A Friend in Need by Sue Bartholomew

The morning sun was blazing brightly down the dusty streets of Four Corners, its rays brushing the small frontier town's inhabitants as they hurried out their daily chores. Mrs. Potter was opening her small general store, Mr. Watson was sweeping off the boardwalk in front of his hardware establishment, and two riders sat patiently on their mounts in front of the jail, watching the crowd with quiet vigilance.

One of them, a handsome dark-haired man with a jaunty black mustache, glanced at his companion with a small smile. "Reckon we got the best deal today, Nathan. Looks like another dull day here in town, least we get to take us a little ride."

His comrade grunted as he chewed on a biscuit. "Escortin' prisoners ain't my idea of a fun time, Buck," he observed as he finished off his breakfast. "But you're right, things have been kinda slow. Course I ain't complainin' about nobody needin' no bones set or cuts stitched up..."

Loud bootsteps thudded on the boardwalk, and a tall, blond man clad in a blue shirt and black pants emerged from the jail. His handsome, lined face was set in an intense expression as he regarded the scruffy handcuffed man he now held tightly in his grip.

Buck leaned forward. "Hey there, Chris, our boy all set to go?"

"Get your damn hands off me!" the prisoner exclaimed, squirming in Chris's iron grip. "I didn't do nothin'!"

"Tell that to the family of the man you shot in Clariston," Chris said in a deadly snarl as he gave the man a hard shake.

Buck and Nathan dismounted and came forward.

"Was he this much trouble when you brought 'im in last night, Chris?" Nathan asked, eyeing the stout dark-haired prisoner warily.

Chris grunted. "Other than drinkin' from my canteen when I wasn't lookin', not a lick," he replied, and pushed the man into the waiting hands of his men. "But he's a fast learner. After I caught him you can bet he didn't do it again."

"Hey, you was gonna let me die of thirst!" the man shouted back, then looked from Nathan to Buck as they prepared to throw him onto the third horse. "Hey, look, fellas-you don't gotta do this-let me go an' I'll make it worth your while-bet they ain't payin' ya much here-"

Chris shook his head with a disgusted grimace as he stepped back onto the boardwalk.

"Hell, mister," Buck grunted as he secured the man's handcuffs, "they wouldn't have to pay me nothin' to clean up trash like you. Robbin' a bank an' shootin' a man in front of his kids, what kinda yella bastard does that?"

"You're goin' to face justice, Boone," Chris promised him from his spot on the boardwalk. "Best make it easy on yourself an' go quiet."

Nathan looked at him as he helped Buck haul the prisoner onto his horse. "Sure you don't wanna come, Chris? Things'll be mighty dull with just Ezra in town."

Chris leaned against one of the wooden posts supporting the roof of the boardwalk and shrugged, his green eyes staring thoughtfully out into the desert. "Kinda nice to have it quiet, Nathan. Don't mind just keepin' an eye on things, even if they don't move much."

"Yeah, well, just mind yourself, ol' pard," Buck said as he got Boone set in his saddle and climbed into his own. "You know how things just spring up around here."

Chris nodded and stood. "Hard to forget it," he said with a nod. "But if anything comes up, Josiah's just over at the Seminole village, and Vin and JD should be back from helping Nettie rebuild her barn by tomorrow. Anything happens, we'll be ready."

Both men nodded and picked up their reins.

"We'll be back in a few days, then," Nathan said, and they nodded farewell and rode away, Buck holding the prisoner's horse in tow.

Chris watched them go, then slowly sat down in the rickety chair by the jail door and settled back. The jail was empty now, and the morning seemed to promise that no new inhabitants would be filling it any time soon. It was a good time to just sit and watch the morning.

He glanced up and down the street, at the people going about their business, watching them closely. A few of them met his piercing gaze; a few nodded greetings, some simply stared and walked on. Suspicion lurked in many of their gazes, a fact which Chris hardly found surprising. With a killing reputation such as his, he knew there were many here who would accept his protection but never his presence. And the same was true for the six other gunslingers hired to watch over this town.

Well, that was fine, he thought to himself as he looked up the street to the saloon where Ezra was no doubt embroiled in a poker game. He'd never needed anyone's approval for the way he lived his life, especially in the past years, after his wife and child had been murdered and for a long, hellish time he abandoned all pretense at civility. Life had been cheap then, both his own and other men's, and lately it amazed him to think that he had even survived those dark years. Why hadn't he been gunned down in the street, or knifed in a brawl? Certainly many ample opportunities presented themselves.

He smiled to himself and looked down at the boardwalk, amused at his own introspection. He'd never been much for asking the why of things; he'd let Josiah be the philosopher of their small, sinful group. Chris simply lived for the day, content to solve each problem as it came, dwelling neither on the past nor the future as long as there was a job to do. It had been a long time since he'd had a duty to fulfill, a calling other than himself to answer to, and he was still getting used to the idea. But he did know that it was not as disagreeable a duty as he thought it would be.

Still, he mused as he glanced out towards the distant mountains which ringed the horizon, every now and then the old wanderlust called, asking the same ancient questions. Hadn't he stayed in one place long enough? Wouldn't he be happier on the trail again, free and unfettered, the wind at his back? What kept him in this dusty frontier town, when he had long abandoned any hope of finding a home again?

These questions fluttered about the perimeters of his mind, but he brushed them away. The bright morning sunshine enticed him not to waste much time on inward contemplations. Best to leave the hard thinking for another day, he decided, and leaned back his chair until it thumped against the wooden clapboards of the building behind him as he prepared to watch the day unfold.

In the very far distance, across the mountains, came the barely perceptible rumble of thunder. Lost in thought, and surrounded by the noises of the street, Chris didn't notice the faint sound as it rolled away into the brilliant air.

Evening was fast approaching as Nathan and Buck wound their way down the rocky mountain road. A high wind had kicked up, causing the trees overhead to sway and rattle.

"Tell ya what, Nathan," Buck said as he looked up at the slate-colored sky, "I think there's a storm brewin'."

"I think you're right, Buck," Nathan replied, listening as a clap of thunder split the air to the west. "best make camp an' hope the sheriff at Clariston ain't too mad at us for gettin' Boone there late."

"Least we can tell 'im Boone's been a good boy," Buck noted, looking back at the prisoner. Boone had stayed silent in his saddle all day, and now appeared to be napping in the saddle.

Nathan nodded. "Guess Chris wore 'im out."

They reached a clearing of flat land covered with small scrub brush and thin trees. To one side stood a jumble of rocks forming a small, shallow cave.

"It ain't much," Buck observed as a bolt of lightning split the sky, "but reckon it'll have to do. That sky looks ready t'open up any minute."

He and Nathan quickly slid off of their horses and led them to the nearest sheltering tree.

"Okay, Boone, wake up, time to make camp," Buck announced, slapping the man's ample thigh.

Boone sat slumped in his saddle and didn't move.

Nathan looked up at him and grabbed his arm. "Hey, Boone! Come on now, we got to move!"

Boone groaned and lifted his head, revealing a countenance of ghostly white. Even in the dim light both men could see that his face was covered with clammy sweat.

"I don't feel so good," he groaned, and slid from the saddle.

Nathan and Buck leapt forward, catching the large man as he fell towards the ground.

Buck struggled to get a grip on his large frame. "Godl'mighty, Nathan, he feels like he's burnin' up!"

"Get 'im into the shelter," Nathan replied quickly, as the first fat raindrops began to fall. With effort they hauled the limp body into the cave, which proved to be no more than ten feet deep. As they settled the large man gently onto the ground, Nathan's brown eyes quickly studied his gray complexion with mounting anxiety. Outside, the rain began to pour from the sky.

"He got somethin', that's for sure," Nathan muttered, tearing open the man's collar. Boone was unconscious now, but made small moaning noises as he tried to breathe.

Buck jumped to his feet; there was barely enough room in the space to stand. "I'll see if I can't round up some dry firewood," he said, and dashed outside.

Nathan didn't respond, too lost in his examination of the stricken prisoner. Boone's skin was white and hot to the touch, his body shaking with chills. The healer pursed his lips; he had a few things in his bag, at least, but most of his herbs were back in town. A town they were now many hours from, and with the heavy rain trying to get back now would be almost impossible. They'd have to wait it out and hope Boone would survive to get to Clariston, and a doctor.

Buck appeared, dripping wet and clutching Nathan's saddlebag and a small bundle of wood.

"Found a few sticks that ain't been soaked yet," he said, and handed Nathan the saddlebag. "What you think, Doc?"

Nathan sighed as he opened the bags. "Hard to tell, Buck. Whatever it is, it came on quick. Best be careful around 'im til we know what we're dealin' with."

Buck nodded and began to fix the fire. "Guess this is what I get for sayin' things was dull," he muttered.

Silence fell as both men set themselves to their tasks, knowing that all they could do now was prepare their shelter and wait.

In the darkness of the night, Chris was dreaming.

An unusual fatigue had led him to retire earlier than usual, and now as he tossed fitfully in his small rented room, he was finding true rest elusive. Outside the rain slashed and poured down the window of his room, throwing wavering shadows as it cascaded down the bubbled glass. Lightning flashed, illuminating the uneasy lines of his pale, sweat-slickened face.

His lean body writhed and twisted on the unkempt bed, his fists weakly clutching at the damp cotton sheets. Had anyone been present, they would have heard the occasional soft moan of pain slipping past his dry lips. However, no one was there, and Chris Larabee suffered alone.

After a long period of tossing, Chris opened his eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling in mute misery. His body felt as if it was on fire, a painful, relentless heat rolling just beneath his wet skin. Every joint ached, and he had the odd notion that if he tried to move his body would fall apart. A razor-sharp agony sliced across his skull behind his eyes, making even the dim light filtering in through the window painful. Every bright flash of lightning shot through his head like a bullet.

Chris stared straight ahead, green eyes wide with anguished confusion. What the hell was happening to him? No illness had ever made him feel like this before. His heart was beating so fast and hard that it felt ready to burst from his chest, and his body was seized with a horrible trembling.

Gasping for air, even though every breath was agony, Chris very slowly turned his eyes towards his door. Out, he thought. He had to get out of here, see Nathan, tell someone that he was sick. His feverish mind forgot that Nathan was miles away; all he could think of now was help. He had to find someone who could help him. He didn't want to die. And he knew somehow that if he didn't find help, he would indeed die.

With a supreme effort, he made an attempt to rise from the bed. As he did so, a crashing wave of agony engulfed him, and he could do nothing as it bore him relentlessly away into oblivion.

Ezra leaned back in his chair and scowled at the rain pouring down outside of the saloon's bat-wing doors as he downed his whiskey. Cursed weather, he thought, it had driven all of his gambling marks away, and the saloon now stood almost empty.

"A quiet night, senor," Inez said with a sigh as she wiped down the already clean wooden counter top at the bar.

Ezra glanced around at the few other patrons and nodded as he slid his pack of cards into his fingers and began shuffling them to occupy his hands. "I fear so, Inez," he said. "Although you shouldn't feel discouraged, even the most dedicated inebriate would feel hard-pressed to brave this weather for a drink."

Inez's long brown hair swung as she shook her head. "I make no complaints, senor," she said with a slight smile. "It is nice to have things quiet for a change. It is so rare that there is no trouble."

Ezra gave the cards one more swift shuffle and began to deal himself solitaire. "That is true, my dear," he agreed, flipping the cards out quickly. "I suppose we should make the most of it."

With a sigh he began to play, swiftly running through two sets of the game and winning with ease. A few soaked patrons dragged themselves in, but no one worth challenging to a game, and Ezra found himself growing very bored. When it came time for him to replace Chris on patrol, he was almost relieved. At least until he looked out into the still-pouring rain.

"Oh, the sacrifices I embrace in the name of duty," he muttered, and went upstairs to change his clothes.

Several minutes later found the gambler dashing through the rain in the least-expensive garments he owned, still cursing the flooding torrents with every breath as he slopped through the mud and puddles to the livery. By the time he got beneath the sheltering roof of the building, he was sopping wet.

"Gaah," he sighed, whipping his arms to fling off the worst of the water. He continued to shake his hands as he approached his beautiful chestnut horse Chaucer, who lifted his head and nickered softly at him as he approached.

"Many apologies for this, old friend," Ezra said softly as he hefted his saddle from its storage place. "I promise an extra sugar cube for this miserable task."

Chaucer blew a little, his eyes still bearing an annoyed light. But he remained still while Ezra saddled him.

As the gambler prepared his mount, he kept an ear open for Chris's return, expecting the gunslinger to ride in any moment. He didn't want to ride out into that cold, inhospitable rain one minute before he had to, and that time would not come until Chris was out of his saddle and officially off of patrol.

He finished saddling Chaucer. Chris did not appear.

He tightened all of his cinches and checked his tack. Chris did not appear.

He made sure all of his guns were clean and loaded, just in case some insane lawbreaker was actually out in this deluge. Chris did not appear.

He stood by Chaucer, completely ready to go, for ten minutes, looking into the dousing rain for any sign of their leader.

Chris did not appear.

Finally, Ezra sighed in annoyance, mostly to hide his growing concern. He flipped open his pocket watch (not the gold one, but the cheaper silver-plated one that he wore on such occasions) and checked the time, frowning. Half past midnight-Larabee should have been here thirty minutes ago.

He snapped the lid shut and tucked the timepiece back into his vest, scowling in worry at the rain. Anxiety wrenched his gut; the possibilities of what might have happened seemed numerous and ugly to think about. It hardly seemed plausible that Chris had merely tarried, or lost track of the time. This weather would drive even the hardiest horseman indoors.

No. Something had to be wrong.

His hand tightened around the reins as he stood next to Chaucer staring out into the street. Chris might be hurt, or in trouble. He should ride out and see what he could find. The thought flashed through his mind quickly, and there was no concern in this instinctual idea for his own welfare, or his clothes. He simply knew that Chris was missing, and had to be found.

Chaucer blew and tossed his head in an agitated manner. Ezra ignored it the first time, still absorbed in thought. At the third tugging of the reins, Ezra sighed and looked at his horse in confusion.

"Chaucer, old boy, kindly calm yourself!" he murmured.

The horse snorted and swung its head towards the back of the livery.

"For heaven's sake!" Ezra cried, as the force of the motion almost pulled the reins from his hands, "what-"

He looked past Chaucer into the depths of the livery, a dark place swallowed in shadows where the other horses were stabled. He stopped, and blinked, looking closer. Finally he took down the lantern which glimmered fitfully in the darkness and stepped into the shadowy corner, his misgivings mounting with each step.

The back of the livery sprang into light, revealing several horses blinking and watching him with sparkling, lively eyes. Ezra's attention, however, was riveted on one horse that he hadn't expected to see there.

Chris's huge black gelding, Valor.

Ezra was astonished, and stood for a moment simply staring as he realized the situation. Chris had not returned because, obviously, he had never left. But Chris never missed patrol; not even a monsoon such as this would have deterred him. Confusion wrapped in fear surged through Ezra's soul; what the hell was going on?

He backed towards the door of the livery, hanging up the lantern and unsaddling Chaucer with a swiftness of motion which would have astonished his comrades. Within minutes Chaucer was stabled once more, calmly watching his master blow out the lantern and rush back out into the rain, and doubtlessly wondering what insanity had possessed his dear friend to send him splashing so heedlessly into the black and sodden night.

The fire in the small cave was burning fitfully, casting dancing shadows against the uneven walls. There was little room in the grotto, and most of it was taken up with the sprawling form of Boone, now stripped to his pants and lying unconscious next to the fire.

As the rain continued to fall in sheets just beyond the cave's mouth, Nathan focused all of his attention on his patient, but his expression was tight as he worked. Buck watched in silence as he worked on keeping the fire going, but even without Nathan's vast medical knowledge, he knew things were getting worse.

Boone's large body was still pale and covered with sweat, and at the same time wracked with horrible chills. There had been little Nathan could do besides try to force some herbal tea down the man's throat, and even that had been less than successful.

Finally Nathan sat back and sighed in frustration, drawing a sleeve across his wet forehead.

"Not lookin' too good, is it?" Buck said softly, his voice sad.

Nathan glanced at him, his brown eyes weary, and shook his head. "He's burnin' up. It's a fever of some kind, strong one too, but I can't do much out here. All my things are back in town." He paused, his expression pensive, then shrugged. "Best we can do is see if we can help 'im ride it out."

Buck's lip twitched in resignation. "An' hope we don't get it."

Nathan reached out into the rain, wetting his hands with the cool water and splashing his face to revive himself. "Just be careful an' we won't. I never got sick too much, reckon bein' in the hospitals toughened me up some."

His friend nodded. "Yeah, me neither. Hell, there was a time in the Army, Chris got sicker'n a dog with whoopin' cough, an--"

His abrupt halt caused Nathan to look up. Naked concern was written plainly across Buck's handsome face.

"Hey, Nathan," Buck whispered reluctantly, as if he really didn't want an answer to the question he was about to ask, "didn't Chris say somethin' about Boone drinkin' from his canteen?"

Nathan's face fell too. "Yeah."

Buck's eyes darted about for a moment, then looked at Nathan in dire seriousness. "But-that don't mean-he'd get this, would it? Not just cause they was drinkin' the same water."

Boone began to groan and stir, and Nathan turned his attention to him, although his mind was clearly on Buck's uneasy question.

"Hard to say, Buck," he replied. "I heard men can get sick that way, but-depends on how much water Boone drank, an' how much Chris drank. He seemed fine when we left. Right now we got Boone t'worry about."

Buck watched as the bank robber's weak motions grew more agitated. "Yeah, you're right," he muttered. "Reckon ol' Chris can take care of himself just fine. We don't got to worry about him."

But they both did anyway.

Ezra took the boarding-house stairs two at a time, never minding the mud and water he was trailing onto Mrs. Mahoney's wooden floors. By the time he reached the second floor and knocked on Chris's door, his hands were trembling.

No answer.

"Mr. Larabee!" he said in a sharp voice, wishing his heart would stop pounding. Normally Ezra was not an excitable person, but he had the awful gnawing feeling that this was not a normal situation.

He knocked again, louder, no longer caring if he awakened anybody. "Chris!"

Still there was no answer. Ezra stood, dripping wet and frustrated, in the hallway, and as he stood in silence contemplating what to do next there came from behind the door a very soft, small noise. A groan.

Dammit, Ezra seethed to himself as worry consumed him, something is wrong. He's gotten himself shot or something. Reaching down, he rattled the doorknob, which didn't budge, then braced himself and threw his body against the door.

A few doors in the hallway opened, followed by the appearance of some bleary-eyed boarders who stared at the gambler in sleepy anger.

"What the hell do you think you're up to, Standish!" barked one sharp-faced man.

"You wanna kill Larabee, do it in the morning!" growled another man.

"My apologies-oof!-gentlemen," Ezra said without the slightest trace of sincerity as he continued to try and batter down the door, "but I fear something-oof!-is seriously wrong."

"Yeah, you hired guns, that's what," muttered the sharp-faced man, who wandered back into his room and closed the door. Ezra ignored him and paused in his efforts, panting.

"What's the meaning of this?" cried a woman's voice, and Ezra turned to see the stout, white-haired form of Mrs. Mahoney ascending the stairs, giving Ezra a cold, stern look. "Mr. Standish, this boarding house observes strict rules about visiting hours--"

Throwing niceties aside, Ezra stepped towards her, his green eyes wide with urgency. "Madam, do you have a key to Mr. Larabee's room? I fear he is in great distress."

She started, her round smooth face blanketed in surprise. "Why, yes-yes of course, I have the keys to all these rooms, but... is he in some kind of trouble?"

"That, madam, is what I am trying to ascertain," Ezra said with as much patience as he could. Why the hell didn't they listen to him!

She studied him for a moment, then dug into one pocket of her worn dressing gown, producing a ring of jingling keys. After picking through them with maddening care, she plucked one out and handed it to him.

"Here," she said in a clipped voice. "But I want that right back."

"Much obliged," Ezra gasped, snatching the key from her plump hand and jamming it into the lock. After a few seconds of anxious jiggling, there was a quiet click, and the roughly painted wooden door swung open.

It was dark inside the small, bare room, but in the dim filtered light of the hallway Ezra could make out Chris's slender form on the rickety iron bed. The gunslinger wore only his pants, and was writhing weakly on the sweat-soaked mattress, his skin glistening and ashen.

"He's drunk!" one of the boarders behind Ezra scoffed, but the gambler knew this wasn't the case. He sprang into the room and was at Chris's side in two seconds, gazing in mounting alarm at Chris's white, clammy complexion. Chris was twisting feebly from side to side, moaning quietly as his breath came in ragged, painful-sounding gasps.

"Chris?" Ezra breathed, putting a hand to his leader's wet forehead. It was hot; Ezra had never touched skin so feverish.

No one else had ventured into the room. "What is it?" Mrs. Mahoney inquired, a slight trace of worry now creeping into her voice.

Ezra licked his lips, never taking his eyes from Chris's twisted, anguished face. "He's ill," was the brief, anxious reply. A quick survey of Chris's body revealed no bullet wounds which would account for the fever; some sort of sickness was the only answer. A heavy knot of dread formed in Ezra's stomach; Chris was not only sick, he was very sick. He needed a doctor's care. But there was no doctor close by, and Nathan was miles away by now, probably trapped by the storm. Everyone was gone. There was no one to help Chris--

Except for himself.

The small cave was quiet now, the fire simmering in a bed of softly glowing embers. Boone still lay unconscious, and Buck and Nathan had taken advantage of the calm to take as much of a rest as their worry over Chris would allow.

Nathan dozed fitfully, his mind too preoccupied to allow itself to slip fully into slumber. This could be nothing, just a bad cold, or it could be a serious illness. All he could do was try and keep Boone alive until the rain stopped. If only he had more of his things...

Something made him open his eyes. It was very dark in the cave, with no moon and only the barely glowing embers of the fire to see by. He looked down and realized Boone was no longer lying on the floor.

Sitting up quickly, he looked around. Boone was nowhere in sight.

"Buck!" Nathan cried, coming fully awake.

There was a grunt as Buck started awake. "What's the matter, pard?" he grunted.

"It's Boone," Nathan said sharply, standing up and peering out into the rain. "He's gone!"

"Gone?" Buck repeated, shooting upright, his eyes glittering and wide in the faint firelight. "Dang, that boy's gotta be crazy to try an' run off in this weather!"

"Reckon that's it, Buck," Nathan replied quickly as he pulled on his boots, all the while studying the rain-soaked landscape just outside the cave. "I'm thinkin' that fever's made him go outta his mind."

"Reckon we better save 'im from himself, then," Buck moaned. Nathan helped him to his feet, and together they plunged into the deluge to search for the prisoner.

Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating the landscape with lurid bursts of light. As the thunder tore the heavens apart, Buck and Nathan used every second of light to try and see where Boone might have run. The area was rocky but mostly bare, and the outlaw was too weak to go far; the search did not take long.

"There he is!" Buck cried, pointing as lightning slashed the night. Nathan looked over to see a dark form vainly trying to climb a high wall of rocks, the gun still held in one hand.

"Easy," Nathan cautioned, and they sloshed slowly over to him, now thoroughly drenched.

When they were ten feet away, Boone suddenly whirled on them, blinking against the torrents of water running down his face.

"No closer!" he shrieked, flattening himself against the rocks. "I'll kill you all!"

Buck and Nathan stopped, each man holding up his hands to show they meant the unarmed man no harm.

"You don't got to worry now," Nathan said, trying to make his voice as calm as possible. "We ain't gonna hurt you. We want to help you out, you're sick."

Boone hesitated, then coughed. "I ain't sick," he spat, even as he wobbled on his feet. His eyes were wide and haunted, his breath coming in short, panicked busts. "We gotta run-the Yanks are gettin' closer every minute. Don't you hear them guns?"

Buck and Nathan looked at each other.

"He's out of his mind, all right," Nathan muttered. "Thinks he's in the war."

"Ain't nobody after you, Boone," Buck said, trying to edge closer without Boone noticing. Another bolt of lightning streaked across the sky.

"Yes they are!" was the insistent reply; Boone was gasping for air now, his strength almost gone. "Hundreds of 'em. They already got most of my men, shot down almost the whole regiment, oh God! Didn't you see it?"

He choked as a sob caught in his throat, a long-passed horror replaying itself before his mind's eye as if it had just happened. He turned from them and took a few tremulous steps as if trying to run away, then faltered and collapsed.

Nathan and Buck sprang forward, catching him before he hit the ground. Even as they began to bear him back to the cave, the outlaw struggled weakly in their arms.

"No," he whimpered, the words faint and uttered in a heartbroken tone, "God, oh God...my men..."

Buck looked at Nathan through the pelting rain. Both men could feel how hot Boone had become, and see how the sickness had driven him into fits of insanity. As they pulled Boone back to the cave, both minds were occupied by the same foreboding thoughts.

"Is this all you could find?"

Ezra couldn't afford the time to look behind him at Inez, who had just entered Chris's room carrying a bucket half-filled with ice. His full attention had to be concentrated on the gently moaning figure on the bed before him. As he mopped Chris's scalding brow with water taken from the bowl of icy water next to him, Ezra tried to fight back the absurd notion that if he took his eyes off of Chris, the gunslinger would die.

"I'm afraid so, senor," Inez panted as she set down the bucket next to another one like it, which now had only a few melting chunks puddling at the bottom of it. She stood, wiping strands of dark, wet hair away from her wet face. "Tomorrow when the stores open we may be able to find more."

Ezra sighed in frustration as he dipped his cloth into the bowl and wrung it out again. He took the opportunity to wipe his own sweating brow on the bare skin of his arm; he knew he looked a mess himself, now that he had shed his jacket and hat and rolled up his sleeves to tend Chris.

"Thank you, Inez," he murmured, going back to his work. He could hardly fault Inez for not being able to get more ice, and besides, it didn't seem to be making any difference anyhow. No matter how much frigid water was sponged over Chris's face and body, his skin continued to burn and if anything was getting hotter. For his part, Chris didn't even seem to know anyone was there, although the gunslinger seemed to be at least partly conscious; his green eyes were half-open, staring at the ceiling as he pitched and muttered to himself on the bed in a fit of painful delirium.

"Por nada, senor," Inez said softly, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Is there anything else I can do?"

He felt a hard wave of helplessness surge through him. No, he thought, there isn't anything any of us can do except sit here and watch Chris die. He felt so damn ineffective, Chris was probably dying and all Ezra could do was douse him with cold water which clearly wasn't helping. There were women in the town who might know how to fight this, but he couldn't chance asking them to come here when there was no knowing what Chris had or if it was catching.

He took a deep breath and resumed sponging off Chris's face. "You might see if Mrs. Potter can be roused," he said in a preoccupied tone. "She may have some ideas in how to nurse this sort of ailment. But by no means let her come here, we can't risk starting an epidemic."

Inez gripped his shoulder. "Si," she said quickly, and he heard her patter out of the room and down the stairs.

Ezra sighed and dipped the rag in the water, wringing it out again. Weariness gripped him as he watched Chris groan and toss weakly on the bed. What the hell was he doing here? he wondered helplessly as he dabbed at the hot, pale skin. He wasn't a doctor, he knew nothing about caring for the ill, or for anybody except himself. Ordinarily his first inclination in these sorts of situations was to get out of the way as soon as possible and let others deal with things.

But there was no one else, he mused grimly as he lifted Chris's arm and slid the cold, wet cloth down its length. No one he wanted to trust Chris's care to, anyway. The others were depending on him... hell, Chris was depending on him-to keep him alive until Nathan returned.

Ezra glanced at Chris's slack, white face, his green eyes pensive. He had to admit that Chris's survival was just as important to him as it was to the others. The gunslinger drove Ezra insane with his strict manner and stern personality, but he also commanded a certain loyalty that Ezra had never given to any other human being before. It was no mean feat to take a group such as theirs and mold it into a fighting whole, but Chris had done it, and Ezra had to admire his tenacity and courage. Such traits surely merited a longer life than this.

A sudden change in Chris's tossing caught his attention. The delirious gunslinger had ceased his restless tossings and had begun to cough and gag in an alarming manner.

Ezra sat up. "Chris?"

Chris didn't reply, and gave a couple of loud, strangled coughs. His hands weakly clutched at his stomach.

Oh Lord, Ezra thought as he realized what was happening, and cast his eyes about the floor. A battered, empty spittoon sat nearby, and Ezra grabbed it hastily.

Chris lurched from the bed with a strangled cry and leaned over its side, his stomach muscles contracting violently. Ezra took hold of the back of Chris's head as gently as he could and guided him over the mouth of the spittoon, holding him carefully there as the gunslinger was violently, wretchedly ill.

After a few moments Chris's gagging and coughing subsided, and Ezra quickly placed the spittoon on the floor and eased his trembling friend back onto the bed. Chris's eyes were closed, tears standing at their corners and slipping down his sweat-drenched face.

Unnerved, Ezra quickly grabbed the damp cloth and began to gently clean off Chris's face. It seemed pointless but he could think of nothing else that would help, and he had to do something.

Chris moaned and emitted a feeble cough but gave no sign that he had any awareness of what was happening.

A tense silence fell as Ezra watched him carefully, waiting to see if the episode would be repeated. But nothing happened, and Chris seemed to be settling down into a feverish doze. Ezra sighed, still worried but thankful that the spell seemed to be over, and tossed the soiled rag into the corner. There was a clean one sitting by the washbowl; the gambler picked it up, dipped it into the cold water, and began to once more bathe his friend's burning skin.

He pursed his lips with newborn resolve and eyed his leader sternly as he drew the cold water over the blistering flesh.

"Your hand has not yet been fully dealt, Chris Larabee," he murmured, hoping that perhaps in his delirium Chris could hear him too. "I am wagering on your survival, and as you know, I hate to lose."

Chris's mind was wandering wildly, with no coherent path to its wayward thoughts. Pain and fever had driven reason to the outer edges of his consciousness, and he could only submit to their whims as he tried to figure out what was happening to him.

Half-awake, he felt himself almost consumed by a fierce, relentless heat. A fire, he thought, his house was burning. The flames roared to life before his half-open eyes as he lay trapped in a nightmare. His ranch house was being engulfed in front of him, the timbers eaten quickly by the rampaging inferno.

"Oh God!" he cried as he ran, alone, across the singed yard, only to fall to his knees in front of the house as it was completely consumed. Screams rang from inside, Sarah and Adam, his wife and child, and he screamed as well in raging helplessness as he listened to them die. A howling wind sprang up, blowing out the fire until all that remained was the charred remnants of the house and his once-happy life. Then the burned wreckage too was ripped from the ground and blown away, leaving him alone in the black, cold night with his broken heart.

His mind whirled again, nothing seemed to be making sense, but at the same time he believed it was the only truth that had ever existed. Men appeared, rough and laughing, led by Cletus Fowler, the sadistic dandy who had orchestrated the murder of Chris's family. They fell on Chris, grabbing him and dragging him away into the darkness. He was their prisoner now, they'd probably kill him, once they were through tormenting him.

He had to get away. He writhed and twisted; someone was there with him, one of Fowler's men no doubt. He was dousing him with water, maybe trying to drown him. At the same time an incredible heat was searing his flesh. Chris tried to rise, but something heavy was pulling him down. He couldn't move, couldn't run, and they were going to kill him. Where were Vin and the others? Maybe they were dead already. That had to be it; Fowler had killed them all, and he was next.

Chris settled down, resolved to reserve his strength. They could torture him now with fire and water, but when the time was right he'd make a break for it, and make them sorry they'd ever messed with Chris Larabee.

He had only to wait.

Buck stirred from his sleep, groaning inwardly as he realized that the first sound to reach his ears was the heavy patter of pouring rain. Dang, he thought with irritation, maybe we oughta just build an ark and call it quits.

He sighed and peeled open his eyes. It was early morning; the darkness had been replaced with a dim blue-gray light. The thunder and lightning had stopped, but the rain continued to fall in thick sheets onto the desert floor. As his sleepy vision cleared, he saw Nathan sitting near the mouth of the cave, watching it rain in an attitude of sadness. He looked very wet, mud caking his shoes and hands.

Buck then looked around the cave, but saw that Boone had disappeared.

Damn! he thought. Run off again, or...

He coughed a little. "Nathan?"

The healer turned his face to his comrade, looking a little startled. "Hey, Buck," he said quietly, and Buck thought that he had never heard Nathan sound so tired. Buck paused, then asked, "Where's Boone?"

Nathan sighed, and looked back out into the rain. "Boone's dead."

Buck's shoulders drooped. "Shit," he sighed, more for Nathan's sake than the dead outlaw's. He knew how the former slave hated to lose any of his patients, no matter who they were.

"Yup," was Nathan's bitter response as he leaned back. "Went a few hours ago. I was tendin' 'im, an' just looked down an' he'd stopped breathin'. I took 'im outside an' buried him best I could. Didn't see the need to wake you."

Buck shook his head. "Wasn't your fault, pard, you know that."

Nathan shrugged, not looking too convinced. "Can't worry on that too much, Buck. I was thinkin' we best get back to town, now that it's light out. If there's any chance Chris has got this he's gonna need some help, an' don't nobody know how to use what I got in my clinic but me."

"Right with ya there, buddy," Buck agreed, sitting up. He took his first real look outside, and whistled. "It's comin' down real good, ain't it?"

Nathan began to pack up. "Gettin' home's gonna be tough, what with all the mud, an' you know them rivers we crossed is gonna be ragin' by now."

"Yeah, I know," Buck said grimly as he rolled up his blanket. "But I ain't gonna let no spring shower stand in the way if Chris is in trouble."

Nathan's silence marked his agreement, and they moved swiftly to prepare themselves for the dangerous journey ahead.

A small cascading waterfall had formed itself on the worn wooden stairs leading up to Nathan's room above the livery, the cold rainwater pouring down its steps in tiny dripping sheets. Overhead dull dark blue-gray clouds moved slowly to the east, blanketing the streets with a near impenetrable gloom. As Ezra dashed through the mud-choked streets and up the soggy stairs he cursed the still-falling rain with every breath. Would the deluge never end?

Day had broken and Chris was no better, in fact seemed closer to death's door than ever. He was still pale and consumed with a raging fever, still held in the cruel grip of deep delirium. The ice was gone-it hadn't really helped anyway-and there seemed no way now to relieve the gunslinger's agony. Inez was watching him now, and Mrs. Potter had promised to bring over some broth for him. But that had been all they could do.

He reached the top of the stairs and hastened to the door of Nathan's clinic. The healer would kill him for this, but Ezra simply could not sit by if there was some way, any way, to keep the reaper at bay. As he neared the door he reached into the pocket of his soaked tan coat and withdrew one of his oldest and most prized possessions: a small thin metal lock-pick.

As soon as he reached the door he slipped the pick into the keyhole and began to work it with smooth precision. Nathan had probably never had his lock picked before; but Ezra was running out of options, and he had to find something to help Chris with as much speed as possible. And the only place he could think of to look was here.

The task was easily done; the lock was old and hardly an obstacle. As the door swung open Ezra pocketed the pick and shook his head; he'd have to talk to Nathan, he really should secure his clinic better. A ten-year-old could have picked that lock. But he quickly put such matters aside and moved into the room, leaving small puddles behind him as he began his search.

Perhaps he should start with the herbs, he thought. The daylight was too dim to see by; after a few moments Ezra found and lit a lantern, filling the small room with a fitful orange glow. Setting the lantern carefully on a table, he began to look through the jars and bottles which lined Nathan's shelves.

Damn, he thought, what is that awful concoction Nathan's always pouring down our throats when we're sick? Ezra couldn't remember, and his anxiety only increased his frustration. Usually he was too annoyed at Nathan in such instances to pay much attention to what the healer was using; now he wished he'd paid better attention. His green eyes flickered over the labels on the jars, but nothing was making sense. He'd never heard of most of these herbs. Any or all of the might help, but he had no idea how to use them.

Ezra took a deep breath as he looked, rubbing his damp face wearily. He had always felt himself educated, but at the moment he felt as dim as a post. The wall of herbs before him seemed like a book written in an obscure foreign tongue, hopelessly indecipherable. Frustration boiled through him until he felt ready to burst from it.

He glanced around once more, desperately hoping something would fall under his eye which might help him. His gaze fell on a small pile of books heaped on a table by Nathan's bed. His books! Ezra thought, hurriedly scooping one up and opening it. Perhaps they contained the key, Nathan was always reading them. It was worth a try-

"HOLD IT!"

Ezra let out a cry, jumping as the book in his hand tumbled to the floor. Jerking his head up, he saw someone standing in the doorway. It was Vin, dripping wet and covered with mud, pointing his sawed-off Winchester at his chest and looking every bit as amazed.

"Mr. Tanner!" Ezra exclaimed, unable to think of anything more intelligent to say.

The tracker lowered his weapon, his blue eyes wide. "Ezra! What n'hell you doin' in Nathan's room? I was comin' back from Nettie's an' saw the light, thought someone was robbin' the place."

The gambler took a deep breath as he retrieved the book. "On the contrary, this is as close to a mission of mercy as I'm ever likely to get," he replied. "Is JD with you?"

Vin shook his head as he holstered his Winchester, water droplets falling rapidly from the wet curls. "Left 'im back to watch over Nettie an' Casey. Thought you might need some help here with all this rough weather."

"Indeed we do, but it has nothing to do with this deluge," Ezra breathed as he stood. "I'm afraid I have some unfortunate news."

Chris was trapped again, pinned down beneath the unrelenting weight of torturous heat. He wasn't surprised to find he couldn't move, obviously Fowler's man had decided to tie him down before tormenting him. But he wouldn't stay down forever...

Voices reached his ear; there were two of them now! Chris's gut twisted with rage. Bad enough he was helpless beneath the cruel grip of one man, but apparently all of Fowler's minions had decided to have their fun with Chris Larabee. He was unable to see them clearly through his sweat-smeared eyes, and the pain was garbling his hearing, but he knew who they were and why they were there. And he hated them with a heat even more searing than that which now blazed through him.

They were talking to each other now, doubtless plotting his anguish and ultimate demise, as they had plotted the murder of his family. He desperately wanted to rise from his prison and shoot them all down, but he was barely able to move. Surely that would change, however, and when it did he would strike. He might die, but not before dragging them to hell with him.

To enjoy that sort of satisfaction, he would force himself to be patient, and watch for the best time to strike.

"He's been like this since last night," Ezra was saying as he sponged off Chris's searing brow.

They had returned to Chris's small rented room, and both were now at Chris's bedside, drenched through from the pouring rain but focusing all of their concern on the restless, tortured figure on the bed before them. Ezra sat at the bedside, having shucked off his hat and jacket and rolled his sleeves up once more. One of Nathan's books lay on the floor at his feet, a cold bowl of water held carefully in his lap as he wiped Chris down.

Vin stood behind him, still in his wet, mud-splashed buckskin, his blue eyes wide with worry as he watched his friend toss in dumb suffering on the sweat-soaked sheets. Chris was having no reaction to Ezra's ministrations and did not even seem to know they were there; he was staring through half-closed eyes at the ceiling, his gaze fixed on some unknowable nightmare.

"Any idea what it might be?" the tracker said softly, never moving his eyes from Chris.

Ezra sighed and shook his head, not noticing the strands of his own chestnut hair which now hung upon his brow in damp, curling strands. "It is some sort of fever, that seems apparent, but where it may have come from have no idea. For all I know it is the beginnings of an epidemic, and we are both risking our lives by merely being in the same room with him."

"Well, that don't bother me," Vin replied firmly. "Chris has risked his life for mine more times'n I can count. But I got t'say I admire your grit for helpin' him, Ezra. Never figured you for the nursin' type."

The gambler shrugged off the compliment as he wrung out the cloth into the bowl. "Pray save your admiration for when Chris recovers, Vin. I may well be inching him closer to the grave with my actions."

The other man shook his head. "Chris ain't the kind to let somethin' like a little fever take him down. He's gonna fight this every inch of the way."

"I hope so, Vin," Ezra murmured as he returned to his task, easing the cool rag over Chris's burning skin. "I do hope so."

Silence fell for a few moments as the two men silently watched their friend writhe in delirium, now and then uttering a shapeless moan.

Vin glanced out of the window at the rain still cascading down the windowpane. "Nathan an' Buck can't have got too far in this weather. I ride out along the road to Clariston, maybe I can find 'em an' bring 'em back."

Ezra barely looked back at him. "An excellent idea, Mr. Tanner. I will do what I can here to keep Chris's soul with his body until your return."

Vin took a few steps forward so that he stood at Ezra's side. "Ezra?"

The gambler looked up at him, his smooth face glistening with sweat. "Yes?"

The expression in Vin's blue eyes was bright with sincerity. "Just wanted t'thank you for stickin' by Chris through all this. I know this ain't what you're used to, riskin' your life like this, an' I sure do appreciate all you done for him. Nathan'd be right proud."

Ezra seemed somewhat taken aback. He stared at Vin, embarrassed, then licked his lips quickly to hide his discomfort and dropped his eyes to the cloth in his hands.

"We'll see how proud he is when he discovers I broke into his clinic," was the abashed reply. He gave Vin a crooked, anxious smile. The tracker nodded, and tapped the brim of his sodden hat. Then he turned and walked out, his steps bent towards the livery, as Ezra continued to mop Chris's brow and anxiously watched the rain as it poured from the sky, sweeping away all that dared stand in its path.

Buck glanced up at the rain and spat out a fervent curse, deeply grateful that Josiah wasn't there. Though even Josiah would be hard pressed to be pure-tongued on a journey like this.

He and Nathan had been on the road all morning but had made very little progress. The torrential downpour had turned all of the trails into quagmires of mud, and the sheets of water made it hard to even see where they were going. More than once their horses had slipped on the treacherous rocky slopes, and it had taken all of their skill to help their mounts regain their balance.

Every once in a while the sky would darken and lightning would streak across the sky, followed by deafening peals of thunder. Sanity would dictate that they find shelter from the dangerous bolts, but they had to ignore such urgings if they wanted to reach Four Corners in time to help Chris. But at th is pace, that seemed an ever-dimming possibility.

They said little to each other as they rode, huddled mute in their saddles as the water showered down on them. Their eyes stayed glued to the road, alert to every mudhole and rain-slickened patch of rock, their hearts filled with mounting dread at what they would find once they returned home.

They reached a mountain passage dissected by a shallow river-or at least it had been shallow when they last crossed it. Now it was a raging, swollen force of nature, moving too swiftly for them to hope to be able to ford it safely.

"Damn!" Nathan exclaimed, looking around. There was no other way around the river.

Thunder rumbled softly in the distance.

Buck swung his head around, looking. "Don't see no other way, pard," he said at last above the rhythmic pounding of the rain.

The healer sighed in dire frustration as he glared at the surging waters. "Maybe if we ride along it some we can find a better spot t'cross."

Water spilled from the brim of Buck's hat as he nodded. "Sounds good," he replied, guiding his horse to follow his friend as they began carefully picking their way upstream along the bank, the spongy soil giving way ever so slightly beneath the heavy weight of the two men and their mounts.

The thunder grew closer.

Ezra sighed, every bone aching with weariness as he sat back in the dim rented room and silently regarded his ill comrade.

Chris was still held in the grip of the relentless fever, but his restless tossings had calmed in the hours since Vin had left to find Nathan and Buck. Now the gunslinger lay still on the bed, his bare chest heaving deeply as he struggled to breathe. His skin was disturbingly white, except for his face, which bore the unhealthy flush of illness. His face was turned away from Ezra, his eyes closed, and while the gambler was relieved to see that his pitching had stopped, a sense of unease still hung over him.

It had been a long morning. Attempts to give Chris the tea brewed from the recipe in Nathan's medical book had proven fruitless; the gunslinger was only conscious enough to choke on the brew and cough it back up. It had taken Ezra some time to wipe up the mess, and as he gently cleaned Chris's skin he could tell that his friend's fever had grown worse.

He drew one slender hand through his damp hair, turning his gaze to the scene outside the dirty window. The sky was still imprisoned in blue-gray clouds, the rain still falling. It seemed as if it would never stop. Who ever said the desert was dry? Ezra chuckled bitterly as he reclined in the wooden chair. At this rate they could all expect to soon be washed down to Mexico.

He tried to stretch, groaning as every muscle cramped in protest. Lord, how long had he been here? When was the last time he'd gotten any sleep? He couldn't go on like this. Perhaps he should call Inez, or Mrs. Potter, in to watch Chris for a while. Surely he deserved a respite.

Ezra's eyes fell back down to Chris's still form, and guilt twinged through his heart. Damn it all, he thought, he just couldn't leave Chris like this, who knew what might happen? If Chris became worse or died and Ezra wasn't there beside him, he knew he'd never forgive himself. One of their number should be with him; the gunslinger had earned at least that much.

An unbidden memory floated by his mind's eye, of himself as a young boy. When he was ill, his mother never coddled him, although he had only really been ill once when she was around. But then she'd simply tucked him firmly into bed and left him there while she went about her business, only looking in on him occasionally while the landlady of their boarding house-a rather frightening woman, he recalled-took care of him.

Then when he was growing up and left in the care of his aunts and uncles, any sickness he came down with was looked on as an inconvenience. They grumbled about having to care for him, wasting as little compassion on him as possible. Once or twice this situation changed, and some kind-hearted aunt or cousin would see him through a childhood illness with tender care and warm words. But there were only enough of those times to make him know what he was lacking, when he fell ill at the house of a different relative.

He shuddered at the memory, and looked up at Chris. His friend wouldn't open his feverish eyes to an empty room and the cold touch of strangers if Ezra could help it. His attempts at nursing might be fumbling and awkward, but they were better than nothing, as he well remembered. At least Chris would know he wasn't alone.

The distant roll of thunder washed through the room, and Ezra grumbled back at it. Vin would have a hard time finding Nathan and Buck in this weather, but if anyone could do it, it would be the well-trained tracker.

He sat up and regarded Chris's still, pale form with worried eyes as he rubbed the tight muscles behind his neck with one hand. With any luck, Vin would be successful and Chris would wake to find himself under the healer's care.

He fervently hoped it would be damn soon.

"See anything?"

Buck's voice carried sluggishly through the wet air as he and Nathan picked their way along the soggy bank of the swollen river. They had been riding for two hours and were both completely drenched.

"Nope," came Nathan's frustrated reply. "Looks like all the bridges done been washed out."

Buck lifted his eyes to look with anger across the river, at the expanse of land that they had to reach. "We got t'cross somehow," he said, shaking his head. "But danged if I can see a way. One step in that overgrown stream an' we'd be washed clean down to the Rio Grande."

"Spose we best keep ridin' then," Nathan muttered. "Looks like it bends up ahead, maybe there's some way-"

His words were cut off by a loud, heavy *shwoop* as the bank they were riding on gave way beneath their weight. The collapse was swift and unexpected, and sent both men and horses tumbling into the muddy, raging river.

Buck let out a curse as he hit the water, arms flailing to grab the nearest thing which would keep him from being swept away. Nathan did the same, his hat and jacket pulled away in the rushing current. The horses thrashed about in panic, but soon vaulted themselves from the water, their hooves clattering against the wet rocks as they hauled their huge forms out of the water.

Nathan coughed and sputtered as he struggled against the flow; the river wasn't deep but the current was strong, and could easily drown a man or dash him to bloody bits against the sharp rocks which lined its banks and bed. Gagging and fighting for air, the healer twisted and reached out, blinded by the water but hoping to find a handhold. He was slammed hard into a rock and began to surge past it. Acting quickly he grabbed on to it, grappling wildly as his fingers kept slipping from its slimy surface. The river tried to pull him away but he held firm, and finally wrapped his arms around the boulder as the river flowed quickly past him. Shaking the water from his eyes, he blinked them open as he gulped for air.

He looked around him, trying to see past the rain and gloom as he clung to the rock.

"BUCK!" he cried, his head turning as he searched up and down the river and its banks.

His friend was nowhere in sight.

Chris slowly opened his eyes, doing his best to ignore the blinding pain stabbing him in the head with every heartbeat. Ever muscle and bone seemed to throb; they must have beaten him while he was unconscious, he figured. That would explain why he was in such agony, the unceasing fever and drenching sweat. But even that would not stop his attempt at freedom.

His vision gradually adjusted to the darkness, and although it swam a bit he could make out where he was. A room, dim and small. Something in his mind struggled to remember-there was something odd about this place, but he brushed that thought aside. Once he was free, he could think about such things.

After a few moments his gaze fell upon a figure nearby, and he froze, hoping that they wouldn't notice he was awake. The man was nearby, sitting practically right next to his bed. The form was dull and blurred, but it was clearly a man, no doubt a guard sent to keep an eye on him. But luck was with Chris-the man was a clear failure at his job, as he had fallen asleep at his post, and was now sitting back in the chair, arms folded and head resting on one shoulder as he dozed.

Chris took a deep breath and lay still, thinking. He had to get out of here, and as much as he longed to kill this henchman of Fowler's for murdering his family and his friends, it would be best not to disturb him, at least until he was properly armed. And if this man was a guard, he'd have to be wearing a gun.

He quickly assessed the sleeping man, and frowned; he did not appear to be armed. This guy's a real amateur, the gunslinger scoffed, wondering how Fowler could have hired such an incompetent. But it would make it all the easier for him to escape.

He carefully lifted his head and looked around the small room, cursing his fuzzy vision. But eventually his patience was rewarded; there in the corner lay a tangled gunbelt, discarded in haste by the guard it appeared, with a gleaming firearm still tucked in its holster.

Chris smiled; there was his salvation, if he could only reach it without rousing his captor. He felt very weak, and for a moment hesitated; could he make it over to the corner without being noticed? After a moment's thought, his resolve strengthened. He had to do it, and avenge the slaughter of his loved ones. This was his whole duty now. And the revenge would begin with the life of the man now slumbering in the chair.

He very slowly sat up and placed one bare foot noiselessly on the floor.

Nathan dashed along the bank of the surging river, cold and soaking wet but ignoring all of his discomfort in his frantic search for Buck. He slipped on the muddy, crumbling soil several times, almost toppling in himself, but managed to keep his balance as his keen brown eyes swept the roiling waves.

"BUCK!" he hollered repeatedly, praying that his friend was conscious and could answer. But he heard nothing. "BUCK!"

"Nathan!"

The healer's heart leapt; had he heard that, or was it a trick of the wind and thunder?

"Nathan!"

It had come from up ahead. His blood racing now, the healer ran forward, every muscle straining as he fought through the rain and mud.

"Buck!" he cried again as he stared into the river. "Where are you?"

Then he saw a small form in the center of the river, half-visible beneath the brownish water as it swirled around him. It was Buck, hat and jacket now gone and blood plainly visible on his face even from this distance, clinging with his right arm for dear life to a large rock which protruded above the rampaging water.

Nathan ran as close as he could to him. "Hey, Buck!"

His comrade looked at him with weary eyes as the river pounded past him. "'Bout time you strolled down this way, doc!" he cried through the punishing spray.

"You hurt bad?" Nathan yelled, to be heard over the roar of the water.

Buck gasped a bit and tightened his grip on the rock. "Think my other arm's busted up," he replied in a shout, nodding quickly at his left arm which hung limp at his side. Watery blood stained the sleeve. "Don't reckon I can swim for it!"

"Damn!" Nathan gasped to himself, looking around. The rain was beginning to let up at last, but the river would be swollen and dangerous for hours. If he went in he risked being swept away as well, but Buck would surely die if left where he was. If Buck didn't pass out from the pain and shock, the cold water would get him. Either way, he would likely be swept away and drown.

"Nathan!" Buck called, and the healer could see him grip the rock even tighter with his right arm, struggling to maintain his slim grasp on safety despite the pain it was causing him.

"Just hold on, Buck!" Nathan yelled back, and ran as quickly as he could back to where the horses were waiting patiently for their masters. He wasn't about to let Buck die in that river.

Even if he had to go in and get him himself.

Ezra felt himself come awake, and scowled to himself, angry both for allowing himself to fall asleep, and for waking back up when he still felt so exhausted.

As his green eyes pried themselves open, he saw through the window that the rains continued to fall, although not as heavy as before. Then they fell onto the bed where Chris lay. Ezra sighed as he blinked a few times, sitting up slowly and stiffly in the hard wooden chair as he licked his dry lips.

Then he opened his eyes wide and sat bolt upright, grasping the sides of the chair seat in alarm.

Chris was no longer in his bed.

"Chris?" he cried, fear gripping his heart. He swung his head around and quickly surveyed the room.

Chris was over in the far corner of the room, crouching down with his bare back to him. Ezra jumped to his feet, concerned and unsure, and took a few steps towards him.

"Chris!" he called, observing that his friend was still very pale and weak. Perhaps he had tried to walk, and collapsed. "I must insist that you return-"

He bit the words off as the other man stood unsteadily and whirled round. Ezra stopped in his tracks, his green eyes round as he found himself staring down the barrel of his loaded Remington revolver, which Chris had just removed from Ezra's holster as it lay on the floor.

There was a loud click as Chris cocked the gun, his green eyes filled with a killing fury. "One more step and you're dead," he rasped.

That's Larabee gratitude for you, Ezra said to himself before lifting his hands up a bit. "Now Chris," he said as gently as he could in light of the pounding of his heart, "You don't mean to point that firearm at me, I'm sure."

"Hell, I don't!" Chris replied fiercely as both hands gripped the gun. "You bastard, you killed my wife and son!"

The gambler hesitated, studying Chris closely. He was clearly out of his head and still deathly sick, his white face covered with sweat, his body shivering with chills. But none of these would prevent him from pulling that trigger.

"Now," Chris whispered, taking one step closer to Ezra, "I'm gonna put a bullet right between you damned eyes, then I'm gettin' out of here an' doin' the same to Fowler. We'll see how your boss likes that."

Ezra instinctively took a step back. The door was behind him; at least Chris couldn't get out of the room without getting past him. There was no way in hell Ezra could allow a delirious, armed Chris Larabee out into the street, where every innocent townsperson would doubtlessly be seen by his feverish eyes as one of Fowler's men. But how could he stop him without confirming Chris's delusion that he was a prisoner?

"Chris," he said as quietly as he could, "surely you know me... Ezra? Ezra Standish?"

"You ain't Ezra Standish!" Chris yelled with a great deal more strength than Ezra expected. "You killed Ezra-you bastards killed all of my men! An' I ain't listenin' to no more of your bull!"

Chris lunged at him, swinging the gun, and struck Ezra savagely across the face. The gambler stumbled backwards and fell, one hand going to his bleeding cheek. By the time he recovered his senses, Chris was standing over him, still aiming the gun directly at his head, ready to pull the trigger.

"Wait!" Ezra cried, holding out one hand.

Chris's green, blazing eyes narrowed. "Why the hell should I?"

Ezra took a few deep breaths as he looked away, trying to think. "Yes, why the hell should you," he muttered as his mind churned. Then he looked back quickly as an idea struck him. "Why... why, because your men aren't dead at all. In fact, I've been working with them the whole time, so we can catch the men who killed your family."

Chris frowned at him; from Ezra's position, it was a frightening sight indeed. After a few moment's thought he leveled the gun at Ezra's face. His hands were shaking noticeably now. "Why would one of Fowler's hired murderers help me?"

"Well," Ezra replied, licking his lips, "because... because I have tired of my evil ways and sympathize with your tribulations."

The gun didn't waver, but there was a definite flicker of hesitation in his expression. "You sure use them damn big words just like Ezra," he murmured.

Ezra stared at him, hoping he would lower the gun, and said nothing.

Chris returned the stare, his eyes filled with doubt. "I think you're lyin'," he finally said in a slow, suspicious voice. "What the hell would you know about my tribulations?"

The gambler dropped his eyes, trying to imagine what Chris must be feeling now. "Well, I would guess you're experiencing a great deal of anger and loneliness at the present," he muttered. He lifted his gaze again to meet Chris's. "You miss your family a great deal, and feel that the void their loss created will never be filled again."

Chris kept the gun on him and remained silent, but his eyes were attentive.

"I would suppose there are times when you wonder if words like home will have any meaning for you again," he continued. His tone was becoming gentle, his gaze reflective. "And now in your illness you feel yourself surrounded by callous strangers, thinking only of the comforting hand which has left your life forever. It is a deep and painful feeling, is it not?"

He paused, surprised at how his words were causing an ache in his own heart. It felt odd to open the wounds from his childhood to the gaze of another, especially a fellow gunslinger like Larabee. But if it would help the situation-well, Ezra could only hope Chris would remember nothing of this conversation.

Chris gave him a hard look. "It don't feel good, that's for sure," he muttered.

Ezra nodded, deeply grateful that it he had apparently reached his friend. "It is with that pain I sympathize, Mr. Larabee, and it is for that reason that I have agreed to help you. Your friends are alive and will soon be here, and I cannot disappoint them with your absence. If you kill me and run from here, they will not be able to find you. If you relinquish the gun and resume your rest, I promise no harm will come to you."

Chris appeared to be weakening rapidly; his stance was becoming increasingly unsteady, his skin even more pale and clammy. But his finger remained on the trigger, and the suspicion still burned in his eyes.

"You sure the others ain't dead?" he said, his words beginning to slur.

Very slowly Ezra got to his feet, never taking his eyes from Chris. "Quite sure," he replied, making certain to avoid any startling movements. "And they are most worried about you, most worried indeed. Please, do as they wish and trust me."

Chris squinted at him, still unsure. "Did Fowler kill your family too?" His words were slurring together, becoming indistinct.

Ezra took a slow step closer; Chris was alarmingly pale now, and was going to fall to the floor any minute. "Not precisely," he said, "but I confess I know what it is to feel its absence."

A wild look of fright entered Chris's eyes, and he stumbled backwards, keeping the gun trained on Ezra. "Back off!" he cried. "I ain't in the mood for tricks!"

The other man halted, spreading his hands wide. "No tricks, I assure you, Mr. Larabee," he said calmly, although his heart was pounding, and his green eyes stayed riveted on the shaking gun. It wouldn't take much for Chris to decide to use it.

Chris frowned and braced himself against the iron footboard of the bed; it was pretty much all that was holding him up. "If you're really workin' for Fowler," he drawled, a small, deadly smile creeping across his face, "then maybe you an' I can kill 'em together. You know where he is, right?"

Ezra hesitated. "I certainly do," he replied, thinking fast, "but he is too far away for us to deal with today. What you must do now is rest, and we will take care of Mr. Fowler on another day."

Chris sighed and leaned against the footboard, looking away as he sagged slightly. "He's gotta pay...what he did..."

Ezra inched forward. the gun was loosening in Chris's grasp. "Indeed he will," he said in a calm tone, watching Chris for any signs of alarm. "Now I've sent for your friends, so they will be here soon. Vin-er, I mean, Tanner, Wilmington and Jackson will be coming through that door any moment."

Chris lifted his head very slowly, as if it were tremendously heavy, and threw him a puzzled look. "Who the hell are you anyway, mister?" he whispered.

Ezra took one very cautious step closer; Chris was nearing collapse. "Merely a friend," he said, "who wishes to restore you to your comrades as much as you do."

Silence fell in the small room as the two men stared at each other. Ezra waited, his entire body wound tight as a watch spring. He could find no sign that said if Chris was believing anything he said, or whether he would simply shoot him anyway. the gunslinger merely stood, one hand clutching the bedpost while the other held the gun, looking Ezra over with confused, skeptical green eyes.

Finally Chris coughed a little and muttered, "Shit," then slid without another sound towards the floor. Ezra leapt forward, catching his comrade before he hit the floor and deftly removing the cocked gun from Chris's limp grasp. With one hand he uncocked the hammer and tossed the gun into the corner before turning all of his attention to his stricken patient.

Ezra murmured a few expletives of his own as he hefted Chris back into the bed; the gunslinger's skin was even hotter than before, and his sweat-covered body almost slipped from his grasp. As the gambler laid Chris out, Chris moaned and tossed feebly.

"Burning," he groaned, "they're burning down the room--"

"Indeed they are not," Ezra said quickly, trying to calm him.

Chris gagged and clawed weakly at Ezra's sleeve. "Promise me," he choked, his gaze wandering before finally coming to rest on Ezra's face.

"If it will make you lie still, anything," Ezra replied as he sat in the chair next to the bed.

Chris's grip tightened just a little. "You promise me you'll hunt them down," he grunted through gritted teeth. "If I die, you take the others an' find Fowler and his men an' make them pay for what they did."

Ezra paused, unsure if Chris was speaking from delirium, or finally lucid, and trying to extract a pledge that his family would be avenged even if he didn't live to see it. But that didn't truly matter; either way, his answer was the same.

"You have my word, Mr. Larabee," he said solemnly.

Chris gazed at him for a moment as he lay gasping for air. Then his eyes closed and his head slumped to one side as he slipped into exhausted unconsciousness.

Ezra felt ready to collapse himself. For a moment he simply tried to catch his breath, dizzy from the excitement. It was bad enough Chris just tried to kill him, but admitting such deeply hidden and personal things about himself to get him to calm down had severely shaken the gambler. It had never occurred to him how much they had in common, but even if it had, he never would have voiced the idea. He suddenly felt extremely vulnerable.

Chris groaned again, and Ezra shook himself out of his reverie. There was no time to think now. He picked up the wet rag from the bowl of water with one hand and Nathan's book with the other, determined despite his exhaustion to keep Chris alive until Nathan arrived.

Frustration filled Ezra's soul as he opened the book. Where the hell were they?

Nathan bit his lip as he finished his task. This had to work.

His hands slipped a few times as he finished tying off the knot of the rope which now was tied securely around his waist. The rest of its length trailed several feet onto the ground, the other end anchored as securely as he could make it to the sturdiest rock he could find along the bank.

This had to work.

"Hang on, Buck!" he cried, looking back to the middle of the river where Buck still clung to the rock. The rain was easing but the river still raged, and it was clear that Buck was tiring.

"I'm still with ya, Nathan!" he hollered back, his voice tinged with pain.

Nathan checked the rope one more time, then stepped to the river bank.

Buck saw what he was preparing to do. "You sure about this?"

The healer whipped off his hat and stared at his comrade with a steady eye. "No," he confessed, "but I am sure you gonna die if I don't do somethin'. Now hold on!"

He took a deep breath, then waded quickly into the water. Its iciness stunned him; it felt as if it had just melted off of the mountains. The current almost knocked him off his feet, and he found himself struggling with all of his might to stay upright.

The water surged and pounded around him, rushing past with a thunderous roar. Stepping in further, Nathan was quickly immersed almost up to his armpits. The water had gotten a lot deeper since they'd ridden through it the day before.

Shaking the water from his eyes, Nathan looked at Buck, who was about twenty feet away. To Nathan it looked much farther.

He took one more step and was swept from his feet.

"Nathan!" he heard Buck shout; then everything was garbled and lost as he was pulled beneath the relentless river. Nathan gargled and coughed, then choked as his rope reached the end of its length. He was brought to a halt vi olently and painfully, and lost his breath for a moment as he rocked helplessly in the mighty current, pinned at the end of the rope.

He could hear nothing, see nothing, and for a brief instant was totally disoriented. Then slowly he gathered his wits, and feeling with his feet managed to contact the uneven surface of the river bed. It took all of his strength to regain his feet against the relentless flow, but after a few tries he succeeded.

"Buck!" he yelled as he wiped the water from his eyes. Buck shouted back, and Nathan looked around; Buck was almost forty feet behind him now. Pursing his lips with determination, he grasped the rope with both wet, trembling hands, and began to walk against the current back to where his friend clung to the rock.

It was a long struggle. The cold pounding of the water steadily drained his strength, and walking against the flow was like struggling through a wall of molasses. But he was getting closer to Buck with every step, and soon they would be out of this.

After what felt like hours, Nathan reached the rock, and grabbed it with both hands.

"You all right there, Nate?" Buck yelled above the spraying water.

Nathan looked at his friend and nodded. "Yup, just a bit drowned. C'mon, grab onto me an' let's haul ourselves back to the bank."

The healer reached out and grabbed the other man, keeping him on his feet as he let go of the rock. His other hand kept a grip on the rope, now pulled tight against the current. With effort Buck threw his good arm around Nathan's shoulder and hung on tightly.

When he was certain Buck was safely in his grip, Nathan began to edge back towards the bank, moving slowly to avoid being swept away again. The two exhausted men were ten feet from shore when Nathan felt the rope begin to slacken in his hand. Looking up, he saw the anchoring rock beginning to pull itself loose from the drenched soil, unable to bear the combined weight of the men any longer.

He tightened his grip on Buck. "Buck, I--"

Before another word could be spoken, the rock gave way.

"Dang!" Buck sputtered as they both collapsed back into the river.

Nathan gasped and fought back, holding on to Buck with all of his might while fighting the current. They both still had their feet on the river bed, but the current was working hard to wash them away.

"I think we can get to the bank if we both try," Buck shouted. "I still got two good legs."

Nathan nodded, unable to talk, and they began to move slowly towards the opposite bank. Every step was an eternity; the healer was exhausted, and Buck had to be even weaker. It was only twenty feet, but it seemed like a hundred miles.

They struggled on, each man pulling the other, battling for every inch which would take them closer to safety and home. Every bone and muscle in Nathan's body had gone numb, and he felt sure he could not move much farther. The roar of the water was deafening, its endless flow assaulting his body like the angry blows of a hundred men.

Just as he neared the verge of collapse, he felt something wrap around his body, floating there as the river surged around them. Surprised and half-conscious, he brought his head up to see Vin, standing on the banks in the rain, a long rope in one hand.

He blinked again, unsure if he was hallucinating.

"Nathan! Buck!" Vin was shouting, waving his free arm. "The rope! Hang on an' I'll haul ya in!"

Shaking his head quickly, Nathan looked down to see a long, wet rope bobbing in the water, twined loosely around their bodies. He swiftly reached out and took hold of the lifesaving line, tightening his hold on Buck as Vin began to pull them ashore. Buck stared at Vin but could not summon the strength to speak.

It took some time, but Vin planted his feet firmly against the soil and slowly pulled both men to the bank, reaching down to drag them in over the last few feet. All three men collapsed to the muddy ground in a tangled heap, gasping for air, cold and shaking from the exertion.

When he could speak, Nathan looked up at the tracker and gasped, "Hey, Vin."

"Hey yourself," Vin replied as he sat up, drenched and splattered with mud. "You boys out for a swim?"

"Very funny," Buck gagged as he very slowly pulled himself up with his good arm. "I ain't goin' near water ever again in my whole damn life."

Nathan chuckled as he painfully sat up. "We'll see how many ladies you get with that plan," he said, wiping his face with one hand.

An instant later he felt Vin grab his arm, and when he looked at Vin the tracker's blue eyes were wide and worried.

"Nathan, we gotta get back to town fast as possible," he said. "Chris's sick, he's got a fever or somethin'. It looks bad."

Buck groaned as he sat up. "Damn, I knew it!"

Nathan took a deep breath and looked at the mustached gunslinger. "Can you ride with that arm, Buck?"

Buck's reply was a dismissive snort. "Hell, Nathan, don't worry bout me. We got Chris to think on now."

"Then we better git," Vin said hurriedly, and the three men got to their feet and moved with stiff but steady gaits to their mounts, leaving the river behind as they raced to town.

Night was falling as Ezra sat, exhausted and despairing, by Chris's bedside. A few candles lit the small room, but Ezra didn't need their light to see how pale Chris had become, how still and unmoving he was. Sweat glistened from the gunslinger's body, still in the grip of the fever, and Ezra was sure now that he had failed.

Still he wrung out the cloth one more time and mopped Chris's brow, muttering words of encouragement to his unconscious comrade. but something must have happened, Vin and Buck and Nathan should have been here long ago. They're injured, or dead, he thought, and soon Chris would be too. And then he'd have to tell JD and Josiah what happened.

How would he form the words?

Inez and Mary and Mrs. Potter had been here, with broth and tea and kind words, but he couldn't let them any closer than the door. If this illness could bring Chris Larabee low, it would doubtless kill them, and Ezra could not permit that no matter how tired he was. Besides, he felt the need to see this through, having come this far.

I'm sorry, Chris, he thought as he drew the cold cloth over Chris's white brow. But I gave you my word, and you know we'll keep it. Your family's killers will be dealt with. That will be our duty, when our duty here is finished.

Ezra sighed and drew one hand slowly over his eyes; he was so damn weary now he wasn't even sure what day or time it was. His injured cheek throbbed, and he knew it needed to be tended. But he could do that later. He couldn't leave Chris and risk him dying alone.

Footsteps pounded up the boarding-house steps, piercing his confused mind. He turned his head towards the door; was someone coming, or was he hearing things? Then he saw three men run through the doorway, and he stood quickly, his eyes wide as he almost knocked over the bowl of water on the floor in his excitement and relief.

"Thank the Lord," he muttered, taking one unsteady step towards the forms rushing at him. "Nathan, Chris has taken ill--"

Nathan, soaked through and covered with mud, grasped Ezra's shoulder as he passed by, and through an exhausted haze Ezra heard him say, "Don't you worry no more, Ezra, I got 'im. Good job."

Then Nathan was in the chair by Chris's bed, examining him quickly and telling Vin what to bring him from his clinic. The tracker stood by, watching Chris with large, worried blue eyes and nodding at every request the healer made.

Ezra could barely comprehend any of this, except that Nathan had arrived and Chris was now in capable hands. He stared at them for a moment, then stepped away, suddenly feeling as if a giant weight had rolled from his shoulders.

A hand was placed on his shoulder, and he turned to see Buck standing there, as soaked and muddy as Nathan.

"Hey there, buddy, you look like you could use a rest," he said with a sympathetic smile.

The gambler took a deep breath and ran one hand over his face, wincing as he touched his cut cheek. "You have no idea," he groaned. "What detained you?"

Buck laughed. "You don't wanna hear that story now, trust me. C'mon, let's get you on over to your room."

He began to pull Ezra gently from the room. The gambler hung back a bit, looking anxiously at Chris, but Buck took a firmer grip on Ezra with his good arm.

"Don't you worry, Chris is gonna be just fine, thanks to you keepin' him alive 'til we got here," Buck insisted. "Now come on. If you don't lie down you're gonna fall down."

Ezra relented. After all, Buck was right. Chris was being properly cared for now, and Ezra could feel himself fading from the strain and excitement. A good stiff whiskey and some rest sounded perfect.

"Hey, what happened to your cheek there?" Buck inquired as they moved down the stairs.

A dry smile spread across Ezra's lips. "When you tell me your story, Buck," he said in a weary voice, "I shall be happy to tell you mine."

The night struggled by slowly. Nathan never left Chris's bedside, keeping a close eye on the feverish gunslinger's condition and doing all he could to alleviate it. Herbs and cold water were delivered and used, his best books consulted.

The early hours came and went, and the healer found himself with company as he looked after his friend. Buck sat with them for a while, cradling his arm with one hand and watching over Nathan's activities with anxious blue eyes. The healer soon sent him off to rest with the declaration that he wasn't interested in having Buck get sick as well as Chris, but his vacant seat was soon occupied by Vin. Very little was said; they all knew how useless words were now. They could only watch and hope.

Chris made no sound or movement during the whole of this time. His skin had a frightening pallor to it, his breath was coming in thin gasps, and dark circles were forming beneath his closed eyes. Every once in a while an unconscious moan would escape his lips, but that was all.

As morning's pale light began to brighten the eastern sky, a weary Nathan sat back in his chair and sighed, regarding his ill comrade with a wary gaze.

He looked over to Vin, still sitting propped up against the wall nearby where he had been all night. The healer's face was solemn.

"Done all I could," he said softly. "It's up to him now."

Ezra stirred a bit as he awoke, coming out of sleep as he usually did... with great reluctance. As he burrowed into the softness of the featherbed, he dwelt for a moment in the blessed blankness of new consciousness. Then, the memories of what had happened began their intrusion.

His groggy mind tried to put together the last events of the previous evening. Wrong, he thought, there was something very wrong when I went to bed last night, what was it? In an instant he remembered: Chris. Chris was sick, that was it, and the recollection brought him quickly back to full awareness.

He opened his eyes and sat up in the bed, taking quick stock of the situation. He looked down; he was still in his clothes from yesterday, he observed, one hand idly rubbing the rumpled front of his shirt. Lifting his eyes, he looked out of the window. Bright sunshine and a blue sky greeted his gaze; the rain was gone. Ezra uttered a heartfelt "Thank the Lord" and fervently wished never to see another raindrop for the rest of his life.

With startling speed Ezra got up and began to change, anxiety pulsing through him with every heartbeat. He had to go over and check on Chris as soon as possible. Was he all right? He couldn't have died, someone would have told him. But then, maybe they wouldn't. Maybe he'd been dead for hours.

He had to hurry.

Ezra sped through his morning ablutions with uncharacteristic haste. His morning shave was accomplished as fast as he could manage without decapitating himself. There was no time for a careful choice of clothes; he threw on the first articles in his closet that he touched. The hair was quickly brushed and pomaded, but there was no careful checking in the mirror to make sure that every strand was in its proper place. Once all of his habits had been seen to, Ezra simply grabbed his hat and hastened outside.

The saloon was sparsely populated, with no familiar faces save that of Inez. She and Ezra nodded to each other, but the gambler set aside his normal routine of a leisurely cup of coffee. Instead, he went straight out the door.

The streets were muddy, large puddles standing in many places as the citizens of the town tried to make their way through the morass. Ezra stepped around them quickly and carefully as he hastened towards the boarding house where Chris lived. By the time he reached its doorstep, he had managed to acquire a few splashes of mud about the cuffs of his fine trousers. He didn't notice.

Mrs. Mahoney was in the sparsely furnished sitting room with a few of the other boarders, and threw Ezra an annoyed look when he came in. Ezra ignored her and hurried upstairs, anxiety rising in him with every step as he dreaded what he might find at the end of his journey. The distance between the saloon and the boarding house was quite small, but today it felt like miles.

The door to Chris's room was slightly ajar, and Ezra stopped before it, taking a deep breath to calm his pounding heart before he entered, and marveling that he was so nervous about all this. When did he come to give so much of a damn about Chris Larabee?

Finally he braced himself and pushed open the door.

Nathan was inside, sitting by Chris's bed and thumbing through one of his medical books. He lifted his head and watched Ezra as the gambler quietly entered the room, closing the door noiselessly behind him. Ezra never took his eyes off Chris as he drew near, and his expression was one of deep concern which he did nothing to hide.

Chris looked even worse now than he did last night, his skin almost white in the brightness of the morning. Purple circles rimmed his eyes, and a fine blanket of sweat covered his body. Yet he seemed to be resting comfortably, and was at least still breathing.

"How is our reckless friend faring today?" Ezra asked in a whisper when he was close enough.

Nathan closed the book and set it in his lap, looking at Chris with a sigh. "Still ailin', but his fever done broke. He ain't gonna be up an' around for a while, but I s'pose he's gonna make it."

Relief flooded through Ezra's body, and he almost sat down on the floor from the overwhelming power of it.

"Thank the Lord for small miracles," he muttered, heaving a deep sigh and wiping his face with one hand as he shook his head. "That is indeed welcome news."

The healer looked at him and smiled. "It's a miracle you had a hand in, Ezra. That was some fine doctorin' you did. Ain't too much to say that you saved his life."

The gambler coughed a bit in embarrassment and laughed. "I can hardly take credit for such a lofty claim, Nathan. Inez and Mrs. Potter assisted me as well, and... well, hell, anybody could have done what I did."

"But they didn't," Nathan pointed out, leaning back against the chair and regarding his friend with a proud grin. "That was a brave thing comin' in here an' helpin' Chris when you didn't know what he had or if it was catchin', specially when this ain't your callin'. I bet you never nursed nobody before in your life."

Ezra considered this and gave a small shrug. "Not to this extent, certainly, that is true. But in the future I will happily leave such matters to you, and confine my skills to the poker table and roulette wheel."

"Suit yourself, Ezra," Nathan replied, "but you did right good for a man with no schoolin' in medicine. Though I see you did try to learn." He shot Ezra a knowing look, and held up the textbook. Ezra instantly recognized it as the one he had broken into Nathan's clinic to get. "Care to explain how this got here with my room bein' locked an' me havin' the only key?"

Ezra drew himself up. "Sir, I assure you, the intrusion was done with the most noble of intentions."

"So you did bust into my room," Nathan said as he lowered the book, a slight smile on his face.

"I had little choice, with no other medical books available," Ezra protested. "And may I say that I find the condition of your security shocking. A complete amateur could have unlocked that door without the slightest hindrance."

"Guess I just trust folks more'n you do, Ezra," Nathan said, still amused, as he put the book back in his lap. "I bet you're the first person who ever picked that lock."

"Perhaps so, but a man should protect his property," the gambler replied. "When this is over we shall see if Mr. Watson has a better lock available for your door."

Nathan laughed a little and looked back at him. "One even you can't pick?"

Ezra's mouth twitched into a slight grin. "I doubt his inventory is that wide."

The healer smiled and shook his head. "Thanks, Ezra."

The gambler waved it away. "Merely ensuring that you stay in practice, Mr. Jackson. I am in no hurry to fill your shoes."

He took a few steps forward and sat in a chair next to Nathan's, removing his hat and gazing pensively at Chris. "It is no small thing to have a man's life in your hands, Nathan," he finally said softly. "I found it to be a most monumental responsibility, one that I am still attempting to fathom. How you bear it, day after day, is quite beyond my comprehension."

Nathan looked at his friend for a few minutes with an understanding smile, then took a deep breath. "Just doin' what I can to help, Ezra, that's all. It sure as hell ain't easy, but every once in a while you get to know it's worth the sweat."

Ezra stayed silent for a moment, staring at Chris's slack, peaceful face as he sat lost in thought. Slowly he nodded. "Yes," he said quietly, "I understand what you mean, Nathan." He sat up a bit, toying with the hat in his hands. "Would you mind if I kept you company for a bit? The, er, saloon is quite dull this time of day."

Nathan smiled. "Nope, Ezra. Not at all."

The gambler nodded gratefully, and they sat back to watch their friend and wait.

Chris felt himself surfacing through the thick, suffocating darkness. He gasped for air; he was so damn hot he felt as if he could barely breathe.

As he drew nearer to consciousness, he tried to assemble his sluggish, half-formed thoughts into something resembling coherency. He felt as if he'd been out for days. He recalled feeling tired, and going upstairs to rest before patrol. It was raining out. He'd gone to sleep with one of the wo rst headaches he'd ever had in his life, and then...

Awareness grew, even though he did not open his eyes, and he resisted the urge to do so until he had figured things out. Then what had happened? Ezra... he remembered Ezra was in there somewhere, but could not pull anything else from his groggy mind.

Well, he thought, guess it's time for some answers, and he opened his eyes.

He was in his rented room, that much was plain. It was morning; the sunlight was streaming in through the dusty windows. He blinked at it, squinting as its bright rays painfully pierced his half-closed eyes, and tried to stir. Every bone ached.

"Well, 'bout time there, pard."

Chris slowly turned his head at the sound, and saw Vin seated next to his bed. The tracker was without his hat and jacket, his hair and clothes covered with splotches of dried mud. The hard, caked substance failed to hide the relieved grin spread over his handsome face.

"You're a mess," Chris observed in a dry, cracked voice as he closed his eyes against the sunlight.

Vin chuckled as he reached behind him. "That's right ungrateful of you to say, Larabee, considerin' I got this way savin' your ass. Here."

He brought a cup of water over to Chris, who found the strength to lift his head and drink from it with Vin's assistance.

"What the hell happened?" Chris rasped as he settled back down. "Feel like I been bushwhacked."

"Caught yourself a fever," Vin replied as he set the empty cup back down. "Boone had it first, then gave it t'you. He died on the trail to Clariston, an' Nathan an' Buck almost drowned tryin' to get back here to help you. You had us all purty scared, but Nathan says you'll be up in no time."

Chris shook his head and groaned as he slowly brought one hand up to rub his forehead. "I got a feelin' I'm gonna owe him a box of cigars for pullin' me through that one."

His friend seemed highly amused, so much so that Chris pried open his eyes again and peered at him curiously. "What's so funny?"

"Don't reckon Nathan'd turn down a box of cigars," Vin said with a smile, "but you better be fixin' to buy two. Fact is, Ezra got you through this, too. He kept you alive 'til Nathan got back to town."

Chris was so surprised that he forgot to be in pain as he opened both eyes wide. "Ezra? Didn't think he knew anything about doctorin'."

"Neither did he, I figure," Vin said with a pleased expression as he rose from the chair. "But I don't guess he left your side 'til I got here with Nathan last night, an' he was here with Nathan when I got here this mornin'."

A puzzled frown creased Chris's forehead as he took a deep breath. "I remember him bein' here," he finally confessed, then said softly, "I'll be damned."

Vin slapped his shoulder lightly. "I'll get Nathan," he said, and walked from the room, softly closing the door behind him. Chris watched him go, then lay back and relaxed, trying to piece together the dreamlike images of the past day.

In no time, it seemed, Nathan was there, feeling his forehead and wrists, checking him over, and forcing some of that awful-tasting tea down his throat. Chris bore it all stoically, feeling somthing like a prize horse being examined before a race, a feeling exacerbated by the fact that Buck, Vin and Ezra were watching intently behind the healer's shoulder.

"You just gotta take it easy, Chris, but you're gonna be fine," Nathan finally pronounced.

"That won't be too hard," Chris croaked, stirring slowly and with difficulty. "My body feels like it's fallin' apart."

A slight chuckle escaped Nathan's lips. "Just some aches an' pains, that's normal," he assured him. "You're luckier'n Boone, that's for sure."

Chris sighed and nodded, squinting against the light. He couldn't deny that, especially as he studied the men who had fought so hard to save his life. The old questions touched him again, as they had the morning before this had all happened-why stay here so long, when it had been his nature before to wander?

He looked at his friends, and knew the answer.

Nathan stood and addressed the small throng behind him. "Okay now, y'all get on out of here so's Chris can rest up. We all done had enough excitement for a while."

Chris watched them leave with dimming vision as he began to slowly fall back into the soft arms of slumber. Buck, he noticed, was wearing a sling, and where did Ezra get that bruised cheek? As his weary body pulled him back into the healing darkness, Chris decided that when he next opened his eyes he would definitely be asking somebody some questions.

The main street of Four Corners was awash in brilliant sunshine, a sight which served to warm Chris as he sat wrapped in a blanket and relaxing on the front porch of the saloon. He was still pale, but appeared otherwise recovered from his ordeal as he sipped his coffee and watched the morning crowds go by. Another day or so of rest, Nathan had ordered, and his life would return to normal.

"Well, Mr. Larabee, you appear to be on the mend."

Chris looked over to see Ezra smiling at him from the doorway of the saloon before ambling over to where he sat.

"Thanks to you," Chris replied with sincerity as he watched Ezra take a seat in the chair beside him. They really hadn't had a chance to talk yet. "Heard you went to a lot of trouble keepin' me alive."

Ezra chuckled a bit as he stretched his long legs out in front of him, casually crossing his ankles. "In my profession, sir, one must be prepared to meet all manner of emergencies, including the unexpected," he replied, fishing a deck of cards from his pocket. "But I am pleased to see that my amateur efforts were successful."

"Yeah, an' I'm happy my efforts weren't," Chris noted, nodding at the angry bruise still healing on Ezra's cheek. "Buck told me what happened. Did I really think you were workin' for Fowler?"

"I believe you were firmly convinced of that fact," said Ezra uncomfortably, looking at him. "You don't remember it?"

Chris leaned back in his chair, silent as the wind ruffled his blonde hair. At length he shook his head.

"Just that I was scared an' sick," he said in a distant voice as he stared into the street, "an' you talked me out of it." He paused, then looked back at the gambler. "I owe you for that, Ezra. Thank you."

Ezra appeared acutely embarrassed, and gave a small nervous laugh as he stared at the deck of cards in his hands. He said nothing for a few moments, then cleared his throat.

"It was not an experience I would care to repeat, I'll admit," Ezra said, "but I am grateful that you have returned to our midst in good health. We would be quite bereft without your presence, I assure you."

A smile creased Chris's pale face, and he seemed genuinely touched beneath his amusement. "I appreciate that, Ezra," he replied with a nod. "I'm mighty glad I was able to stick around a while longer, myself. I'm thinkin' we've all got a lot more hell to raise together."

Ezra laughed a little, agreement in his green eyes, and a deeper emotion neither of them saw the need to voice. It was possible that one day destiny would see fit to separate their small band, but that day had been put off for now, and that was cause enough to celebrate.

"Perhaps, Mr. Larabee," Ezra finally said, with a gold-toothed smile as dazzling as the newborn day, "you would care to express your gratitude by partaking in a game of chance with me on this fine, brilliant, blessedly dry morning?"

Chris smiled and shook off the blanket as he sat up. Maybe someday he'd remember everything about the past day; he had a feeling Ezra hadn't told Buck the whole story. He seemed to feel a closer bond to the gambler than before, as if they had something more in common than just this town and the job of protecting it. What that could be, he had no idea, but there was always the chance that one day he might find out. That alone would be worth staying around for.

"I'm in," he said aloud, and settled back to watch as Ezra skillfully shuffled and dealt the cards. Then the two friends sat back, relaxed and played cards, enjoying the sunny morning and the promise of the bright day which now lay ahead.

THE END