ache in her lower belly and the rush of liquid heat between her legs. It wasn't often that she got to truly enjoy her work, but Bessie planned to make the most of it, not even pausing long enough to question why Logan was in Sue Ann's room or what had happened to the delicious-looking blond the other woman had cornered for herself.
Stopping at the door only long enough to check her hair and tug the front of her dress even lower, she knocked softly, a wickedly bright smile now plastered on her face.
"Who's there?" His voice was pitched low, quiet. It sent a shiver of anticipation up her spine.
"Bessie," she answered just as softly, her heart beginning to beat a little faster.
The door cracked open and Bessie's wrist was seized in a nearly brutal grasp. She found herself jerked forward through the narrowed opening, then spun around, her backside pressed hard against the wall with Logan's arm now across her upper chest. He glanced into the hallway after her before snapping the door sharply closed.
His actions took her by surprise and she was momentarily at a loss for words.
Locking the door, Logan turned on his heel, switched his grip to her elbow, and pulled a startled Bessie along behind him as he growled, "In here."
She barely smothered a hysterical urge to giggle as she all but stumbled across the room behind him. If Logan thought she was going to refuse, then he was in for a mighty big surprise. There was no place on earth she'd rather be than headed to the biggest, softest bed in town with this handsome hunk of a man as her customer.
Unless they were already in that bed without a single stitch of clothing between them!
Entering Sue Ann's bedroom, he stopped and turned to her. Bessie took the initiative, going up on tiptoe, her arms twining around him as she pressed full length against his hips and chest.
"I just knew you'd change your mind, honey," she purred, her lips and tongue attempting to make contact with his throat.
The tracker's hands grasped hold of her upper arms, angling her slightly away from him, a little leery of the nearly predatory look in her eyes and the sudden, almost physical assault upon his body. Still filled with worry and anger over what Sue Ann and her cronies had planned to do, it took a moment for him to register that the young woman thought she was there to bed him.
Ducking his head, unable to stop the blush coloring his cheeks, Vin gently removed her arms from around his neck. He opened his mouth to speak but her gasp of surprise cut him off.
"Oh, my..." The whore was staring over his shoulder at the half-dressed man lying on the bed. She was startled but not unduly alarmed. Bessie had done this kind of thing before.
She'd anticipated just one customer, Logan. But the remarkably attractive blond Sue Ann had purloined earlier, the one with the devilish grin and sinful green eyes, lay stretched out on the bed. Shirt open to the waist, his face was turned away from her and it seemed as if he was sleeping. Her mouth watered at the sight of all that naked male flesh and she couldn't help the deep twitch in her belly with the expectation of more to come. She grinned, shooting Logan a wickedly intense look filled with lust.
One thumb reached up to stroke the stubble of his jaw as she murmured, "I usually charge double for this kind of thing but," she chuckled, eager for the challenge of bedding the two best looking men she'd seen in a long time, "for the pair of you, I might make an exception."
Vin shook his head while pulling her hand away from his face. "Ain't lookin' fer that," he answered, then shot a glance over his shoulder. "Help me get his clothes off."
Okay, two men...so maybe Logan liked to watch? Either way, she'd be happy to bed the blond, happier still to do them both. But let Logan watch all he wanted, see what he was missing. Eager, the whore reached up and hurriedly began unfastening the laces of her dress only to find her fingers trapped by work-roughened hands.
She almost missed the softly worded, "...man's hurt."
Bessie frowned in confusion. "He a friend of yours?" Must be, she reasoned. Why else would Logan be here?
"Don't know ‘im," he admitted, "...but she set ‘im up."
Her eyes widened before Bessie suddenly nodded her head. From what she'd been told, Sue Ann had done this before, some of her other customers even disappearing under decidedly dubious circumstances. But if Logan or the man on the bed had caught on to her schemes, then that would certainly explain the look on Sue Ann's face and the way she'd kept glancing over her shoulder in fear.
It still didn't explain, though, why Logan was keen to help the other man.
"Then why...?" she began only to have him turn and walk away from her. Reaching the bed, he picked up one booted foot and began to work it off the other man's long legs. He shot her a look, quelling any further questions, leaving Bessie to sigh in resignation before she moved across the room to grab hold of the other foot. Together, they removed the man's boots, socks and tight, black pants, leaving him clad only in his opened shirt and a pair of dingy, gray long handles. The blond gunman was long, lean and well muscled, but he remained silent and unmoving the entire time they worked leaving an admiring Bessie to wonder if he was truly asleep or just passed out stinking-dead drunk.
It was only when she moved up to the head of the bed to help Logan lift the man and take off his shirt that she saw the basin full of bloodied water and the pink-stained cloth beside it. Her eyes lifted to his but the long-haired man ignored her questioning gaze.
The blond groaned, his legs twitching restlessly, when Vin's hand made contact with his head. "Sorry, pard," he offered quietly as Bessie helped him ease the sleeves off first one shoulder and then the other. A hissing breath escaped him at the filthy strip of cloth he found wrapped around what Tanner suspected was a bad wound in the other man's arm.
Lowering the gunman back to the bed, Vin ordered, "Blanket," as he then untied the crude bandage. He swore softly at the nasty bullet wound in the thick meat of the upper arm. Ugly, puckered and swollen, foul-smelling liquid drained from it, streaks of red heat branching upward towards the shoulder.
"Thanks," he murmured as Bessie handed him a blanket she'd found in the linen trunk, then used it to cover the man to his chest while Vin pondered his next move.
The wound was more than his limited skills could manage. It was sour, the man most likely on the verge of blood poisoning, especially if the bullet was still in his arm. He needed help. The problem was, that kind of ‘help' invited all sorts of questions, something which he'd bet neither of them could ill afford.
Sighing, he asked her, "Town got a healer?"
"Doc Wainwright lives at the end of the street," Bessie offered.
Vin shook his head. "Too many questions. Don't reckon this feller'd take lightly t'havin' t'answer ‘em." Not to mention Tanner's own aversion to the local law. He waited, shooting her a glance, clearly hoping for more.
She fidgeted for a moment, plainly indecisive, her hands wringing together before Bessie finally admitted, "There's a Chinese lady...her daughter runs the laundry...she, uh... she takes care of the girls here."
It was one of the uglier sides of being a whore, the unwanted pregnancies that were a risk to any woman who plied the trade and wasn't careful with her craft. Some of the girls were smart enough to protect themselves with condoms made of lambskin or cow intestine; others used sponges, special herbs or various types of washes. Most relied on staying off their backs during their vulnerable time or tried to make sure their client did not release inside of them. But the risk of contracting diseases, predominantly syphilis or gonorrhea, was an ever present threat.
Uglier still, though, were the means that some of the whores used to rid themselves of those pregnancies, the toll in human life and suffering costly and yet widely ignored. Pills, potions, herbs, teas and the occasional physical termination of pregnancy sometimes took not only the life of the fetus but of the mother as well.
Vin shuddered, not sure he wanted to rely on the type of ‘help' that such a person provided, but realized he had little choice.
"All right," he nodded. "Get ‘er an' be quick about it." He watched as she turned and headed for the door, pausing only slightly as she noted the money scattered around. "No questions, Bessie, don't talk t'no one, ya got it?"
She glanced at him over her shoulder, looked down at the money, then back at him. There was a small hesitation in her step before she nodded, flashed him a brief smile, then left to fetch the healer.
Going across the room after her, Tanner picked up the few bits of remaining money and went into the parlor to once again secure the outer door. Lifting the gunman's black hat off the low table beside the sofa, he stuffed the currency back into it and returned to the bed in the other room. Bleary, green eyes tracked his progress.
"Who are you?" The voice was soft and low, husky even, with a world of weariness and pain infused into those three simple words.
At the bedside, Vin set down the hat, wet yet another cloth with fresh water, and proceeded to wipe the sheen of sweat from the handsome features.
"A friend," he answered just as quietly, smiling a bit when a soft sigh escaped the blond and his eyes once more drifted closed.
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They called her Qiaohui which meant "skillful and wise" in her native dialect. Given that name at birth, from a very young age she had been trained in the art, science and wisdom of Chinese medicine and healing. Poverty, hunger and disease combined with the promise of a better life in America had brought her family across the ocean some fifteen years before.
Sadly, poverty, hunger and disease had followed as well, prejudice and hatred only adding to their burdens. Her only son long dead, killed by a drunken cowboy with a gun, her daughter and son-in-law ran the small laundry at the edge of town. Her elderly husband tended the plot of hard ground beside it. A small wooden shanty, a chicken coop, a tiny garden, they grew their own vegetables and herbs and kept to themselves as much as possible. The meager amount of money that Qiaohui earned from patients helped to keep the family from completely starving.
Thin and frail, tiny in stature, her age was hard to define given her exotic features and sallow skin. Her narrow shoulders were stooped, her back bent from years of hard labor, long fingers gnarled by painful arthritis. The plait of braided hair down her back was an equal mix of black and gray that stretched nearly to her waist. In a simple tunic and dark pants, she would hardly garner a glance from a passerby.
But her eyes, almost completely black in color, were keen, intelligent, quick to size up the long-haired man who answered the knock at the door and the silent blond one lying on the bed in the second room. Having been forewarned by Bessie, she asked no questions. She merely went about the task of tending to the sick and wounded man. Everything that had come before was none of her business.
Placing a bag of supplies on the floor, she raised one hand to the gunman's face, felt the heat there, flicked one eyelid upward and then the other. She cocked her head, noted the wet hair on one side from where the scalp wound had been cleaned, parted the golden strands to assess the hidden damage. She muttered something in her own tongue, smelled the whiskey and the sickness on him. Removing a colored bottle from her provisions, she motioned for Bessie and Vin to hold the blond while she fed some of the liquid into his mouth.
The injured man choked, coughed a little, then swallowed some of the brown fluid. His brow wrinkled at the taste and Qiaohui placed some more of it between his lips. Satisfied when he swallowed again, she nodded, motioning for them to lay him back down upon the bed. Under Vin's watchful gaze, she pulled out more various jars, packets and bandages from her carryall.
"Wa-ter," she ordered with a glance at Bessie, her voice accented and clipped. The old woman's command of English was limited despite her many years. Most that she had picked up since coming to the small town were limited to those words that pertained to her trade as a healer. Giving the liquid medicine some time to work, she blended a poultice for the man's wounds and mixed packets of tea leaves laced with herbs for the pain and fever. Once finished, she moved to the other side of the bed.
"Ho'd him," she instructed, waiting while Vin and Bessie did her bidding before using her crooked fingers to probe the wound. The blond man thrashed a couple of times, murmuring a bit on the bed, but did not wake. After several minutes, Qiaohui let out a satisfied grunt. "No bullet," she intoned, "...bu' bad..." She traced upward along the trail of red-streaked flesh, lifted and turned the man's arm, found the exit wound on the other side. "...mus' clean..."
"Whatdya need?" Vin asked quietly, worry evident on his face, brow wrinkled as he frowned.
"Jes ho'd," she answered, dark gaze lifting to meet the blue eyes of the tracker. She had seen him around town the last few days, heard some of the working girls talking about the new hire, but other than that, Qiaohui knew only what her eyes and her senses told her about this man.
He was not who he appeared to be. There were many questions and much secrecy surrounding him. His clothing and his manner, the gun at his side, they all spoke of the outdoors, of sun and wind and desert, of a life lived off the land. He would be self-sufficient, a loner, with no need of and no use for the trappings of town and other people. So why was he here? In this place? And caring for this man?
Qiaohui kept these questions locked inside, not daring to speak them, knowing it was wiser to keep them unasked and better yet leave them unanswered. She would wash their clothes, tend their injuries and treat their women, but this white man's business was his own. The scars on her back had taught her that painful lesson a very long time ago when she'd been denied justice for her son.
Working diligently, she purged the wound, scrubbing away the grime and contamination, not satisfied until the red blood ran clear and the flesh was pink. Then, soaking a cloth in whiskey, she glanced at Vin, nodded meaningfully, then applied the wet rag to the freshly cleaned area.
This time when the blond moved, he didn't thrash about. Glazed eyes wide, he sat up with a powerful roar that nearly threw Vin, Bessie and Qiaohui onto the floor. Acting on instinct, the tracker lashed out with one fist, catching the man across the jaw, the instant quiet alarming as the gunman's body went limp and he collapsed.
The elderly Chinese woman continued working as if nothing had even happened. Bessie, however, couldn't suppress a nervous giggle as ‘Logan' grimaced and shook the pain from his knuckles.
"Reckon that must have hurt," she offered, grinning, and speaking for the first time in a while. But Vin wasn't sure which of them she meant. He spared a glance at his hand, still feeling the solid blow throbbing up the length of his arm. Damn, that smarted. Then, looking at the injured man, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt at the bruise already beginning to darken the handsome face.
Expert hands finished applying a poultice and bandaged the gunman's arm. Another was quickly applied to the head gash. Then the Chinese woman set about instructing them on how to care for the injured man.
She handed Bessie a round pot filled with a pungent salve. "Two time..." she held up two gnarled fingers, "...clean an' change..." Vin was given a bandana now tied around several packets of tea and herbs. "Fo'r time make drink..." A half-empty glass bottle and a spoon were pressed into his other hand. "Pain...put in tea..." Tanner frowned, uneasy with the idea of giving the man laudanum, if that's what was indeed in the container. "You pay now."
Damn, he hadn't reckoned on that.
The tracker set down the cloth-wrapped bundle so he could dig into the pocket of his pants. He didn't have much and what small amount Tanner did have, he'd worked hard for in order to buy supplies. He hadn't counted on having to pay for a healer or the wrinkle it would put in his plans. If only there was some way...
Then Vin's gaze fell on the black hat sitting beside the bed.
He hesitated for only a moment before removing a few of the coins from within. Seemed only right the gunman should pay for his own care. Pressing them into her hand, Vin watched the Chinese woman check the money, carefully count the amount and then, satisfied, nod her head. Without another word, she gathered her things and started for the door, but Vin held up one more coin in front of her.
"You got a boy?" She dipped her head, eyeing him suspiciously. "He smart, quick, keep his mouth shut?" She nodded again and Vin flipped the coin to her. With a flick of his head towards the bed, he ordered, "Take care o' his horse, bring his things, make sure he don't talk t'no one."
The healer paused, glanced at both of them, weighing the risk to her grandson. Then, she gave a slight bow and quietly left the room. Again, Vin locked the hallway door behind her. When he returned to the bedside, Bessie was investigating the contents of the jar.
"Smells awful," she said, "but I reckon that don't matter much as long as it works, right?"
Vin didn't bother to answer, busy deliberating his next move as he returned to the bedside. He removed his hat and coat, setting them both aside. Getting fresh water for the basin, he rinsed out a cloth, then sat on the side of the bed, one hip perched next to the blond. His hand was steady as he wiped the sweat from the slack features. Lost in thought, it took a moment before he realized Bessie was calling his name.
"Ben?...Ben?..."
"It's Vin..." he offered, with a glance over one shoulder.
Mouth open, she paused, frowning...and then understanding dawned. Her lips rounded into a startled "Oh!" before she quickly clamped them closed. No questions. She knew better than to ask, a few too many backhanded slaps in her life killing her natural curiosity. His reasons for using a name not his own were none of her business. In fact, many of her clients never gave theirs. Bessie never asked, just took their money before moving on to the next nameless and instantly forgettable customer.
Not that either of these men would ever be forgettable and now this one...Vin, not Ben...was no longer even truly nameless.
"Ya got help? Somebody ya trust?" he asked, still watching her over his shoulder.
Right away, her mind went to Jolene, her closest friend and confidant, if a whore could ever really say that she had a friend, but still Bessie nodded. Jolene was short, fat and extremely round. The big woman had a heart of gold, oftentimes seeming more like a mother-hen than just another of the working girls. She'd kept Bessie from getting the worst of it when a trio of drifters had decided to slice her up before Paulson scattered them with a sawed-off shotgun.
She wondered what he had in mind.
Vin's plan was simple.
The tracker knew he had to work. He also couldn't stay in the room all day long caring for the man without inviting a lot of unwanted attention. So, Bessie would pretend to be holed up with the injured gunman, providing her ‘exclusive services for a fee' as usual, while her friend deflected questions, brought them food and supplies, and generally kept an eye on the scuttlebutt downstairs. That way anyone who came on the shoot would find the former bounty hunter more than ready.
It was a good plan. Vin would move his things into the other room later that evening.
But Bessie was still confused. It wasn't right for a man to stick his neck out like this for one he didn't even know. "Uh, B...Vin?" He acknowledged her with a slant of his head, his gaze on the feverish face beneath his hand. "Why're you doing this? You don't even know him."
A good question.
One he couldn't answer because Vin didn't know himself. He just knew that it was right.
Maybe someday his Indian Spirit guide would tell him why.
Bessie silently shook her head. Stupid. She shouldn't have asked. It was none of her business. She should be happy to get paid without having to work while lying on her back. Three meals a day, a comfortable bed, two handsome men, and no one pawing or grabbing at her were an extra bonus. It was more than a poor, simple whore like her could ever wish for. Sighing, she set down the jar and left the room.
Behind her, Vin was just as puzzled.
But for the next two days, with Bessie's help, he tended the injured man. The tracker cleaned his wounds, changed dirty bandages, washed the bedridden body, and fed the gunman tea and laudanum for the pain and persistent fever. He even gently soothed the frantic cries brought on by delirium and the drug-laden nightmares.
But on the third day, Clem and Rufus McClellan, a pair of bounty hunters from Arkansas, rode into town.
An hour later, Vin Tanner rode out.
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Straw broom held firmly in both hands, Vin couldn't help but think that he looked awful silly wearing freshly cleaned clothes and a starched white apron to sweep the dust off the sidewalk. But Virgil Watson, the store owner, was adamant about presenting a good appearance to his customers. He said it made his business seem more prosperous by being spotless, well-tended and tidy. Personally, Vin didn't think he'd been scrubbed this clean in a month of Sundays but the money was too good to pass up and the tracker needed the supplies.
Supplies he hadn't had time to purchase in the last town...
Lost in thought, ignoring the shouting and cursing and gunplay down the street, Vin's gaze was held by the small swirls of dust at his feet and memories of fever-bright green eyes. But then the clatter of hooves and the rattle of harnesses and chains drew his attention and he glanced up as a small procession of men paraded by in front of the store.
Some of the Texas trail hands were mounted on horseback while others were holding onto a black man who was tied up in the back of a wagon. In the bed of the wagon was a pine box fashioned into a coffin.
It was rumored that their trail boss had fallen ill and died.
Still gripping his broom, Vin watched as the ragtag procession made its way down the street, saw the town's newspaper editor step out to meet them, shotgun in her hand. The tracker couldn't hear the exchange of words from where he stood but he clearly saw the woman's blond hair flash in the sunlight as she fell backward, heard the accidental blast of her shotgun followed by the laughter and shouts of the men.
"We're late fer a funeral, boys! Get this wagon movin'!"
More gunshots echoed in the street as the mob rode on by.
"Are you people just gonna let this happen?" Mary Travis hollered to no one in particular, then she turned and ran down the street after the trail hands.
Vin groaned inwardly, glanced around, somehow not surprised when no one stepped forward.
The rowdy mob was planning on hanging their prisoner.
But Tanner knew it wasn't right. This wasn't justice.
This was a lynching.
Damn.
Sighing, he turned and set aside the broom. Walking back in to the store and pulling off his apron, the tracker grabbed a brand new rifle and a handful of bullets from behind the counter. Picking up his hat, he set it firmly on his head and walked back outside into the bright sunlight. Virgil Watson followed him.
"You walk off with that rifle and you're fired."
"Hell, I'm prob'bly gonna get myself killed..." Vin replied laconically, "...now I gotta worry ‘bout a new job too."
He didn't wait for Virgil's answer, merely continued to load the rifle, something across the street suddenly catching his attention. Glancing up, Vin felt a lightning bolt of recognition shoot through him as he stared into a pair of familiar and slightly amused green eyes.
Lean, tall and dark, black hat pulled low on his forehead, Vin immediately recognized the fallen Angel of Death he had last seen some five weeks and three days ago. Hope flared briefly that somehow, despite his illness, the man had learned of Tanner's existence, had followed him.
Had perhaps come looking for him.
But there was no reciprocal shock of remembrance on the handsome face before him. Just a slight tilt of the blond head, a questioning gaze, the tightening of those lips around the slender cheroot clenched between his teeth.
No words were spoken but the invitation was clear.
The tracker didn't hesitate. He nodded, received a clipped nod in return, then stepped into the dusty street. He met the gunfighter halfway, the pair just avoiding some spinning horses and their drunken riders. The rifle was perched almost casually on Vin's shoulder as they walked the length of the street. Together, they moved as one, side by side, step for step, and he felt the other man's gaze flash to him for a brief look, gauging, assessing.
They walked quietly through the gathered onlookers, passed through the gate and then in to the cemetery where the drunken cowboys were intent on hanging their captive prisoner. The smell of tobacco smoke permeated the air as the black-dressed man slowly exhaled, grasped the cheroot with his fingers, and removed it from between his lips.
"What th'hell d'you want?"
"Cut ‘im loose." The gunman's voice was low and soft, the rasp of it sending a shiver racing up Vin's spine.
The man who'd challenged them turned his head and spit a wad of tobacco juice into the dirt.
"Reckon y'all'd be happier if ya just rode away," Tanner drawled, his stance deceptively casual.
"Not a chance, boys." The same man laughed, not realizing he was already dead.
Beside Vin, the gunfighter's steely green eyes surveyed the odds, found them favorable, a good fight to his liking. Lynch mobs were a bunch of cowards anyways.
"Shot a lot of holes in the clouds back there," the blond observed somewhat casually. "Anybody stop to reload?"
The men gathered inside the cemetery tensed as the gunman fought back a smirk. The leader of the mob then flipped the leather tie-ring off the trigger of his gun where it rested in his holster, thinking he was ready for the fight. Vin felt, rather than actually saw, the gunslinger pull back the edge of his duster with his hand, knew the studded silver Conchos would be sparkling in the sunlight. The tracker cocked the rifle with his thumb, saw the instant when the cowboy's eyes narrowed just before he drew.
The next few minutes were a blur of sound and motion, dust and blood and the smell of gunpowder, voices shouting and bullets flying until the last of the trail hands were either dead or on the run. Their intended victim sat in the dirt, trying to catch his breath after Vin shot the rope that had held suspended him from the tree.
"I got him!...I got him!"
A green horn appeared out of the crowd, gun in hand, aiming to go after one of the cowards who'd gotten away. A bullet into the ground kicked up the dust at his feet and stopped the young man cold.
"You don't shoot nobody in the back."
The look of confusion and fear on the dark-headed kid's face was almost comical but he froze, respecting the command in the gunman's voice. An interesting code of honor, Vin mused, not sure the same could be said about himself.
The blond turned, holstered his gun. "Name's Chris."
"Vin Tanner." Now why in the hell had he offered up his full name? The tracker frowned at his mistake. Best not to let on that he'd slipped up. "New in town?"
"Yesterday...You?"
"Last week." He breathed a little easier as the heat of battle started to fade.
The taller man glanced down, noticed the rifle in Vin's hands, had witnessed the accuracy with which he'd used it. "Buffalo hunter?"
"Among other things...not many left to hunt," Tanner replied, unable to keep a bit of regret from coloring his words.
Suddenly, there was another gunshot, one of the trail hands apparently only wounded and making a last play for revenge. He died almost as quickly as the knife that flashed through the air to bury itself in his back. Vin found himself glancing to the man beside him, both in relief and in admiration, at the accuracy of that throw.
"One o'y'all wanna pull th'knife out that fella?...Cut me loose here...?"
Together, they walked across the cemetery and to the other man's side. Chris, the gunslinger, removed the hangman's noose from around the black man's neck while Tanner cut the ropes binding his wrists. They each grabbed an arm and helped the groaning man to his feet, the air still wheezing tightly in and out of his abused throat and causing him to cough.
"Gentlemen, I run the Clarion News. Where did you come from?" The blond-headed newspaper woman was there again, her maroon-colored dress now stained with dirt.
"Saloon," came the gunman's terse reply, obviously not in the mood for conversation.
As they started to leave, the black man rubbed at his neck where the rope had burned his skin, the fear of being hung something that Vin could well understand.
"Hey, I-I wanna talk to you." She was intent on questioning them, wanted answers for her newspaper most likely. The gunman gave her a cursory glance, just as clearly of no mind to indulge her curiosity. "Where're you going?" she pleaded.
The rush of battle was fading, a thirst for something a lot stronger than water taking hold in the aftermath. Where were they going? The best place in the world as far as Vin was concerned, his blue eyes meeting the unspoken agreement in the green ones of the man beside him.
"Saloon."
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Vin was exhausted, body, mind, heart and soul. His clothes were filthy and he reeked of trail dust, leather, horse and sweat. Too many hours spent in the saddle had left him with an ache in his backside that no amount of Nathan's liniment could ever possibly hope to cure. After he'd nearly ridden his poor horse into the ground trying to find that lying bitch, Ella Gaines, all he had to show for it were a pair of saddle sores that matched the holes worn into the seat of his long handles.
But as bad as Vin felt, he knew his pain was nothing compared to the agony inside of the wounded man sitting so still in a chair on the wooden sidewalk. Despite the warmth of the late afternoon sun, Chris was huddled beneath a blanket. His handsome features were frozen into a cold, expressionless mask that reflected a silent, isolated prison of pain and misery. Long fingers clutched the faded material close around slumped shoulders, using it like a cloak to shut out the rest of the world.
Two long years.
Two long years of watching and waiting while Chris seemed to slowly come out of his isolation, his terrible grief and his suffering...two long years of waiting for the rage and anger and need for revenge to fade.
Two long years of hoping and dreaming and this was what Vin had to show for it.
With her schemes and her lies, twisting Chris around her little finger, the murdering whore had sent Larabee tumbling back into the exile of his self-imposed Hell. She had returned him to the dark world of guilt and loss and heartache, one of her hired hands nearly taking the gunman's life in the process. Only Nathan's expert skills as a healer had kept the man from dying...at least physically.
Vin still wasn't sure about Chris's soul.
He approached the other man quietly, cautiously, trying to hold in his own disappointment and concern... something he was pretty sure Larabee would not want nor accept.
"Chris," he called as he stepped up on the sidewalk, seeing that the injured blond appeared to be lost in thought. "She leaked outta the landscape."
The gunman's eyes flickered to him briefly, his expression unreadable.
"We covered every town ‘tween here and Red Fork." The tracker shook his head and then shrugged his shoulders as if to apologize before he glanced down. "Sorry ya didn't shoot ‘er when ya had th'chance."
There was a moment of heavy silence between them before Vin looked up again, but Chris was staring off down the street, refusing to meet his gaze.
"Next time..."
Cold.
Softly spoken.
It wasn't a threat.
It was a promise.
A chilling promise...something ugly and bitter filling the gunman's eyes and his face now that all of his anger and his hatred had finally found a focus. Except that the tracker wasn't so sure if those emotions were for the scheming bitch who'd stolen Chris Larabee's soul and the lives of his wife and son...or for the man himself for allowing them to be stolen.
When Chris made no further move to speak, Vin found himself asking, "Nathan know yer out here?"
The icy, green eyes narrowed briefly, one brow quirked, and Vin could guess the snarled reply without it having to be spoken. Chris Larabee didn't need permission from anyone for anything. The only way Nathan would find out that his latest patient was out of bed was if the wounded man fell flat on his face and had to be carried back to the healer's clinic, which given the pallor of his skin, wouldn't be long in coming.
Vin hoped to spare Chris that further indignity.
"C'mon, cowboy," he offered quietly. "Let's git ya back t'yer room ‘for Nate decides t'shoot ya himself."
The tracker was surprised when Chris gave him no argument, merely grunted in reply, shifting his long legs as Vin offered him a hand up. A piece of paper fluttered to the ground, falling from the gunman's lap and the taller man stiffened briefly, clutched the blanket tighter, as Tanner bent to retrieve it.
It was a photograph.
Vin instantly recognized the faces before him, knew the man and woman, was familiar with the furnishings around them and the fancy clothes they wore even though he hadn't been present when the picture was taken. Blue eyes locked with wary green, the damning piece of shiny paper held between them...guilt, shame and self-hatred on one side...weariness, patience and compassion on the other.
Without a word, Vin handed it back to Chris, heard the rustling of fine paper as the photograph and the accompanying letter were crushed by long, angry fingers. The tracker knew what it was, where it had come from, could smell the perfume she'd dabbed on the envelope. He could also feel the agitation and tension radiating from the tall frame beside him.
Damn that bitch to hell.
Even now...from a distance...she continued to torment the man.
No words passed between them as he gently placed a hand beneath Chris's elbow, surprised that the other man allowed it, before easily turning him towards the stairs leading up to the gunman's room. Their progress was slow and silent, the tracker content to let the wounded man take his time, the slight hitch in his breathing clueing Vin in on just how much the chest wound pained the older man.
By the time they reached the door of Chris's room, the blond was sweating and trembling with fatigue, his knees threatening to give way beneath him. Sliding one arm around the trim waist, holding him steady, Vin opened the door with his left hand. He led an unresisting Larabee to the bed, removed the woolen blanket from lax fingers, then reached down to lift the long legs up onto the mattress. When Chris lay back, Vin covered him again with the blanket.
Eyes closed against the pity he was afraid to read in the younger man's gaze, Chris didn't protest as Vin removed his boots. It was silly, yet comforting somehow, to allow the man to care for him.
"Ya need anythin'?"
Did he need anything? Hell, yeah. He needed that bitch dead and buried. He needed a bottle of whiskey...or two or three. He needed to get stinking, falling-down, three-sheets-to-the-wind, dead drunk so that he'd never wake up again.
He needed a whole lot of things...but what Chris knew he needed most, Vin couldn't give.
No one could.
The blond kept his eyes closed, shook his head and rolled onto his uninjured side, curling up into a ball of misery and isolation.
Vin sighed, weary to the bone, yet unwilling to leave Chris like this. Going to the washstand, he wet a cloth, wrung it out and then moved to sit on the bed beside the blond. With a gentle touch, he wiped away the sheen of sweat from the handsome features, stroking and soothing, unsure why he was doing this or why Chris was letting him...only knowing that somehow it needed to be done.
Chris didn't protest, merely lay passive beneath Vin's ministrations. His breathing evened out, slowed, becoming deeper, as the pain and tension lining his face and body began to ease. Just when the tracker thought the wounded man might have drifted off to sleep, one hand rose, capturing his wrist in a loose grip, a frown wrinkling the blonds' brow as green eyes slid open just a bit.
Vin frowned back, questioning, curious.
"Seems like...we done this b'fore," Chris offered quietly, a tad bit confused as to why it should feel that way. He didn't understand it, hadn't understood it from the moment that they'd first met some two years ago, across the width of a dusty street as drunken cowhands formed a lynch mob.
But somewhere...somewhere in his past...perhaps in another life...a life lived past...he was just too tired to think on it now.
Maybe tomorrow...
Beside him, Vin released the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding, waiting until the older man settled and released his grip before setting aside the cloth. He stayed, unmoving, watching as Chris drifted off to sleep.
‘Seems like we done this b'fore.'
Yeah, Vin knew how that felt. One hand reached out, brushed back a lock of the blonds' hair from the fine features, smiled in spite of his exhaustion.
"...done this b'fore," he murmured softly, then sighed. "Yeah, reckon we have, cowboy."
A few minutes later, Vin missed the sliver of confused green eyes that tracked his progress as he closed the door behind him.
The End?
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PHOENIX
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