Ashes and Smoke by Sue Necessary

Chris Larabee drowsed lazily on his blankets, enjoying the feel of the morning sun on his skin, but taking much more delight in the warmth of the naked body pressing so closely against his own. He'd forgotten how many small, simple pleasures there were in simply lying with another -- the brush of a curl against his fingers, the whisper of a breath against his skin, the weight of an arm draped across his stomach, the supple curve of a body fitting itself to his. He'd had all these once, but had lost them and thought them gone forever. Now, though, he had them again, and, knowing what it meant to lose them, considered them more precious than ever. Just as he considered their source.

He looked down at the face -- or what he could see of it through the veiling tangle of long hair -- pillowed upon his chest and had to smile. Vin Tanner. Former buffalo hunter, former bounty hunter, former God-knew-what-all, now a wanted man, a dangerous man, a deadly man... and the man who'd become the heart and soul of Larabee's world. He still wasn't sure exactly when or how that had happened, wasn't sure when a shared glance of mutual purpose across a dusty street had grown into this all-encompassing, all-consuming passion, but decided that the when and the how didn't really matter. What mattered was that Vin was here, Vin was his, and he was Vin's. For the first time in three years, his life was as complete as he could ever hope to have it.

"Yer lookin' almighty pleased with yerself," Tanner drawled sleepily, turning his face to Larabee's. "You know somethin' I don't?"

Chris gave a slight smile and reached down to brush Tanner's hair back from his face. Eyes bluer than the sky itself gazed up at him, and he marveled yet again at the startling mix of youth and age in their depths. Not for the first time, he wondered exactly how old Vin really was, and then, not for the first time, decided a man like Tanner could never be measured in mere years.

"Hell, pard," he teased, "the things I know that you don't would fill a barn!"

Vin rolled off Chris and scowled at him, blue eyes narrowing. "Uppity sonuvabitch, ain'tcha?" he growled. "Think jist 'cause I letcha have yer way with me that you c'n--"

"Let me?" Chris interrupted, sitting up and staring at his lover. "Let me? As I recall, Tanner, you were beggin' me--"

"I ain't ever begged nobody, least of all some high 'n mighty, slit-eyed gunfighter--"

"Horseshit," Larabee barked, green eyes gleaming wickedly. "You were beggin' not two hours ago... Hell, you were damn near cryin'! If I hadn'ta taken pity on ya--"

"Pity?" Vin rasped, glaring furiously at the older man. "you took pity on me? Well, hell, I like that! Who was it moanin' 'n whimperin' 'n pleadin' fer more--"

"I never whimper," Chris corrected archly.

"My ass!" Vin snorted derisively. "Shit, you was so damn desperate-- Hey!" he yelped hoarsely as Larabee suddenly pounced upon him and flipped him onto his back. "What the hell--"

"Now," Larabee purred, straddling his lover and leaning down, his face only inches from Tanner's, "let's talk about yer ass."

"I ain't... Unnh," Vin groaned as the gunfighter's lips claimed his with a devastating mastery. Larabee's full, firm mouth moved hungrily against his own, tongue stroking, teeth nibbling, driving away whatever thought he had been about to voice. Another groan escaped him and he opened his mouth helplessly beneath Larabee's onslaught, unable to deny the man any part of himself. His whole being, body and soul, surged to burning life and aching awareness of Chris's every touch, and he wanted nothing more than to join his fire and pain to Larabee's, to be one in every way with the man who'd become the very center of his existence.

Chris felt the lean body beneath his shudder and tense, heard the quickening of Tanner's breathing, and chuckled softly as he nibbled at the corner of the tracker's mouth. "Like that, do ya?"

"Might could... git used to it," Vin rasped, doubting he'd ever really get used to this man's effect on him, even if he lived to be a thousand.

Larabee chuckled again and began licking and nibbling his way along that beautifully square jaw, delighting in Tanner's small moans and soft growls. He'd discovered that, for such a quiet man, the tracker was incredibly vocal during lovemaking, announcing his pleasure with a wide variety of sounds. And he was making it his business to learn every single one.

"Oh, Lord!" Vin gasped as Larabee's mouth found its way to his ear, as that nimble tongue danced lightly over its shell and then slipped into the canal, as warm lips closed about the tender lobe and sucked slowly. The gunfighter's hands, meanwhile, burned a path across his chest to his nipples, the callused fingers deftly stroking the dusky nubs to immediate hardness, and his lean hips thrust downward, grinding his cock into Tanner's. Lightning jolted along the tracker's every nerve and his flesh reacted at once, stiffening and twitching hungrily. "Chris!"

Larabee felt the same fire shoot through him as his insatiable need for Tanner again consumed him. The tracker was writhing and thrusting against him, that hard, compact body bringing his to full and fevered arousal, the man's wildness awakening an answering one in him. Tanner's hands clutched and clawed at him, those long, strong fingers raking down his naked back and digging into his muscles, tearing a wrenching groan from him. All at once, though, the groan sharpened into a howl of pain and pleasure as Vin turned his head and sank his teeth into his shoulder.

"Jesus, Vin!" he cried. Immediately, though, Tanner began blowing gently over the bite, then lapped cat-like at it with his tongue. Chris groaned and shuddered and instinctively flexed his shoulder, then howled again as the tracker shifted once more and bit into his pectoral. Warm breath and a wet tongue soothed the bite, and Larabee damn near came on the spot.

Vin was in no better shape. He slid a hand between their thrusting, sweat-slick bodies and found Chris's hardness, wrapping his fingers about the steel-in-velvet length and stroking urgently, torturing the gunman and himself. The feel of Larabee's heat and hardness brought his own cock dangerously near bursting, and, as he stroked and pulled at Larabee's thick flesh, he grew ever more painfully aware of the hideously aching emptiness in him that only this man could fill.

"God, cowboy!" he whispered hoarsely. "Need ya... somethin' fierce!"

Chris growled low in his throat, almost blinded by lust, and reached frantically for the tin of oil he knew had to be somewhere near. At last he found it and snatched it up with a snarl of triumph, his whole body shaking from the effect of Vin's hand on his throbbing, burning flesh. He buried his mouth in Tanner's for one more hard, punishing kiss, then pulled away and sat up, staring down at his lover through glazed green eyes.

God, he was beautiful! A wild mass of tangled curls spilled over and about his face, glinting red and honey-gold in the sun, and wide eyes of shifting shades of blue -- now light, now dark -- stared up at him and glowed like heated kilns. A dark red flush suffused the sun-browned skin, the slender, supple body quivered with anticipation, and long, sinewy limbs were tensed, waiting to twine about him.

"Jesus, Tanner, you're a goddamn marvel!" he breathed in rapt adoration.

"Ain't s' bad yerself," Vin rasped as Larabee positioned himself beneath him. "Now, take me, goddamn it, 'fore I shoot ya!"

"You sweet-talker, you," Chris sniped, wrenching the lid off the tin and dipping his fingers into the oil to scoop out a generous amount. "You been takin' lessons from Buck?"

"Asshole," Vin hissed through gritted teeth, watching Chris coat his hands and twisting his own into the blankets.

Larabee smirked. "Guess you'd know. And, speakin' of..."

Vin howled and nearly shot off the blankets as Larabee slid an oiled finger into his opening. Groans and growls and curses in a variety of languages tore from him as that finger played tormentingly inside him, stroking, stretching, bringing him ever nearer the edge. He closed his eyes and thrust down upon that finger, then hissed sharply and shuddered as a second entered him.

"No more sweet talk?" Chris teased in a strained voice, his own nerves agonizingly on edge. He found the pleasure spot in Tanner's body and brushed a finger against it, grinning wickedly as the tracker yelped and bucked violently. "What was that, pard?"

"Fuck you!" Vin gasped, panting heavily and trembling uncontrollably as a third finger entered him. "No... fuck... fuck me... Goddamn it, Larabee!" he snarled as the gunman again hit his gland. "Do somethin' 'fore I kill us both!"

"Some folks... just got no patience," Chris rasped, coating his leaking, burning cock with oil and removing his fingers from Tanner's body. "No... control..." Gritting his teeth, forcing that control upon himself, he positioned his swollen head at that dark, inviting opening and pressed inside.

"Oh... Jesus!" Vin groaned harshly, arching off the blankets as Larabee entered him. "Chrissss..."

"Easy, pard," Larabee murmured hoarsely, grabbing the tracker's narrow hips to still him. "Don't... wanta rush... Oh, God!" he moaned as Tanner's wet heat engulfed him.

Vin grabbed at the hands holding him, clinging to Larabee's wrists and clenching his teeth until the familiar cramping subsided and his body accepted his lover's intrusion. Then, as ever, his need overwhelmed him, and a wrenching cry escaped him.

"God... Chris... move!" he begged desperately.

Chris's own urges overcame him at that plea, and he slid slowly into Vin, pressing ever more deeply into that moist, hot channel, sheathing himself in his lover's body. Once in, he pulled out just as slowly, leaving only his head imbedded, then pushed in again, torturing himself and Vin with the forced slowness of his movements. Each time he started in, Tanner rose to meet him, their bodies quickly finding a familiar rhythm and working in perfect unison. Deep, guttural sounds of sheer pleasure tore from the two as they came together, as their rhythm built in speed and force, as their lovemaking took on the unbridled ferocity both men knew and needed.

Driving furiously into Tanner's body, loosing the full force of his hunger upon him, Chris reached at last for his lover's swollen cock and worked it with that same intensity, stroking and pumping Vin as he impaled him, his hand as hard and ruthless as his demanding flesh. As ever, the feel of the younger man writhing and thrusting against him destroyed whatever restraint he'd thought to show, plunged him into a maelstrom of want and need that stripped him of all control and left him at the mercy of raging desire.

Vin cried out harshly as Larabee drove him into a mounting frenzy, as the man launched a shattering assault upon his senses and sent him into paroxysms of unspeakable pleasure. Worked inside and out, filled and claimed and damn near pulled apart at his soul, he thrust frantically down upon that punishing flesh, into that masterful hand, nerves sparking, his flesh all but seared from his bones.

Deeper and deeper into Vin Chris pounded, losing himself, finding himself, becoming as much one with the tracker in body as he was in soul. With each long, hard stroke, hot waves of pleasure crashed over him, tore through him, freeing all that had ever been bound within him. He gave himself wholly over to the pleasure, surrendering completely to his all-consuming need for Vin.

They loved without restraint, holding nothing of themselves back, giving all they had and all they were to their wild and wanton union. And in one shattering, convulsive rush they came, bursting together into explosive climax, Chris erupting into Vin, Vin jetting over Chris, each emptying himself and, in that moment of release, taking in the other. Their cries rose together and mingled in the morning air, joined as closely and as surely as their bodies.

Chris shuddered violently and collapsed onto the blankets and Vin's side, utterly spent and shaking. With rubbery arms he reached out and gathered Vin to him, cradling the slick and trembling body to his own, stunned, as always, by the heights to which the quiet tracker could lead him.

"Damn, Tanner," he whispered roughly when he found his voice, "you tryin' ta kill me?"

"Helluva way ta go," Vin rasped, his voice as ragged as his breathing.

"Can't think of a better one."

They lay in silence for long moments, reveling in this intimate closeness, each feeling the other in the beating of his own heart, each knowing he carried the other in his blood and his bone. They knew they'd never be able to publicly declare what they had found, yet they could not help but see it as something sacred, a wondrous gift from some benevolent fate that had led them from their separate paths of pain and joined them as one on this road to love and life.

At long last, though, Chris stirred, knowing this idyllic time could not last. The town waited, and obligations in that town, and, though he wanted nothing more than to spend forever in his lover's arms, he could not turn his back on those obligations. And knew Vin would only kick his ass if he tried.

"Judge'll be waitin'," he said quietly, gently unwrapping his arms from Tanner and sitting up.

"Reckon so," Vin murmured, a shadow darkening his eyes. He knew why Judge Travis was waiting, and could not help feeling a chill despite the warmth of the day. He'd ridden out as the gallows had started to take shape, unable to bear looking upon that stark reminder of his own possible fate. "Chris--"

"Ssh," Larabee breathed, reaching out to lay a forefinger over the tracker's mouth. Soft green eyes searched his lover's blue ones, and understanding shone in them. "Ain't no need you goin' back. Blackfox ain't dangerous, just stupid. The six of us'll be more than enough ta handle any trouble that might come up. You stay out here as long as you want."

Vin gave a slight, wan smile and nodded, grateful for Chris's understanding. He'd seen a fair number of hangings in his time, but he'd never enjoyed watching them, had always felt sickened by the sight. But the unease he'd felt all his life had turned into outright horror once the shadow of the noose had fallen over his own life, and not even the knowledge that John Blackfox was guilty as sin was enough to make him go back into town and face his own personal nightmare.

"Reckon I'll be back this evenin', then," he said softly. "That oughtta give the Judge time ta git Blackfox hung 'n the town settled down again." He sat up and crossed his legs, and an expression of worry crossed his face. "He's gonna notice I ain't there. That gonna be a problem fer you?"

Chris shrugged lightly. "Don't see why it should." When Vin's worry did not abate, he added, "He knows how towns get for a hangin'. Folks come in from all over, everybody's in an uproar... I'll just tell him seein' all them people in one place got you skittish. He knows you; he'll believe it."

"Yeah, he knows me," Vin sighed. He winced and dropped his gaze to the ground. "Wonder jist what he knows, though?"

Larabee had wondered that himself. Orin Travis was a tough old man, sharp and shrewd and possessing a sense of justice that went clear through to his core. And sometimes, when he fixed those keen, penetrating dark eyes on Tanner, Chris could almost see him measuring the man against his poster, judging the tracker as he'd judged so many others and weighing the course of true justice against the demands of the law.

"You know JD's always quick ta take your poster out of any new ones we get, right?" Chris asked quietly, needing Vin to know just how many people he had on his side. "So it ain't like the Judge is gonna see one while he's in town."

"While he's in our town, ya mean," Vin corrected. "Ain't got nobody lookin' out fer me anywheres else, 'n you'd be surprised how far 'n how fast them posters c'n spread. Still," he forced a note of confidence into his voice, "I reckon if he was gonna send me back, he'da done it already. He ain't one fer pussy-footin' around."

Chris leaned forward and pressed a tender, loving kiss to Tanner's mouth. "Don't you worry, Vin," he said softly, "ain't nobody gonna hang you, not even Judge Travis. I just ain't gonna let that happen." He ran a thumb gently against the tracker's whiskered cheek. "I'm gonna take care of you, you hear? You ain't alone no more."

A shy smile spread slowly over Vin's face and lit his blue eyes. "Yeah, I know," he murmured, "'n it's a right nice feelin'." He reached for Chris's hand and held tightly to it, entwining his fingers with the gunman's and gazing intently into those deep green eyes. "You take care of me, 'n I take care of you. You watch my back 'n I watch yers. From here on out, we're ridin' this trail together."

Chris had to smile at that, recognizing in the tracker's rough, simple words a vow as solemn and as binding as those he'd exchanged with Sarah all those years ago. He squeezed Vin's fingers and nodded slowly, his heart full, his soul at peace.

"Together," he repeated, pledging his whole life, his whole self, to the man before him. His smile widened, and his eyes gleamed brilliantly. "And somethin' tells me it's gonna be one helluva ride!"

The honorable Orin W. Travis, federal territorial circuit judge, paced slowly about the sheriff's office, seamed and weathered face more deeply lined than usual, dark eyes somber. He hadn't spoken in at least half an hour, not since John Blackfox had blurted his incredible news in the hope of saving his neck. But, in all that time, his mind had never ceased working.

Could it be true? Could the half-breed drifter and horse thief possibly hold the key to the tragedy, the crime, that had taken the lives of Chris Larabee's wife and son? And if it were true, what then? What were his obligations?

Horse thieves hanged; it was the law. And there was no doubt Blackfox was guilty; Tanner, Wilmington ad Dunne had tracked him down and caught him with two stolen horses. Nope, no doubt at all.

But... if Blackfox did know something about that fire, about those deaths, didn't justice demand that he be heard? Yet what incentive, what reason, would he have for speaking if he knew he would hang anyway? Men like Blackfox, regardless of what the crusaders and reformers back East preached, didn't give a damn about clearing their consciences before they met their Maker. It wasn't a matter of easing their burdens, but of escaping the noose. If he were going to hang no matter what he said, then why say anything at all?

Yet what guarantee was there that he knew anything helpful, or knew anything at all? He certainly wouldn't be the first man ever to concoct a pack of lies just to save his wretched life. The deaths of Larabee's wife and son weren't exactly a secret in these parts; anybody who'd been here long enough to know the gunfighter's name knew what happened to his family. How hard would it be for a talented, and desperate, liar to make up a story out of gossip, rumor and innuendo?

But... God, it always came back to "but." Travis had been a judge long enough to know every argument in the world against granting a convicted prisoner leniency, knew if he did it now, it wouldn't be long at all before the story got out and every other prisoner he tried from now on would suddenly remember "important information" about some crime or another. But if he didn't show leniency, and John Blackfox went to his death in silence, withholding information he truly had about the Larabee deaths...

Where was Solomon when you really needed him?

JD Dunne watched the judge in silence in silence from behind his desk, feeling for the man in his dilemma and wondering what he would decide. Over the short time he'd known Travis, he'd come to respect him enormously, to consider him a man not only of knowledge, but of wisdom, a firm arbiter of the law, and an even fiercer advocate of justice.

And the boy wouldn't be in the man's shoes right now for anything in the world.

Travis reached the far end of the office, turned and started toward the other side, knowing by now exactly how many steps it would take to get him there. After only three, however, he glanced out the window and came to an abrupt halt, his sturdy frame tensing, his firm jaw setting, his sharp gaze snapping to a familiar figure striding out of the livery stable. He stared for several long moments, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, then, without a word to the young sheriff, strode purposefully to the door, grabbing his hat on the way out and slamming the door behind him.

Startled, JD rose from his chair and went to his window, searching the street until he found what had caught Travis's attention. At the sight, a cold wave of dread twisted through him and, once again, he was desperately grateful he wasn't the judge.

Chris Larabee had just ridden into town.

Travis watched Larabee go inside the boardinghouse and hurried after the gunman. Along the way, he looked around for any sign of Tanner, and swore under his breath when the tracker didn't appear. Like so many others, he'd grown accustomed to seeing the two together, to thinking of one almost as an extension of the other, and he knew one was usually -- usually -- less likely to go off half-cocked and do something stupid with the other there to exercise a calming and rational influence.

He could really have used Tanner just now.

He entered the boardinghouse and went up the stairs to Larabee's room, knocking quietly on the door. When it opened, the gunman's surprise at seeing him was clear.

"Judge," Chris greeted, stepping aside and allowing the older man to enter.

Travis did so, and took a cursory look around. Larabee's hat hung on the bedpost, and his black duster and saddlebags lay on the bed. The room was small but tidy, the man's few possessions arranged neatly on the dresser or otherwise put away, out of sight. That described Larabee himself -- his surface carefully arranged to give nothing away, and anything that would have given a true sense of the man kept out of sight. Hidden.

Well. Travis was about to pull him out of that hiding.

Chris watched the older man carefully, studying his expression, noting the tension of his sturdy body and the way he nervously -- Travis, nervous? -- toyed with the hat he'd removed from his head, turning it around and around in his hands by its brim. Infected by the judge's unease, he felt a tendril of anxiety coiling through his gut.

For one of the few times in his life, Travis was at a loss, and so, rather than attacking the problem head-on, as was his wont, he side-stepped it. "I expected to see Tanner riding in with you."

Chris tensed at that, not liking at all the way the man avoided looking at him. God, Vin... "No, he decided ta stay out a while longer," he answered carefully. "All these folks in town... Makes him nervous."

"I see." He noted the stiffening of Larabee's body, the narrowing of the sharp green eyes, and almost smiled. The gunman was worried. Worried that he knew the truth about Tanner. Which, of course, he did. Hell, he'd known about it all along. He'd found the wanted poster that first day back in town, less than an hour after Tanner and the others had sided with him against Lucas James. But he hadn't said anything, because he'd been intrigued by the notion of a man wanted for murder stepping up in defense of a federal judge.

Orin Travis had spent most of his adult life judging men, and he'd learned to trust his instincts. Those instincts had urged him to do nothing, to say nothing, to bide his time and watch. And what he'd seen in the days following, and the weeks since, had convinced him that while Vin Tanner was no innocent, he was no murderer, either. Travis had torn up and burned that poster, and never lost a minute of sleep over having hired a wanted man as one of his peacekeepers.

But now Tanner wasn't here to keep the peace, and Travis missed him sorely. Still, he was no coward, and had never gotten into the habit of avoiding unpleasant duties. And while this one ranked right up there, he steeled himself and did what had to be done.

"It's all right," he said quietly, stilling the turning of his hat and lifting his head to meet Larabee's gaze steadily. "What I have to say concerns you, not him."

Chris frowned, liking this less and less as time wore on. Travis was clearly uncomfortable, and it took a lot to make him so. "Judge?" he prompted quietly.

Travis grimaced deeply. "Hell, there's no easy way to say this, so I'll just say it. Blackfox claims he has information about... about the fire... that killed your wife and son."

Chris stared at the man in stunned surprise, eyes wide, mouth open, not at all certain he'd heard correctly. But when Travis nodded slightly, all the air left his lungs in a rush and his legs turned to rubber, dropping him clumsily onto his bed. He sat there for long moments, dazed, unseeing, unable to breathe, unable to think.

Blackfox... fire... Sarah... oh, God, Adam...

Travis sighed softly, tiredly, and sat down gingerly on the bed beside Chris, wanting to reach out to him, but not certain he should. He knew something of what the younger man was feeling, knew only too well how it felt to lose a son, how it felt to have that part of your life, your heart, your flesh, torn away, never to be replaced. But at least he still had Evie, at least he'd seen Steven grow to manhood, at least he had a grandson to warm the days of his old age.

What did Chris have, except the desperate ramblings of a doomed horse thief?

"I wish," he began softly, sadly, "I wish I could say he's telling the truth, or say he's lying. But I can't, because I don't know. I just... don't know."

"What... what did he... say?" Chris whispered, his voice strained, his eyes still fixed on something only he could see. Fixed on the burned out ruins of his home, his life, on the charred corpses of his wife and son.

Travis winced and bowed his head. "He said he was there. Said he didn't do anything, but he was there."

Chris turned raw, tortured eyes upon the judge, his soul torn anew by all the pain he thought he'd put behind him. "Do you believe him?" he asked in a rough, thick voice.

Travis sighed heavily. "I don't know, Chris," he admitted. "He seems sincere, but he's a man bargaining for his life. And I'm just not familiar enough with... with the details... to know for certain--"

"I'm familiar with 'em!" Chris snarled, shooting to his feet as fury erupted through him. "And if this bastard's lyin', usin' my wife and son ta save his neck, then he'll wish ta God he'd let you hang him!"

Travis rose slowly to his feet, willing upon himself a calm he prayed would reach Larabee. "Chris--"

"He's got no right!" Chris spat, enraged at the thought of Blackfox dredging up his pain, dragging Sarah and Adam out of their graves, just to save his own worthless life. "Goddamn it, they're dead! Why can't he just let 'em be, let 'em rest in peace?" An ugly scowl twisted his face, and murder kindled in his eyes. "He won't get away with this," he growled in a low and deadly voice, dropping a hand to his gun. "He's got no right speakin' of 'em, and I'm gonna put a stop to it right now!"

But Travis reached out and grabbed his arm, staring compellingly into those burning eyes. "You listen to me," he ordered in a low, hard voice. "I will not condone murder. If you want to talk to him, fine. But the only way you get into that jail is without your gun."

"You can't--"

"I can, and I will," Travis said coldly, never releasing Larabee's arm. "You know me, Chris, and you know I never utter empty threats. If you do this, you do it my way. Because if you cross the line, you will face me in court, and you will hang. Justice may be blind, but she will not turn a blind eye. Not while there's breath in my body." He continued to stare up at the man he'd come to respect, to like, and his expression and stance softened. "Don't force my hand, Chris," he pleaded gently. "Don't make the same mistake Lucas James did. He lost, and so will you. And you're too good a man for that."

Chris clenched his teeth and returned that stare without softening. "Bastard deserves ta die--"

"If it turns out he's lying, he will. And if he played a part in their deaths, he will," Travis assured him. "I hang horse thieves. You think I won't hang a murderer? But you owe it yourself, and to them, to find out the truth. And I'm giving you that chance."

"But only without my gun," Chris sneered.

Travis arched graying brows. "I'm no fool," he chided Larabee. "I've seen what you can do. And I'm not going to give you the chance to do it. As I said before, we do this my way, or we don't do it at all."

Chris' stare bored into Travis, but, even as he tried, he knew he'd never bend the old man to his will. Too many others before him had tried and failed. Travis hadn't gotten where he was by being weak.

"You know I don't have ta shoot him ta kill him," he said in a low voice, reaching down to unbuckle his gunbelt.

"I know," Travis agreed easily. "But I also know it takes a while to beat a man to death, even for you, and I'm betting I could stop you before you succeeded. Besides," he accepted the belt Larabee held out to him, "you want to know the truth, and you'll never get it from a dead man. Even you aren't that good."

Chris stormed into the jail and shot a hard look at the young man sitting behind the desk. "JD," he greeted coldly. JD took one look at Larabee, saw the barely-controlled rage radiating from the lean, tight body, and rose to at once to his feet, knowing anywhere was a better place than this to be right now. "I was, uh, just about ready to take a break," he said, setting his hat on his head and getting the keys, tossing them to Chris.

Larabee waited for the young sheriff to leave the jail, then went to the only occupied cell and opened it. A wolfish grin teased his mouth as he beheld the man who would use the dead for his own ends. "I hear you're interested in makin' a deal," he said easily. "You an eyewitness to the Larabee killings?"

Blackfox rose to his feet, hope stirring within him. "Yeah. Who are you?"

Chris's grin widened as he stepped forward. "Chris." His fist rocketed out and up, connecting solidly under Blackfox's jaw and sending him sprawling to the floor. "Chris Larabee."

Before Blackfox could say a word, Chris bent down, grabbed him by his shirtfront and hauled him to his feet, then drew back another fist and hit him again, knocking him across his bunk. "Now, you piece of trash," he spat, towering over the dazed man and staring down at him with murder burning in his soul, "you're gonna tell me what you really know, or I'm gonna take you apart, one bone at a time."

Blackfox lay huddled on the bed, blood streaming from his nose and split lip. All at once he wasn't sure hanging was the worst way in the world to die.

"I c... I can't... I don't..."

"You'd damn well better!" Chris snarled, reaching down once more and jerking the man upright. "You said you wanted ta talk," he threw Blackfox into the wall, "so talk!"

Blackfox crumpled to the floor, barely able to think, his head throbbing. Before he could protest, those merciless hands grabbed him again and hauled him to his feet. "Please--"

"Shut up!" Chris hissed, dragging the man from his cell and through the office into the street. "Now," he stopped at the nearest water tough and thrust a hand into his captive's long, lank hair, "let's see if we can't clear your mind a bit!" With that, he thrust the man's head under the water and held it for long moments, heedless of the shocked stares of the townsfolk watching him in horror.

No one interfered, though. Not with Chris Larabee.

When he felt Blackfox's body jerk as the man instinctively took a breath and sucked in water, he pulled him up and shook him. "The woman's name was Sarah," he gritted, the words and the memory of what he'd lost clawing strips from his soul. "She was my wife. The boy's name was Adam. My son."

"I didn't kill 'em, mister," Blackfox gasped, wondering just what kind of hell he'd unleashed.

"Who did?" Chris demanded harshly.

"I don't know that neither..." Again, he was dunked, held under, and pulled up just as his lungs burned from need of air. "But I was... I was there!" he declared hoarsely, desperate to appease the man he knew would kill him.

"Tell me."

Blackfox struggled to remember all he could of that night three years ago. "I was hired," he said slowly, forcing the memories into focus. "Me and two other cowboys. One night in a saloon. We was all pretty much drunk. A man comes in, offers us fifty dollars apiece. Said it was to scare some folks off their land..."

"Go on!" Chris shouted, shaking the man roughly when his words faltered.

Blackfox trembled uncontrollably, more afraid than ever he'd been in his life. "We rode out," he went on, "the four of us. By the time we got to the spread, I was soberin' up and I didn't like it. So I told the others I'd stand guard and watch the horses. When I seen the flames, I... I got scared and I took off."

"You're lyin'!" Chris snarled.

"No, I'm not--"

But Larabee had had enough and again thrust him under water, little caring if he drowned. The man was a coward, had profaned Sarah and Adam's memories with his lies, and deserved whatever death he could get.

Again the horse thief's body jerked as he breathed in water, and again Chris pulled him up. "Everybody around here knew about that fire!" he raged, hating the man for dredging up this unbearable hurt. "You're tellin' me nothin' but jailhouse lies ta save your miserable skin. You're goin' back ta jail!" he spat, shoving the man forward.

Blackfox stumbled, then caught himself and turned to face Larabee, desperation shining in his eyes. "No, no, I'm tellin'... I'm tellin' the truth," he insisted, wishing bitterly he'd never accepted that fifty dollars. "I seen it happen." A sudden flash of memory came to him. "The house and the porch with the windmill beside it."

Chris stopped, his heart faltering. Houses had porches; that was nothing uncommon. And most had windmills... Most, but not all. And not all had the windmills beside them... "You see a corral?" he asked quietly.

Blackfox tried to remember. "I think so."

"Where was it?" Chris pressed him.

The horse thief's desperation deepened. "I don't remember! It was three years ago--" Larabee grabbed him ruthlessly and shoved him back toward the jail, but he resisted. "No, no... it was..." He forced the faded picture back into his mind, forced himself to concentrate upon it. "It was past the windmill... maybe fifty yards?" He thought again, then remembered what had struck him as odd about the corral. "It was empty. I could tell you more if I was standin' there," he added hopefully.

Chris stared hard at him, fighting past the hideous pain that came with the dawning realization that this man was telling the truth. That he'd been there, had seen the fire, and done nothing to help. That he'd just ridden away and left Sarah and Adam to die. "Yeah," he said coldly. "I bet you could."

He grabbed Blackfox and dragged him back toward the jail, a new determination burning in him. He'd spent three long, empty years scouring the countryside for answers, for the reasons behind and the bastards responsible for the deaths of his wife and son.

This time, he wasn't coming away empty-handed.

Travis agreed readily to let Chris take Blackfox back to Eagle Bend, knowing what this might mean to the man and deciding he owed him. Hadn't Larabee and his men protected Billy and brought Steven's murderers to justice? Could he deny him his chance at the same?

Within an hour, they were ready to ride out, Nathan and Josiah having gotten the horses ready and Blackfox mounted, the healer and preacher going along as much to keep an eye on Chris as to help guard the prisoner. Travis had made it very clear he would look closely at any "accident" that befell Blackfox while he was under Larabee's care.

When Chris strode out onto the boardwalk, fully armed once more and draped in his black duster, he was relieved to see that all was in readiness. Impatience to get this done gnawed at him, a driving need to put his ghosts to rest and finally close this chapter of his life so that he could get on with the next. To give Sarah and Adam the peace they deserved, so that he could begin finding his own with Vin.

God, Vin...

The tracker's absence hit him hard just then, and, for a moment, he was tempted to delay until Tanner returned. His whole world had been turned upside down and inside out, and he was desperately in need of the Texan's quiet strength, the steadiness that anchored him. All this would have been so much easier to bear with Vin's calm, soothing, gentle presence at his side.

But, almost as it hit him, he let the temptation pass. He had no real idea when Vin would be back, and didn't want to wait one minute longer than he had to. Sarah and Adam were calling to him, begging him to put this right, and he could not have denied them for the world. Vin would understand that. If anyone on this earth could understand, Vin would.

Fortified by that thought, he started toward his horse and suddenly noticed the little man with the odd voice talking to Nathan and Josiah. Clearly an Easterner by his dress, which was even more ridiculous than JD's, and he was scribbling something onto one of those notebooks Mary Travis always seemed to have handy. Anger stirred within him at that thought.

Wonderful. One more reporter makin' up lies about him.

He pushed past the man without looking at him, without acknowledging him, hoping he'd simply go away. He hoped in vain.

"Chris Larabee, right?" asked the little man eagerly, hurrying after the gunman and holding out his hand, as if he honestly expected Larabee to shake it. "Jock Steele, Steele Publishing from New York. Mr. Larabee, I'm going to make you a very famous man by comin' along. I'm gonna chronicle your search for justice. Larabee's Bloody Revenge," he announced with a flourish.

Chris turned and swept a scathing gaze over Steele, scowling deeply and regarding him with outright contempt. Worse than a reporter, the man was a writer of those goddamn dime novels that JD was always reading, cover-to-cover lies that didn't have a word of truth in them. His scowl deepened, his eyes hardened, and he swung himself up onto Pony's back, determined to ignore the annoying little man.

But Steele wasn't about to let that happened. "See?" He pointed toward a heavily laden mule. "I'm all packed. Even brought the camera and the developer."

"You're not comin' with us," Chris said in a low voice, his eyes hard as flint.

"But I have to!" Steele protested. "I'll miss the story... Whoo!" he yelped, ducking as Larabee swung his horse's head around, right where his own had been.

"Won't stop you from writing it," Chris pointed out bitterly, remembering the lies Mary had fabricated the day he and Vin had saved Nathan's life. He spurred Pony down the street, impatient to get started, and in no mood to entertain the likes of Jock Steele.

But the little writer had other ideas. As the four men rode out, he hurried to his mule, sputtering all the while. These Westerners, they just didn't understand! Didn't know how eager folks back East were to read about their exploits. But he'd change that. He'd go along, get it all in writing and pictures, make Larabee famous, and make himself rich.

By the time he got his foot into the stirrup and himself on the mule's back, Larabee and his men... no, his gang... were out of sight. Well, that didn't matter. He took the reins in hand, sawed them back and forth for a few moments in an effort to get the mule turned, and finally succeeded, though it seemed the stupid animal would only turn right by going left and circling all the way around, costing him even more time.

Ah, well. How hard could it be to follow four men in open country like this?

Chris struggled against his own chaotic emotions as he tried to get more information out of Blackfox about that night. The horse thief gave him precious little to go on -- one man wearing a single silver spur, the man who'd hired them riding a big gray horse -- and he felt his fury, frustration and pain deepening. Who was the "hard man" Blackfox couldn't, or wouldn't, describe? And why had he paid three men to burn Larabee's ranch, to kill a woman and child? Why? God, why?

For three years, those questions had haunted him, mocked him, tortured him. Who? Why? He could understand someone putting money, time and effort into killing him now. Hell, he had no shortage of enemies, had made more in three years than most men did in a lifetime. But, then? Then, he'd just been a horse rancher, working a small spread, raising a few animals, always more interested in quality than quantity. What had he done to draw that kind of hatred toward him?

Yeah, he'd been a rounder in his youth, a real hellion. But no worse than any other boy his age who'd left the family farm in search of something more exciting. And when the war had come along, he'd found all the excitement, along with all the carnage, he could stand. He'd come out a sadder, wiser and much more careful man. He'd always been good with a gun, had been born with the sharp eye, fast hand and steady nerves, but making a name by killing other men didn't hold nearly the allure after the war that it had held before.

And when he met Sarah, the last vestiges of wildness had left him completely. The man who'd spent almost his whole adult life drifting suddenly discovered what "home" meant and was gripped by the powerful urge to put down roots so deep he'd never be budged again. The man who'd gone from woman to woman without a second thought found his every thought filled by one woman alone, and never once missed the ones he'd left behind. She'd become his whole world, and, when Adam was born, his world was made perfect. He'd wanted nothing more than to live and work on his ranch, with Sarah and Adam and whatever children followed, to spend his days and end his days in the peace he'd never expected to find.

But that peace had been shattered when he'd come back from Mexico to find his home turned to ashes, and his wife and son burned beyond recognition. He still couldn't remember much of the days immediately following, had gone into a shock that had lasted for weeks. He'd gone through that time like a sleepwalker, eating only when he had to, sleeping only when he collapsed, drinking to keep the hideous images at bay. He'd buried them, he knew that, had dug their graves and made and marked their crosses with his own hands, but he just didn't remember doing it. Couldn't allow himself to remember, for the sake of his own sanity.

It had been more than a month before he could bring himself back to life enough to begin the hunt for his family's killers in earnest. By that time, though, the trail was cold, and, though he'd never given up, he had lost hope. He'd asked the same old questions in every new town he entered, and always gotten the same old answers. Yet even when he knew what the answers would be, still he kept asking. Those questions, that search, had become all that held him to this life, all that gave him a reason to go on, all that got him through the days, through the nights, and gave him a reason to get up again and start the whole agonizing routine again. Hell, he'd still been asking when he hit Four Corners all those weeks ago. Nobody had known a thing there, either, and he'd resigned himself to leaving for the next dirty town...

Until he'd been jolted from his empty existence by a pair of blue eyes that had stared at him from across the street and seen straight into his soul. God, how could he explain that feeling? It had hit him like a bolt of lightning, searing through him in a flash and leaving his whole body charged and tingling. After three years of walking death, he'd suddenly been brought back to life, had taken his first real breath since the day he'd laid his wife and son in the ground.

And hadn't stopped breathing since.

He clenched his jaw, and his hands tightened reflexively on the reins. God, how he wished Vin were here now! How he wanted to look into those young-old eyes and see the love in them, hear that soft, raspy drawl assuring him that it would be all right. That he'd be all right. Because, just now, he wasn't at all certain that he would. The pain was back as it hadn't been in some time, as real and as raw and as unbearable as ever, tearing his heart to pieces and leaving his soul in shreds, driving warmth and air and everything he remembered about living from his body. He'd buried them, he knew he had, but Blackfox and his damned jailhouse confession had ripped them right out of their graves and laid their burned bodies once more before him.

Again, when he breathed, he could smell and taste only ashes and smoke.

Nathan's voice broke into his thoughts, offering a welcome distraction.

"Rider coming up fast," the healer announced, looking over his shoulder and seeing the big gray horse running at them through the trees. "It's Buck."

Wilmington joined them quickly and reined Beavis to a slower pace at Pony's side, falling in beside Larabee as he'd done so many times before in his life.

Chris glanced past Blackfox to his old friend, not at all certain how he felt about his presence here. "You out for a ride?"

Buck smiled slightly. "Heard you were goin' back."

"No need for you to come along," he said coldly. He knew Buck didn't deserve it, but he also knew that, right now, coldness was his only defense against the pain threatening to cripple him. And Buck was so much a part of that pain, a living, breathing link to Sarah and Adam, that having him near was too much like having them near.

"Yes, sir, there is," Wilmington contradicted softly, his blue eyes filling with sorrow, his heart heavy with guilt. "I'm the man that talked you into stayin' down in Mexico that night. And I keep thinkin', if we'da just rode back..."

Chris's jaw tightened, and he shook his head. "I coulda come back alone. You didn't keep me there." And it was true; Buck hadn't had to work all that hard at talking him into staying. To be honest, he'd enjoyed that little bit of freedom, had enjoyed the chance to cut loose and relive some of the wilder times he and his old friend had known together. If he'd truly wanted to go home, no one would have been able to talk him into staying. Not even Buck. "Let it go."

Buck heard the ice, the distance, in Chris's voice and was pained by it. He understood it, understood Larabee better than the man thought he did, but that didn't make it hurt any less. Chris was fighting all the demons he'd thought he'd laid to rest, and no man should have to go through that twice.

Still, Larabee needed to know that he wasn't the only one in pain here. "Sarah was my friend, too, Chris," he reminded him, remembering vividly the beautiful, fiery woman who'd stolen Larabee's heart and claimed a large portion of his, as well. "And I think you know how I felt about that boy of yours. So, if it's all the same, I think I'll ride this one out with you."

Chris had to look away. He did know how Buck had felt about Adam, had seen it every time the two were together. Given his wandering ways, Adam might have been the closest thing to a son Buck would ever have. And Chris couldn't have wished for a better "uncle" for his little boy. He knew this was something Buck had to do, knew this was something the big man felt he owed his murdered surrogate family. Felt he owed Chris.

"Suit yourself," he said quietly, drawing back once more behind that protective barrier of detachment.

Vin rode back into town near sundown, certain he'd given himself more than enough time to miss the hanging and the uproar that would have followed it. He'd never figured out why folks carried on so at them, couldn't see what it was in killing a man by breaking his neck or, in the botched cases, strangling him that made people want to celebrate. Even before Tascosa, he'd found that kind of bloody-mindedness more than a little disturbing.

But, then, civilized people had always been a never-ending puzzle to him...

An instinctive shudder rippled down his spine as he rode past the gallows, and he studiously averted his gaze from its stark outline. Absently, a hand crept up to his neck and tugged at the collar of his shirt, as if seeking reassurance that no rope lay beneath the fabric.

Stupid! he chided himself silently, self-consciously dropping his hand to his thigh. Ain't nobody gonna hang ya whilst Larabee's around.

Still, he couldn't help spurring Peso to carry him more quickly past the shadow of the gallows.

Orin Travis saw the familiar slouched figure ride past on the big blaze-faced gelding, and stopped on his progress with Mary toward the restaurant. He turned and watched Tanner rein in at the saloon, then returned his attention to his daughter-in-law. "Why don't you go on without me, get a table and order. I'll be along shortly."

"Orin--"

"It's all right, Mary," he said, smiling reassuringly into her worried eyes and patting her shoulder gently. "I just need to speak with Mr. Tanner. I'm sure he'll want to know what's going on, and I don't want him going off half-cocked because of whatever rumors are circulating about town just now."

She arched two slender blond brows at her father-in-law. "And you don't think the truth will send him off half-cocked'?"

He frowned thoughtfully, considering what he knew of the tracker. Tanner was a thinker, a man whose lazy posture and slow drawl concealed the lightning-fast working of a very shrewd brain, whose keen blue eyes saw everything without giving away anything. The man was as deliberate as they came in his actions, and didn't believe in hasty decisions.

But, Lord, when he did decide to strike...

"No," he murmured at last, dark eyes narrowing slightly, "I don't think he'll go off half-cocked at all. I think when he does go, it'll be fully cocked, and then may God have mercy on whoever's in his sights!"

Vin quietly entered the saloon and stepped immediately into the shadows, shielding himself from all attention while he turned his own upon the room. Alert for any sign of danger, the instincts of both predator and prey rising to the fore, he studied the crowd with a sharply focused intensity, searching faces, gauging moods, taking in all the silent clues given off by men's postures and gestures. And only when he was certain nothing and no one threatened him here did he make his way to the bar and order a beer. While waiting for his drink, he could not help overhearing the conversations about him. He'd long ago learned that if he kept silent and still, people would overlook or forget his presence and talk as freely as if he weren't there. It had helped him catch any number of careless bounties, and had helped him evade more than a few overconfident bounty hunters.

It also gave him just one more way to irritate the hell out of Larabee, when he turned up knowing something the gunfighter did not. Nobody hated not knowing everything like Chris did, and Vin delighted in using that against his lover.

Now, though, as he listened to the talk around him, he was not delighted, just confused. The hanging had been called off, and Chris had damn near drowned Blackfox in a water trough, then had left town with the man. No one seemed to know just why, seemed to know anything, except that Larabee had been in a rage. Uneasiness settled heavily on Vin, and his hackles rose. He took his beer from the bar, then turned and made his way to the table occupied by JD Dunne.

"Hey, kid," he greeted softly, slipping gracefully into the chair that put the protection of the wall at his back.

JD started at the tracker's appearance, wishing he would learn to make some kind of noise when he approached. "Jeez, Vin," he snapped, scowling at the Texan, "I really hate it when you do that!"

Tanner sank into his customary slouch and frowned at the boy. "Do what?" he asked, reaching for his beer and raising it to his lips.

"You know," JD said in exasperation, "just appear all of a sudden outta nowhere, without makin' a sound." He settled back in his own chair, unconsciously trying to mimic Tanner's relaxed but vigilant air. "Could get you shot one day!"

Vin took a long drink of beer, then set the glass down and wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. "I'll whistle 'r somethin' next time." He studied JD for several moments, noting the way he shifted frequently in his chair, toyed with his beer mug or fidgeted with his hat. Every so often, the boy ran a hand through his thick black hair, a sure sign that he was on edge.

JD knew Vin was watching him, and hated it. The tracker's eyes were fixed on him like a wolf's upon its prey, sizing him up, seeming almost to stare right through him, seeing his every thought and measuring his every move, even before he made it. Most folks thought Chris Larabee had a blood-chilling stare, and he did. But JD decided Vin Tanner's ranked right up there, too.

And, hell, with Chris, at least he usually knew what that stare meant. With Vin, he didn't, and he figured that made the man that much scarier.

Vin saw the boy's nervousness, and gave a slight smile. "Relax, kid," he rasped softly, knowing JD was still struggling to find his footing among six older, more experienced and far more dangerous men, "I ain't gonna hurt ya. Jist tryin' ta figger out what the hell is goin' on."

JD exhaled deeply and scowled deeply, again running a hand through his hair. "You and me both," he muttered. "I mean, first we're gonna hang Blackfox, then he says he has ta talk with the Judge. And suddenly we're not gonna hang him, and Chris is draggin' him outta jail and tryin' ta drown him in the street. And then, then, Chris and Nathan and Josiah are ridin' outta town with him, and I have ta tell everybody the hangin's off." He leaned forward in his chair ad glared at Vin. "Have you ever tried ta tell a crowd all set for a hangin' that their entertainment's been called off?"

Vin swallowed hard, and again his hand crept to his neck. Entertainment. Lord, was that what it was?

JD suddenly realized what he'd said, and felt a rush of horror. He sank back in his seat, hazel eyes wide, his face draining of color. "Oh, God, Vin, I'm sorry!" he gasped strickenly. "I didn't mean... I mean, I wasn't thinkin'... I keep forgettin'... Oh, jeez, I'm sorry!"

Vin swallowed again and forced his hand down to the table, then gave the boy a small, strained smile. "'S okay, kid," he breathed. "Hell," he reached for his beer, "wouldn't bother me none if the whole world fergot!"

JD watched Tanner drink from his beer, and felt a deep sympathy for him. He still remembered how shocked he'd been at finding Vin's wanted poster, doubted he'd ever forget the way his stomach had dropped when he'd seen those eyes staring out at him from that paper. He'd taken it at once to Chris, who'd ripped it out of his hands and torn it to pieces and snarled that JD was not ever to tell another living soul about it. Then he'd said that Vin was innocent, had told him about Eli Joe. And JD had never felt even the smallest twinge of doubt. Whether from hero-worship or shrewd judging of the man's character, the boy simply could not believe that Vin Tanner was guilty of murder.

But the law did, and, to some, that was all that mattered. He tried to understand how it must feel to be hunted, to have men he didn't know coming after him for money, to know that every face he saw in the street might be that of his killer. But he couldn't imagine it, couldn't imagine how he'd keep from going crazy, and couldn't imagine how Vin did it.

How could he always be so calm, so relaxed, when men carried his picture around and dreamed of making money by his death?

"I'm sorry," he said again, his voice soft and sad.

Vin had an inkling of what the boy was truly sorry for, and was touched by his compassion. "'S all right," he assured JD. "They ain't got me yet. And, hell," he chuckled, "ain't like a rope's the only way of dyin' out here. Mebbe I'll show 'em all 'n git m'self shot ta death!"

JD snorted and shook his head at the tracker's bizarre sense of humor. "You are not right, Vin!" he laughed.

"Seems I've heard that before. Now," he fixed his compelling gaze once more upon the boy, "you wanta tell me why'n the hell Chris took off with a feller we's s'posed ta hang?"

"Mind if I join you?"

Vin looked up and stiffened reflexively at Travis's approach. Despite what he'd told Chris, he had no doubt the old man knew about him, and couldn't understand why he wasn't cooling his heels in jail.

Travis sat down in the chair between Vin and JD, but his gaze went immediately to the tracker. He saw the wariness in the blue eyes, saw the tension in the lean frame, and had to wonder yet again about the man before him. What would make a hunted man stay in one place and work for the man he knew could send him to his death?

"There'll be no hanging today," he finally said, not talking about John Blackfox.

Vin understood that, and relaxed, giving the judge a slight nod and a small smile. Lord, he'd never understand this in a hundred years!

Travis dropped his gaze to the table and frowned thoughtfully. "By now you've heard that Chris has taken Blackfox out of town," he began, certain Tanner would know that much at least. "You've probably also heard about the dust-up in the street."

Vin nodded once, his gaze never leaving Travis. "Heard Larabee was in a towerin' rage, like ta drowned Blackfox in a horse trough."

Travis sighed, his frown twisting into a grimace. He laid his hands on the table and laced his fingers together, staring intently at them. "Blackfox claimed to have information about the deaths of Chris's wife and son."

Vin sat up sharply, those soft words hitting him like a blow to the gut. "What?" he gasped.

Travis lifted his head and met the tracker's gaze, then had to look away again. The eyes were wide and dark, filled with a shock and horror he would never have expected to see in this man. He knew Larabee and Tanner were close, had seen in them a bond that defied description, but only now, only when he saw in Tanner's eyes almost an exact replica of the pain he'd seen in Larabee's, did he begin to think that what one man felt, the other shared.

"What did he say?" Vin demanded harshly, suddenly fierce eyes boring ruthlessly into Travis. "What lies did that bastard tell--"

"Apparently," Travis broke in softly, sadly, "Chris is convinced they're not lies. And he's taking Blackfox to the Eagle Bend area, hoping the man can lead him to his family's killer."

"No," Vin rasped, tortured by the knowledge of the pain his lover would be feeling. "No, he cain't... He cain't put himself through that again! It's been three years!" he said hoarsely. "A trail that old, that cold... Hell, there ain't nobody who could pick it up again! Folks come 'n go, 'n them that stays, fergits... He's jist bringin' more pain on himself! He ain't gonna find nothin', 'n that's gonna kill him!"

"I hope you're wrong, Vin," Travis said quietly. "I hope to God you're wrong."

"God ain't got no part in this," Tanner snarled, startling Travis and JD with the pure venom in his voice. "God don't set fires, don't burn women 'n kids ta death. It's only people that does that. They're the only ones got it in 'em ta tear out a man's heart 'n soul by killin' the ones he loves." He shot an accusing glare at Travis. "I cain't b'lieve you let him go!"

"And how was I supposed to stop him?" Travis asked calmly, meeting that furious stare unflinchingly. "Shoot him? Lock him up? Tell me, Vin," he leaned forward and fixed the tracker with a steely glare of his own, "if Chris Larabee stood before you and asked -- hell, begged -- for the chance to find out why his family died and who killed them, would you have refused? Could you have refused?"

Vin exhaled unsteadily and turned his head, staring at the wall and clenching his jaw as he fought to bring his raging emotions under control.

But Travis was not through. He leaned closer still and, with unmistakable knowing in his voice, asked quietly, "If there were something in your life, some great, terrible wrong that needed to be righted, and if there were any chance that you could right it, wouldn't you want to try? Wouldn't you have to try? And don't you think Chris would be the first man to help you do it?"

Vin closed his eyes tightly at those words, and whatever doubt had remained that Travis knew vanished entirely. Tascosa. Would he do it?

God, wouldn't he do it?

And Chris would be with him every step of the way.

Travis saw the rigid shoulders slump, and knew Vin had given him his answer. "Give him his chance, son," he urged gently, "as he'd give you yours. As a friend," he shrugged, "what else can you do?"

"I c'n go after him--"

"Wait," Travis advised. "Give him some time. Let him do this his way."

Pain flared in Vin, and he knew that pain was Chris's. "He needs--"

"He's got Josiah, Nathan and Buck with him now. Let them help him. If he needs the rest of you," again he shrugged, "he can wire. Eagle Bend's not the end of the earth." He fixed a compassionate gaze on the young tracker, easily able to see how this was tearing at him and marveling at the depth and strength of a friendship that would exert such power over the independent, solitary man. "With any luck," he said gently, "Chris will find the answers, and the peace, he needs."

"He won't," Vin said softly, knowing it with a terrible, aching certainty. "Ain't gonna be no answers, 'cause this trail's done gone too cold. 'N it's only gonna end in pain."

Chris lay wrapped in his blankets, listening to the night sounds and the snores of the men about him, but unable to sleep himself. The pain was raging again, the hideous, searing sense of loss grown almost too sharp to bear, and he wished more desperately than ever that Vin were here to help him through it.

God, Vin! He closed his eyes and summoned a picture of the man who was never far from his thoughts, saw blue eyes deep and dark and still, a full mouth curving into a crooked, boyish smile -- sometimes shy, sometimes wicked -- and the shaggy head tilted slightly to one side as some thought worked its way through that sharp but maddeningly methodical brain. He conjured the sound of the Texan's voice, with its sandpaper-on-leather rasp and the slow, soft drawl that could turn even the vilest curse into sweet music, and imagined the feel of callused hands turned to velvet as they wandered over him in a tender caress. Even the smell of Vin came to him now -- leather, sagebrush and wind, and the warm, distinctive musk that was his alone -- and he took refuge in it, drowning his senses in memories of Vin to hold the pain at bay.

He knew some -- hell, most -- would find it strange, even consider it wrong, for him to seek escape from memories of his wife and child in thoughts of his male lover, but, to him, it only seemed right. He had loved Sarah -- God, with everything that was in him he had loved her! -- and had found the rising and the setting of the sun in Adam. They were as precious to him now as they ever had been, held sacred in his heart.

Yet so was Vin. All his brokenness had been taken up and made whole by the tracker, his wounds healed, and he'd found pieces of himself he hadn't even known were missing in the quiet man who'd become such a powerful presence in his life. So he'd seek his healing this time, too, in Vin.

And know that Sarah, at least, would understand.

Buck gazed uneasily about the yard of the burned-out homestead, haunted by the sight of the gaunt and blackened skeleton of the house. He hated seeing it this way, wanted only to remember it as it had been before, alive with love and laughter, rather than the grimly silent testament of pain and death it had become. So much of his own happiness had been contained within those walls, and so much of his own heart had gone to ashes with them.

If he closed his eyes and listened, he could almost hear Sarah's voice upon the breeze, the rich, sweet sound of it warming him even now. And he could see her as he had on that last day, her dark red hair gleaming in the sun, her honey-colored eyes lighting with love whenever they'd settled on Chris or Adam.

Lord, Adam...

He raised his face and stared up into the sky, his eyes filling, his throat closing, as he thought again of the little boy he'd adored. A bright, happy, mischievous child, never walking when he could run, never asking one question when ten would do, his daddy's spirit and his mama's sweetness wrapped in a laughing, ginger-headed package. And Buck had loved him as he'd never loved anyone before or since.

He'd had been there when Adam had been born, and remembered almost having to tie Chris to the chair to keep him from pacing a hole in the floor. He'd been there when Adam had said his first word; and, to his everlasting delight, Chris's guilty horror and Sarah's grim dismay, that word hadn't been "mama" or "papa," but "damn." Lord, he'd nearly laughed himself sick over that one! He could still see the look on Chris's face when that sweet treble had piped up in imitation of his daddy, and he'd been sure Sarah was going to beat one of them to death with the wooden spoon she'd gripped like a weapon.

But, to his credit, Larabee had never sworn again around his son.

Buck sighed and dropped his head, smiling softly, sadly, as he recalled how naturally Chris had taken to fatherhood. A tenderness he'd never imagined was there had been born in the man the day Adam came into the world. Hands so adept at brawling just as easily turned to cradling a sleeping infant, wiping away a child's tears or tending the hundred and one hurts that little boys suffered in the course of their days. He'd heard Larabee's stern voice pitched low and soft while reading bedtime stories, growling playfully while he chased a laughing little boy around the yard, or murmuring gently when soothing Adam through some nightmare or other. It was as if Chris had been waiting for a reason to let that part of himself out, and Adam had been that reason.

Just as he'd been the reason Chris had walled that part of himself in again.

Buck turned and looked for him, and his heart broke yet again when he saw him leaning on the fence around two graves, the lean frame bowed and radiating unbearable pain. Gone was the loving husband and father, gone even was the formidable gunfighter. Now all that remained was the broken, hurting man surrounded once more by the wreck and ruin of his dreams.

Then, as he watched, awash in a pain of his own, Larabee pulled himself upright and turned, burning eyes seeking out Blackfox. As the tightly-coiled dark figure stalked toward him, Buck barely suppressed a shudder as he looked into the hard, twisted mask of grief and deadly fury that was his old friend's face.

Chris stared at Blackfox through seething eyes, memories of his wife and son when they were alive colliding in his brain with images of their blackened bodies, and rage poured through him in raw waves. His hand found its way to his gun, and, for long moments, it was all he could do not to draw and shoot the man on the spot.

"You're going to tell me exactly what happened that night," he spat through clenched teeth. "You understand me? From the moment you set foot on my property till the moment you took the lives... of my wife and son."

Blackfox felt the cold hand of death settle upon him at that moment, and knew killing him would come easier to this man than breathing. "I told you," he insisted fearfully, "I didn't do..."

"Chris!" Nathan called from across the yard, interrupting Blackfox and quite possibly saving his life. "We found something!"

It wasn't much, only the remains of one of Blackfox's partners from that night, yet it gave them more than they'd had so far. Their killer was probably left-handed, and enough of a professional to execute employees who might become liabilities.

Their mysterious "hard man" was getting harder all the time.

From the ranch they rode into Eagle Bend, and, despite the bartender's initial unwillingness to talk, an unwillingness that disappeared when Larabee hauled him across the bar and threw him onto the floor and loomed like the Angel of Death above him, learned a bit more. Tall and lean like Chris, smoked cheroots, and was unusually neat. He also wore a special glove to disguise a deformed or crippled hand.

And he still frequented the area.

That last gave a new surge of hope to Chris. If the man was still around, then he'd inevitably hear that Larabee was asking about him. And he might get bold, or nervous, enough to venture out of hiding to confront this latest threat.

It was at that thought that Chris realized just how unprepared for such a confrontation he was. He couldn't concentrate right now, his thoughts careening about inside his brain like twigs tossed upon a storm, his body exhausted yet his every nerve stretched almost to snapping. He needed to eat, needed to rest, and doubted he could do either. He wanted to curse, to cry, to scream, to fall to the ground and die in the dirt or kill someone with his own hands. He didn't know where to start, or to stop, where to go or what to do, didn't know anything...

Except that he needed Vin.

He needed the tracker's cool head with his own in such a frenzy, needed the tracker's calm to counter his confusion, needed the man's strength to lean on and hold him up until he could stand on his own again. Mostly, though, he just needed Vin, needed to sink into the arms that he knew would catch him and rest in the heart that he knew would shelter him, just needed Vin to hold him and assure him that somehow, God, somehow, it would be all right again.

You take care of me, 'n I take care of you. You watch my back 'n I watch yers. From here on out, we're ridin' this trail together.

Vin's words from yesterday morning came back to him, stopping him in his tracks and nearly dropping him to his knees. Jesus, how he needed that now! Needed his blue-eyed guardian angel to watch over him, to take care of him, until he could take care of himself. Until he could separate his past from his future and do what he needed to put the one to rest in order to turn his attention to the other.

God, Vin, come to me now! he pleaded silently, desperately. I need you ta ride this trail with me, or I'll never make it to the end!

Tanner pushed through the batwing doors into the saloon, forgoing his customary silent, shadow-hugging entrance and ignoring the attention stirred by his grimly determined appearance. With not a single wasted movement, he strode to the table where JD, Ezra and two town men sat indulging in a low-stakes game of poker, his spurs ringing as he walked, emphasizing the unusual force of his steps.

Stopping just behind one of the town men, he stared across the table at his two fellow regulators and growled, "Y'all git yer gear, meet me in the liv'ry. We're ridin' ta Eagle Bend."

JD gaped up at him in surprise, startled not only by Vin's abrupt entrance, but also by the edge in his voice and the hard set of his face. Ezra, however, sat back and gazed calmly up at the tracker, arching one chestnut eyebrow in an expression of cool disinterest.

"And why, pray, would I wish to undertake such a long, uncomfortable and undoubtedly filthy journey at this hour of the day?" he asked. "Taking flight across the barren waste with the mid-day heat beating down upon my person is a most unappealing notion--"

"I don't give a damn," Vin interrupted in a low, harsh voice, fixing a fierce stare upon the gambler. "We're goin' after Chris 'n the boys. Trouble's comin', 'n I aim ta find 'em 'fore it does."

JD swallowed, his eyes widening in alarm. "What makes you think trouble's comin'?"

Vin turned hard eyes to the boy. "'Cause Chris is raisin' ghosts, 'n they don't never rise without trouble. And a man who'll burn a woman 'n child ta death won't hesitate ta kill a man." His stare cut back to Ezra. "So y'all git yer stuff. 'N if you ain't at the liv'ry in ten minutes, I'll come 'n git it for ya."

Without another word, he turned and stalked out of the saloon, leaving a collection of confused and startled stares in his wake.

"But..." JD sputtered, wondering just what the hell was going on and wishing that, just once, Tanner wouldn't leave him wondering that.

Ezra was neither confused nor startled. He'd heard the warning in the tracker's voice, seen it in his eyes, and knew Vin had meant every word. And having the irate Texan manhandling his cherished possessions, or his cherished person, was not a prospect he relished. With as much ease and dignity as he could manage, he laid his cards face down upon the table, reached out and took JD's from his hand and did the same with them, then rose to his feet.

"Gentlemen," he addressed the two perplexed town men, "I must regretfully put an end to our game. Duty has once again reared its ugly head, necessitating our immediate departure." He smiled, his gold-capped incisor gleaming. "But I do hope to see you back at my table soon. It has been a most delightful and profitable day." He bowed slightly and stepped away from the table, then turned back and hauled JD to his feet, pulling him away, as well.

"Ezra, I don't understand," the boy protested. "What--"

"All you have to understand," Standish told him, "is that, undoubtedly having received some mystical vision through communing with the natural world, Mr. Tanner has pressed us into service in the defense of our comrades."

"What?"

The gambler heaved a long, martyred sigh and shook his head. Then, scowling at the boy, he clarified, "The man can shoot the wings off a fly at one hundred yards. When he says we're leaving, it is in our best interest to leave!"

In exactly ten minutes, the three were off, racing out of town and along the road to Eagle Bend, with Vin leading Ezra and JD at a hard pace.

On the boardwalk outside the jail, Orin Travis stood and watched them go, knowing he'd been right last night. Tanner had waited, had weighed, had deliberated, turning over everything in his mind. And had made his decision. He was going, but not at all half-cocked.

He was flying out as straight and as true as a bullet from a carefully aimed gun.

Chris had thought this day would never end. He'd forced down a brief meal at Nathan's insistence while questioning Blackfox further, then had deposited the man with the sheriff. And had nearly choked on his apology for Sarah and Adam's deaths.

God, he was so sick of that! He didn't want apologies or sympathy, damn it, he wanted explanations! Reasons. Answers. Something that he could point to and say, "There, that's why they're dead!" Something that would make it all make sense. All the apologizing and the sympathizing in the world wouldn't do that, wouldn't bring them back, wouldn't change a thing. Knowing why wouldn't either, but at least it might let them rest easier.

As he hoped it would him.

He went to the livery and tended Pony, not ready yet to go back to the room he'd taken. It was strange, cold, not at all what he was used to or wanted. And empty. If Vin were here, he knew he'd have company in the night, someone to make the room warmer, the bed more inviting. But Vin wasn't here, and he was left to bear this crushing weight alone. So he took his time brushing down his horse and cleaning and oiling his tack, finding some small comfort in turning his mind to such a familiar, uncomplicated task.

Yet even here, memories of his family and thoughts of Vin found him. How many peaceful Sunday afternoons had he spent on a chair outside his barn cleaning or repairing his tack, Adam at his knee and Sarah bringing cookies and lemonade? And how many afternoons had he spent in the livery in town with Vin doing this, delighting in the deep and intimate silence between them while admiring the supple play of tracker's long and nimble fingers over leather?

Strange, how much of the peace he'd known in his life with Sarah he'd found again with Vin. Strange, how much alike the two of them were when he thought about it. Both blessed with a strength that had nothing to do with their physical builds, but had everything to do with their souls. Both able to stand in one moment and find all the joy, all the peace, there was in it before moving on to the next. Both coming to him when he was certain he'd never find their like, both giving themselves to him completely, without reservation, both teaching him what it meant to love with his whole being, and to be loved like that in return.

Then again, maybe it wasn't so strange after all. Sarah had always done her best to look after him, to take care of him. Maybe, just maybe, she'd done it in death as she'd done in life. It would be like her to send someone across his path to free him from his pain and isolation. It would be like her to send someone to take care of him in ways she no longer could.

It would be just like her to send Vin.

His tack finished, he put it away and retrieved his saddlebags, then left the stable and went to the boardinghouse, finally ready to face sleep. He trudged wearily up the stairs and found his room, unlocking the door. Once inside, he hung his hat on the wall rack and tossed his saddlebags onto the bed. As he turned toward the wash basin, he looked down and saw the thick red pool standing beneath the closet door, then smelled the distinctive coppery odor.

Blood.

Gripped by a deep uneasiness, he went to the closet, faces from his past and present colliding in his mind. Sarah... Adam... Vin... God, who...

He opened the door, and saw the blood-soaked corpse impaled on the rack.

"The bartender," he murmured flatly, recognizing both the dead man, and the message he'd been meant to deliver.

The hard man was back.

Josiah frowned deeply and stared again at the slip the telegraph operator had handed him; the reply to the one he'd dragged the poor man out of bed to send. Just a few words, and not from anyone he'd expected to answer.

"COMING STOP TRAVIS"

Josiah scratched his whiskered jaw, shook his grizzled head slowly, then shoved the flimsy paper into his pocket and drew out a coin. Flipping it to the operator, he bobbed his head in thanks and walked out of the office. He saw Buck and Chris standing in the street, talking with the sheriff as the bartender's body was loaded into the wagon, and started toward him.

And, as he drew near enough to feel the anger and frustration rolling off Larabee's tight body, understanding hit him, and a wry chuckle escaped him.

Of course Travis had been the one to answer. He wasn't saying the boys were leaving, he was saying they'd left. Vin Tanner, God love that boy's mysterious soul, had known he was needed long before the summons came, and likely was dragging Ezra and JD behind him right now as he flew across the miles.

He joined Chris and Buck, and almost flinched as the gunfighter's diamond-hard gaze snapped to him. Larabee was walking a razor's edge here, and one wrong step would plunge him once more into the black pit from which he'd only recently begun to climb. And he might not make it out a second time.

"You send word?" Chris demanded of the preacher, his need for Vin's steady, soothing presence a raw ache in his soul.

Josiah nodded, adopting as calm a manner as he could, almost able to see the younger man's nerves fraying right before him. "Had to drag the telegraph operator out of bed." He glanced at the wagon, then back to Chris. "That poor soul supposed ta be our invitation to leave?" He shook his head mournfully. "Not very hospitable."

"Really," Buck snorted, still enraged that the bastard had come close enough to Chris to leave a corpse in his room, yet go unseen by anyone. "Good reason ta stick around, teach him some manners." He was startled to see Chris abruptly turn and walk away. "Where you goin'?"

Josiah sighed. "Saloon," he said knowingly, suddenly wishing Four Corners were a whole helluva lot closer to Eagle Bend.

And pitying anyone who had to close the distance with Vin Tanner.

Ezra Standish no longer had to wonder what hell was; he knew. It was being dragged across the desert at a grueling, punishing pace by a hard-eyed, nearly silent Vin Tanner, allowed only brief stops for water and rest when the horses demanded it, and only slightly longer stops for what, to the tracker, might pass as food but that, to Ezra, was a personal affront.

Jerked beef, dried biscuits and bitter coffee. And, good Lord, the buckskin-clad barbarian actually seemed to enjoy it!

Even his hopes for a fairly decent night's sleep had been cruelly disappointed. When the light had faded, Vin had been forced to stop, much to Ezra's relief. A scant few hours later, however, he'd been roughly hauled from the sparse comfort of his blankets by the tracker, who'd growled that the moon was up and it was time to ride. A full moon, Standish had noted with surly displeasure, declared by Tanner to be almost as good as sunlight.

Well, wasn't that wonderful?

Reflecting bitterly on the opportunities to fatten his purse back in town that he was missing by being out here, Ezra hastily rolled his blankets, choked down yet another offensive "meal," and hauled himself onto the horse Tanner had already saddled. Someone was going to have to pay for this. Someone needed to die.

Better still, someone would have to lose a fortune at cards.

JD, for his part, was torn between nervousness and excitement. He knew there had to be trouble, else Vin wouldn't be acting the way he was, and the boy fervently hoped they would arrive before it overwhelmed his friends. At the same time, he couldn't help the tingle of exhilaration running through him. This was why he had come West, this charging into the unknown, facing danger, having nothing to rely on save his guns and his wits. He felt more alive now, even tired, hungry and dirty as he was, than he ever had back East.

And he was unabashedly in awe of Tanner. The tracker was a damn marvel in the wilds, ghosting silently over the hard-baked earth, slipping in and out of the shadows of the night as if one of them himself, so deeply and intimately attuned to the rhythms of the earth he seemed sprung from its very bosom. Not a breeze stirred that went untested by the Texan, who would lift his head and sniff wolf-like at it, eyes as dark as the midnight sky narrowed slightly as he processed every scrap of information received by his senses through that lightning-fast brain. JD watched the man saddle the horses, pick up camp and douse the fire, all without making one sound more than was absolutely necessary, and moving with the easy, fluid grace that seemed to have its only mirror in nature itself.

Although, it would be nice if Vin talked a bit more...

The tracker hadn't spoken much since they'd started and, as they rode through the night and into the dawn, he seemed to speak even less, communicating only when he had to and then in terse, one- or two-word sentences or mere grunts and gestures. In contrast there was Ezra, who could use more and longer words to say nothing than anyone JD had ever known. The boy wasn't certain which of the two was harder to understand, and he found himself missing Buck.

The big man might sometimes be a pain, but at least he spoke, and spoke English.

Vin knew he was pushing his two companions hard, but he couldn't help himself. The knowledge that Chris needed him, and needed him now, was a driving, relentless force inside him. He felt as if invisible hands were pushing him onward, heard a voice whispering in his mind that he had to hurry. He couldn't explain it, but didn't have to. He'd always been a man completely at home with the Spirits that moved unseen in this world, had no difficulty letting himself be guided by those Spirits.

So if they wanted him to haul ass to Eagle Bend, he'd do it. And if now and then, from the corner of his eye, he caught what looked to be a glimmer of dark red hair in the moonlight, well, that could just be his little secret.

The delay was gnawing a hole in Chris's gut. He'd been up since dawn, had hastily choked down his untasted breakfast, and now sat watching his friends lingering over their meals, a bottle clutched firmly in his hand. Reason told him it was much too early to be drinking, but his jumping nerves needed something to calm them. The bastard was out there, watching him, mocking him, yet here he still sat, waiting on men who seemed to think they had nothing important to do and all the time in the world to do it.

They should have been out hours ago!

Buck could see Chris seething, could see the anger building in the burning green eyes, yet knew there was not one thing he could do to calm him. Larabee was being driven by his grief and rage, was being consumed by them, and was an explosion waiting to happen. Josiah had told them Vin, Ezra and JD were on their way, and, while it made sense to the rest of them to wait for the three men's arrival, Buck knew that sense was not exactly a big factor in Chris's thinking just now.

God, he hoped Vin hurried!

For some time now he'd suspected -- hell, known, if only he'd admit it -- about the turn the relationship between Chris and Vin had taken, and was still trying to decide exactly how he felt about it. Right now, though, his feelings didn't matter worth a damn. What mattered was that Chris was about to snap, and the only living person who had the power to hold him together was Vin Tanner. Buck might not necessarily like all the implications of that, but he was unselfish enough to admit that, if it meant having Chris happy and sane, there were things he was ready and willing to overlook.

And it helped enormously that the two men were not ones to flaunt their relationship. Buck doubted anyone else suspected, simply because Larabee and Tanner were experts at keeping whatever they felt under tight rein, at giving nothing of themselves away. Hell, he might not have noticed it himself, but for the few times he'd glanced unexpectedly at Chris and caught the man looking at Vin the way he used to look at Sarah, with a light and warmth in his eyes that could only be described as love. And only when he'd forced himself to watch for it had he seen Vin looking at Chris the same way.

But, hell, he supposed he'd come across worse things in this life than two men loving each other...

"The son of a bitch is close enough ta kill a man in my hotel room," Chris snarled, his patience at an end. "Why are we sittin' here eatin' breakfast?"

Without really thinking, Josiah quipped easily, "It's the most important meal of the day."

And Chris snapped. Slamming a hand against the table, he shouted, "You think this is a joke, preacherman?"

"Easy, partner, easy," Buck soothed, reaching out to grab Chris's arm, knowing he was about a breath away from murder.

"Calm down, now!" Nathan urged, grateful only that Larabee was clutching a bottle instead of his gun. "Calm down."

"Nobody thinks this is a joke, Chris," Josiah said gently, calm blue eyes fixed on Larabee, his big body relaxed. Chris was wrapped so tight he was shaking, was as brittle as a piece of old glass, and Sanchez knew one wrong word or move would shatter the man completely.

"Our search party's gonna get bigger real soon, and that's gonna help, Chris," Buck reminded him, praying Tanner would hurry. "We're gonna find him."

Jock Steele chose that moment to appear, and Larabee nearly choked on his anger. "Great!" he muttered, surging to his feet and stalking toward the bar.

"Mornin', boys," the little man greeted brightly, oblivious to the dark currents swirling about the table.

"You picked a bad time," Buck said in a low, angry voice, blue eyes glaring as the writer pulled up a chair and sat down beside him. "Mister, you're like a piece of somethin' a man can't scrape off the bottom of his shoe. Did you follow us?"

"I had no choice," Steele said pointedly. "You left me out there wanderin' around for a day without food." He eyed Nathan's plate. "You gonna eat that?"

Nathan passed the man what remained of his breakfast with a disgusted scowl, wishing he'd just stayed lost.

"I'm gonna go down to the dry goods store," Josiah announced, deciding he might as well do something useful while he waited. "Maybe this man orders his gloves custom-made."

Nathan nodded, formulating a plan of his own. "I'm gonna go down t' that horse liv'ry, see if I c'n find Big Gray."

Steele saw a perfect subject in the black man, and was not about to waste this opportunity. "Mr. Jackson," he called, "Mr. Jackson, I heard you're a doctor of sorts."

Nathan rose to his feet. "No, sir, I ain't no doctor," he insisted firmly, the distinction between what he was and what he wished to be almost sacred to him. "I'm jest inter'sted in healin' folks."

Fascination gripped Steele. "Interested," he mused, gripping his pencil tightly. "May I ask you a few questions? Please, step outside with me for one second," he invited as he tagged along after the man who was leaving without him. "From Slave to Surgeon," he said grandiosely, already seeing it in print. "You know, there's a story in your life, Mr. Jackson. If you'd just allow me to..."

The bark of gunshots interrupted his speech, and a new exhilaration shot through him. A gunfight! Happening right here in front of him! He'd imagined them written about them, but now was seeing one with his very eyes, hearing the crack and slap of bullets, smelling the sharp, acrid tang of powder, watching the smoke billowing on the breeze...

"Chris, one in the wagon!" Buck yelled, taking aim at the man targeting his friend. Then, his attention was caught by the idiot standing in the street like a goddamn statue, and anger at such incredible stupidity flared within him. "Steele, are you crazy?!" he shouted. "Get down, ya fool!"

The writer was in heaven, already framing new words with which to describe such a scene. Oh, it was even better than he'd imagined! "Hey, it's all right!" he called confidently, secure in his untouchable status os objective observer. "They're not shooting at me..." A bullet ripped through his pad, bringing the reality of what was happening brutally to life. "Ah!"

"Chris!" Buck called to his friend as Josiah hauled the writer behind cover. "Get down here! We'll cover ya!"

Still shooting, Chris looked around for the best way to join his friends, then, seeing no better option, simply charged down through the hail of bullets. But his new position did nothing to increase his confidence. Their attackers were everywhere, high and low, seemed to have every angle covered, and superior numbers, too.

Okay, now he understood the logic behind waiting...

"They're all over us!" Buck shouted unnecessarily, unconsciously echoing Larabee's thoughts.

The bray of a mule got his attention, and everyone else's. The gunfire ceased as everyone stared in surprise and confusion at the riderless wagon being pulled slowly down the street. Even Larabee was gaping, his astonishment plain.

Then, as was his way, Josiah put all their thoughts into words. "What in heaven's name is that?"

They stopped one last time, as Vin reluctantly gave in to the demands of exhausted flesh. Everything in him cried out to keep going, but reason prevailed over desperation. He'd pushed them at a brutal, punishing pace, and, if they went on like this, they'd be in no shape to face whatever trouble might be awaiting them. So, at dawn, he bowed to his friends' obvious exhaustion -- hell, to his own -- and granted them all three hours of sleep.

Even Ezra accepted the very small favor without complaint, warned by the tracker's hard-as-granite face that to say anything would land him in a shallow grave.

So they slept. Or, rather, Ezra and JD slept; Vin simply sat and let his mind wander. And not surprisingly at all, it ran straight to Chris, taking his heart with it. He hurt so for the man he could not reach, ached for the pain he was not there to ease. He could feel Chris's torment as if it were his own, then realized it was. Chris was his; how could the man's suffering not be his, as well?

Exactly three hours later, he roused his friends and got them once more on the road to Eagle Bend. His pace this time was no more merciful than it had been before, but neither of his friends complained. In fact, they seemed now to share his sense of urgency, as if understanding that he would not be riding like this without cause. So, infected by the same grim purpose that gripped him, they kept pace with him, all watching the horizon eagerly for any sign of Eagle Bend.

And when, at last, the vague outline of the town glimmered before them, they spurred their horses with a single accord, little knowing what awaited them there, but certain it would not be good. By the time they reached its outer limits, Eagle Bend was already stirring to life, with folks starting to go about their daily lives.

But, as they drew near the livery, Vin suddenly reined in Peso and stiffened in the saddle, his every sense on high alert. Blue eyes swept the street before him, then lifted to the rooftops, and a chill shot down his spine. In a moment, the fleeting shadow was gone, but he'd seen it, and his hackles rose.

"Up on the roofs," he growled to his companions. "Guns."

"Ambush," Ezra said quietly, his instinct for trouble also aroused. "But for whom?"

Vin's mouth twisted into a feral smile. "If'n there's trouble," he rasped, "who's most likely ta be in its middle?"

"Chris," JD and Ezra answered in unison without hesitation.

Vin narrowed his eyes and thought a moment. "Cain't jist go in. Don't know how many of 'em there are, 'n there ain't no sense tippin' our hand." He looked around, saw an old wagon behind the stable and two mules in the fence, and grinned. "You boys need a li'l rest?"

Ezra felt a deep sense of unease at Tanner's grin, knowing personally what devious and degrading ideas it could herald. "And what vile humiliation, pray tell, will I be forced to endure this time?"

"Don't worry, Ezra," Vin answered mischievously, "I ain't askin' ya ta put on a dress again. Likely once was enough fer us all." He tipped his head toward the wagon. "Jist thought you boys might like a ride, is all, seein's yer likely ta be saddle sore."

Ezra saw the wagon, saw the mules, and sneered in disgust. "Good Lord, you are not suggesting--"

"Ain't suggestin' nothin'," Vin informed him, the hard edge returning to his voice. "I'm sayin' flat out. We're gonna hitch them mules ta that wagon, we're gonna git inside, 'n we're gonna ride real easy-like inta town ta git the lay'a the land."

"Mules," Ezra groaned. "Yet another blow to my dignity. Really, Mr. Tanner, what have I ever done to make you loathe me so?"

Vin eyed the gambler steadily. "Don't know 'bout loathin' ya," he rasped, "but if ya don't quit yer belly-achin', yer dignity won't be the only thing takin' a blow. Now, we're gonna ride around the liv'ry like ain't nothin' wrong, take our horses in the back way, then see if we cain't git them mules hitched t' that wagon without anybody seein'. Then--"

"We?" Ezra interrupted sharply. "What is this we? I have never hitched a mule to anything in my life, and certainly do not intend to take up the practice now. Horses are the only steeds fit for a gentleman--"

"I've never worked with mules, but I'm game ta try," JD piped up, eager to take on a new challenge. "Can't be too different from horses, right?"

Vin eyed his two friends and sighed tiredly. One who wouldn't and one who couldn't. Lord, why him? "I'll do it m'self," he said tersely. "This ain't the time t' be teachin' y'all somethin' new." He glared at Ezra. "You think keepin' watch fer bad guys with guns would set all right with yer dignity?"

The gambler considered a moment, then smiled. "Why, yes, I believe keeping the rear guard would be quite agreeable--"

"You c'n guard yer rear from the wagon jist like us," Vin growled. "Now, let's git 'fore them bad guys ain't the onliest ones with guns yer gonna have ta worry about."

JD struggled to conceal his smirk at Standish's outraged expression, and quickly spurred his bay after Tanner's black. He could still hear the Southerner muttering behind them, and suspected Vin enjoyed getting under the man's skin.

Their task was accomplished quickly, Vin getting the mules in harness with an ease born of much practice. JD, watching closely to see how mules were handled, asked about his obvious skill and was surprised to hear the tracker say he'd once been a mule-skinner, working for a freight office back in Texas. The boy couldn't help wondering if there was anything his six older friends hadn't done.

The easy mood, though, was abruptly shattered by the sound of gunfire. Knowing instinctively that their friends were involved, the three hopped into the wagon and Vin took the long reins, driving the mules from inside. Quickly formulating a plan and filling the other two in on it, he turned the wagon onto the main street and headed toward the saloon, his heart in his throat.

Lord, Chris, don't die! he pleaded silently. Jist, please, don't die!

"What in heaven's name is that?"

Chris stared intently into the street, barely noting Josiah's question, his whole attention focused on the wagon before him. The silence hung thick and taut as everyone waited to see what lay behind this bizarre intrusion into the battle. Then, all at once, the canvas covering was pulled down and three men came up firing, picking off targets with a cool precision. Chris's heart leapt when he saw the blessedly familiar figure in that damn hide coat stand to get a better shot, and it was all he could do not to laugh aloud in violent relief.

Vin!

The three turned the tide, and the battle lasted only a few minutes more as the ambushers realized they were badly out-classed. Three men reached their horses, and made their desperate escape.

Chris rolled out from under a wagon in time to hear Ezra's gleeful whoop, and he smiled up at the newcomers. "Now, that was good timin'," he complimented, his gaze immediately going to Vin.

But the tracker was still focused on the job at hand, and hit upon a way to make that job just a bit easier. Seeing the three men fleeing into the distance, he casually raised his rifle and flipped up the sight. "JD, Ezra," he called laconically, taking aim at a man in a dark coat and red bandanna riding a big paint horse, "ya'd best git down."

The two did so immediately, and Vin squinted down the barrel, then squeezed off a shot. As all watched in amazement, the man on the paint jerked violently, Vin's bullet finding its mark. Ezra turned to regard the tracker with unconcealed amazement, yet it was the relief and welcome in Chris's warm green eyes that teased a small smile from him.

He felt those eyes upon him and wanted to drown in them, wanted to grab Larabee and take him somewhere away from all this and show him how much he'd missed him. Instead, he only nodded at the man and said, "Let's git after 'em."

Chasing after the three men didn't give Chris and Vin much time to talk, or any time to be alone, yet both took comfort in simply being back together. Two halves reunited into a whole. Larabee felt more grounded almost immediately, less likely to be torn apart by the chaos raging in his soul. In Tanner, he had his stormbreak and shelter. Vin was torn between anxiety and relief. He'd known this would have taken its toll upon the man, but not even he was prepared for the depth of the anguish he saw in the haunted green eyes. Larabee looked at once harder and more fragile than Vin had ever seen him, as if he were fighting against some darkness waiting to reclaim him.

But it would not. Not while Tanner had breath in his body. He was back at Chris' side, where he belonged, and he would fight heaven and hell to keep the man here, where he belonged. He no longer had to worry from a distance, no longer had to imagine what demons were clawing at his lover. He was here, he was with Chris, he could see the man, touch him. Protect him. He still feared this would only end in more pain for Larabee, but at least he would be here to hold him if it did.

And, if he had his way, to kill whoever was responsible for that pain.

The trail, augmented by the blood being lost by the one he'd shot, led right where instinct had told him it would. "Figgers their track's lead here," he said in his soft, gravelly voice as he stared out over the town before them. "Back under the rock they crawled out from. Welcome ta Purgatory, boys. A real hell-hole."

Chris's gut clenched as he stared down at the outlaw haven. Vin had told him he was sure they'd end up here, and he'd tried to talk the tracker into staying away. Tanner was too well known there, had too many enemies from his bounty hunting days, and five hundred reasons for one of them to seek revenge. As much as he needed Vin with him right now, he was tortured by the fear of losing him, too.

But Vin had been adamant, had refused even to listen to his arguments. Stubborn as only he could be, Tanner had said he'd either go with 'em, or behind 'em, but, one way or another, he was goin'. And he'd shot Larabee a glare that had dared the man to try and stop him.

So, knowing he'd lost that argument, and not at all happy about it, he simply spurred Pony down toward the town.

"Might wanta take one of 'em alive," Buck suggested as Chris rode past. "Find out who's payin' 'em."

"Three men," Vin reminded them, slipping a piece of straw into his mouth. He knew Larabee was pissed, but didn't care. He hadn't come all this way just to be separated from the man again. "One of 'em was on a paint."

"Howdy, boys!" called out a voice behind them.

Buck looked to their rear, and a wave of anger sliced through him. "Good God almighty!" he spat, spurring Beavis after Larabee.

Vin looked back, saw the odd figure on the mule and sighed in weary disgust. JD had told him about Steele, a writer of one of them God-awful books the boy was always readin'. Not wanting any part of the man, he shook his head and rode away with his friends.

But Steele was not so easily evaded. Having come to terms with his mule, he caught up with the Seven and joined their company as if he belonged, fixing his attention on the man in the hide coat. He'd watched his last shot in awe, and just knew someone with that kind of skill must have a story to tell. Yet each time he tried to approach him, the man pulled away, or Steele found a mount belonging to one of his friends blocking his way. At last, he settled in frustration in place alongside the boy he already knew.

"That man, Sheriff Dunne," he asked, nodding his head toward his elusive quarry, "the one with the long hair. Who's he?"

"Oh, that's Vin... Vin," the boy supplied, remembering only at the last minute that spreading Tanner's whole name around might not be a good idea.

"Vin," Steele repeated, storing the name inside his brain. "That was quite a shot he made back in town. I've never seen anything like it!"

"Oh, Vin's the best there is!" JD boasted, his eyes shining with pride for his friend. "There's nobody who can handle a rifle like him. Or find a trail. Buck says Vin could track an ant in a rainstorm!"

"A-ha!" Steele chortled triumphantly. "A marksman and tracker. I'll bet he's got a story worth telling!"

"Oh, uh," JD demurred, suddenly nervous, "Vin... he ain't much of a talker. And he ain't real comfortable around strangers..." He swallowed hard and turned worried hazel eyes upon the writer. "Maybe you just better stay away from him, Mr. Steele. I mean, Vin ain't exactly the friendly type."

"Then that makes him my type!" Steele exclaimed. "Tracker, sharpshooter, a man of the wilds by his look... rough, tough, dangerous... Oh, Sheriff Dunne, he's exactly my type! And my readers' type, too!" With that, he kneed the mule forward, renewing his attempts to get close to the mysterious "Vin."

JD watched him go and grimaced, hoping Vin didn't hurt him too badly. Or kill him too slowly.