Night Ride by Sue Bartholomew

Chris sighed as he looked up at the desert moon and thought, "Damn."

He was the only figure moving across the barren, rocky plains this warm July evening, and the darkness and isolation only reminded him how irritating his situation was. What was supposed to be a quick trip to Eagle Bend had turned into a major headache, and as a result his trip home had started out much later than he'd planned. he'd hoped to reach Four Corners by midnight, but it was almost midnight now and he was less than halfway there.

Damn!

He shifted in his saddle and mulled over his options. Well, option, really; he would have to camp out for the night. There was a small town up ahead, but it was hardly close, and he was feeling about ready to drop. He smiled a little to himself, thinking that he could hear Nathan now, lecturing him about wearing himself out. You're still gettin' over that bullet wound from last month, Nathan would say. You tryin' to make yourself sick?

Chris chuckled a bit to himself and spurred valor over a rocky ridge. Imagine Chris Larabee, notorious gunslinger and former hell-raiser, having anybody around who gave a damn about him. They'd worry when he didn't come back tonight. Oh, they knew Chris was more than capable of taking care of himself, and the worry would probably be the minimal, irritated, where-the-hell-is-that-dang-fool-Chris variety. But still, it had been a long time since anyone had done even that. A very long time.

Since Sarah...

He shook himself and shivered, unwilling to conjure up those painful ghosts in this dark night. With a curse he steadied his nerves; that was the trouble with riding alone at night, too much damn time to think and let the past come back through the shadows. He'd been on enough of these lonely journeys to know the pattern: the memories, the pain, the empty ache in his heart where his family used to be. He didn't want to end up in one of those brooding moods tonight, he decided firmly as he urged his mount forward. He only wanted to find a place to rest.

His green eyes spotted a tiny star of yellow light on the horizon, and he studied it closely. A campfire? Hope and caution reared themselves together in his mind. He wouldn't turn away tolerable company and a good meal, but there was no telling who that campfire belonged to. There were traveling ranchers, cowboys, cattlemen, desperadoes, wanted men and killers all loose on this wide prairie, and that small speck of light could be surrounded by just about anybody. And the last thing he wanted was a fight.

"Hold it, you!"

Chris stiffened and went for his gun. Oh, shit!

In the faint moonlight he saw a dark shape trot up to him out of the darkness, a thin man of about his age wearing a broad hat. A flash of silver caught Chris's attention: the barrel of a Remington, pointed straight at him.

Chris shook his head. "Ain't lookin' for trouble. Just ridin' by."

The other man seemed to jump a bit at the sound of Chris's voice.

"Hey, mister," the man in the shadows replied, his voice puzzled, "bein't you Chris Larabee?"

Chris's eyes widened a little, his heart tightening. This guy could be trouble, an old enemy looking to settle a score. He had plenty of those from the old days.

His assailant didn't wait for an answer. "Hell, it is you, Chris, I'd know that voice anywhere!" he exclaimed, in a much more friendly manner.

"Well, I don't know you," Chris shot back, his hand still on his gun, "an' i sure's hell ain't in the mood for guessing games."

The stranger shook his head sadly. "Now that's sad when a man don't recognize his ol' friends. It's Jack! Silver Jack Preston, from Carson City!"

Chris almost fell from his saddle in amazement. "Jack Preston? I thought for sure they'd hung you by now!"

Jack laughed. "They would if they'd known about the wild stuff you an' me used to get into to! Chris Larabee. Well, I'll be damned!"

Chris took his hand off his gun and relaxed, at least a little. Jack Preston -- a name he hadn't heard since before his marriage, when he was still a young man eager for wild times, brawls and excitement. They had gotten into quite a few scrapes together, and done a few things which had probably been illegal. Then Chris had met Sarah and left his raucous ways behind, and Jack had been buried with them.

Now he had returned like a ghost from the shadows.

"Hell, you must be starvin'," Jack was saying in a congenial manner.

"Hank's got some beans cookin', c'mon over to the camp. You ridin' far?"

"From Eagle Bend," Chris replied, trotting closer to jack. Yup, he was still a lean, tough-looking individual, long faced but handsome, with a drooping mustache and that long wild hair he liked to wear. "Wouldn't mind sharin' your fire, if the other men don't mind."

"Mind!" jack spat. "Hell, it'll be a treat to them to meet the famous Chris Larabee. Heard you been keepin' yourself pretty busy. C'mon."

They trotted over to the campfire, Chris studying the scene carefully as they drew closer. There were several men there, seven or eight, hard to see in the glaring campfire. Some were eating, others were dozing or playing cards. A few looked up as Jack approached, and Chris noted the gleam of suspicion in their eyes.

"Got a friend there, boss?" one of the men asked warily.

"Shit, Jack don't have no friends," snorted one of the dozing men. Some of the men chuckled.

Jack smiled as he dismounted. "Watch that smart mouth, Perkins. So happens this is an old carousin' buddy of mine, name of Chris Larabee."

A shock of energy went through the group. Some of the dozing men sat up blinking with surprise.

"Chris Larabee?" a younger man of the group said with awe. "Damn!"

Chris dismounted and pulled his hat down, overwhelmed with an uncomfortable feeling of being stared at. He looked at Jack.

"Any chance of eatin' in peace?" he said in a low, tired voice.

Jack sighed at his men. "Okay, back off. Gus, fetch us up some beans there. We're both too tired to hear your jaws flappin' at us."

Soon Chris had a plate of food and a canteen in hand, and he and Jack were seated next to the small fire, enjoying a quiet meal. The other men had left them alone, but Chris could tell they were still staring at him. And he knew he didn't like it.

"Don't let 'em bother ya, Chris," jack chided, apparently sensing his friend's discomfort. "But you gotta know the reputation you got around here. Real fast-draw killer n'all."

Chris frowned, his soul slightly sick at the thought that people still saw him as a vicious gunslinger. "Yeah, I know. Wish I didn't."

Jack gave a quick shake of his head. "Oh, I wouldn't wish that so fast. You earned that name, an' the respect that goes with it."

"It ain't respect," Chris said angrily, not liking the tone in Jack's voice, "it's fear."

Jack shrugged. "Long as folks do what you want, who cares what it's called? Hey, what the hell are you doin' out here anyway? Won't Sarah be missin' you?"

Chris winced and didn't look at him, his voice going cold. "Sarah's dead, Jack."

He heard Jack gasp a bit. "Oh. God, Chris, I-I'm sorry."

"Me too," was all Chris could say.

"Was she sick or--"

Chris gave his old friend a warning glance, his face contorting with the pain he couldn't completely suppress. "I ain't in the mood to talk about it, Jack. She's dead. That's all you need to know."

Jack held up a hand in surrender. "Okay--I'm sorry, Chris."

But Chris didn't think he sounded all that sorry.

Silence fell for a long time.

"Gotta say, though," Jack finally said softly, "I missed you when you got married, Chris. We had some wild times together."

Chris nodded, too tired to get into reminiscing. "Yep."

Jack was looking at him intently. "Say, if... Now that you ain't...you're sure welcome here, Chris. I could use your help, God knows."

The lowing of cattle caught Chris's ear. Eager to talk about anything else, he turned his head toward the sound. "You boys drivin' cattle?"

A few of the men snickered. the sound was quickly stifled, but Chris heard enough of it to guess its meaning. He turned a sharp, questioning gaze to Jack.

"Just a few strays we picked up off the prairie," Jack replied with a smile.

"Sounds like more than a few," Chris pointed out in a rising voice, his suspicion now fully aroused.

Jack leaned forward. "Oh, hell, now, Chris, it's just some heads from the ranches here abouts. Nothin' these damn big rich ranchers are gonna miss. Look," he bent closer, "you may have given up them wild times, Chris, but I just couldn't. We got a great group here, men who know how to cut loose an' get things done. Just like the old days."

Chris looked up at his friend and slowly shook his head. "We had us some great times, Jack. But the old days are dead for me. I can't be that way again."

The other man gave a small, incredulous laugh. "That ain't what I heard, Chris. Few years back, I heard talk that you were a pretty mean draw. Killed more'n one man, if the stories were true. I always wondered about that, with Sarah an' all, but they never said she... well, reckon that explains it."

Chris nodded, his green eyes blazing now. The pain in his heart was agonizing. "Yeah, it does, Jack," he said in an icy tone. "There was a time I didn't mind shootin' a man for lookin' at me sideways. But things are different now."

Jack cocked his head. "What, you got a new gal or somethin'?"

Chris's mouth twitched as he shook his head. "Just don't go in it for no more, Jack."

Jack sat back, his jaw dropping. "So Chris Larabee's turned respectable, is that it?"

Chris lowered his head, unsure how to explain. Finally he looked back into jack's face, his own expression a little calmer. "Nope, Jack, just... fell in with a group of my own, I guess. Stopped roamin', least for a while." There was a rustle as Chris stood, shaking his head. "More careful these days, that's all."

Jack stood as well. "We're careful too, Chris--ain't never been caught, not once. Make a pretty good livin' too, might even get rich like these damn ranchers. C'mon, Chris, that group don't need you."

Chris eyed him evenly. "Jack, you're breakin' the law."

Jack laughed. "Hell, who cares about that, long as we don't get caught. We made our own law, remember, Chris? Rules didn't mean nothin' to us then, an' they don't now."

His friend met his eyes with a steady gaze, and said nothing.

Jack frowned. "Chris?"

"I best be goin'," Chris said quietly, and turned to leave.

"Hey!" Jack ran around in front of him, putting an arm out to stop him. "Chris-what, you mean you'd turn this down? Wild livin' an' free money--"

"Money made by stealin' ain't never free," Chris replied coldly, and kept walking.

Jack continued to pursue him, looking back at his men. "Chris, now... you know I can't just let you walk away like this."

Chris reached his horse and prepared to mount up. "You don't got to shoot me, Jack, I ain't gonna turn you in."

He looked up to see Jack looking at him earnestly. "Hell, Chris, you know I'd never shoot you."

Too late Chris saw the moonlight on the gun barrel in the near distance, aimed at him by one of Jack's men. Chris was able to get his gun half-drawn before the gunshot, and the searing pain which roared through him as the bullet ripped through his side. Another shot struck his leg soon after, and Chris collapsed to the ground, blood pouring from the wounds in a thick black stream.

"Bring him back to the fire," he heard Jack say calmly through the horrible roaring in his ears. Rough hands grabbed him and hauled him up, heedless of the wounds and blood. Chris struggled as much as he could, but the agony was too intense to allow much movement. The fire's glow blazed before him, and as he was dumped to the ground the blaze seemed to swallow him up and in his anguished delirium he imagined that he was being swallowed up in the fires of Hell.

This thought would soon prove to be accurate.

After a too-brief spell of darkness, Chris was dragged back to consciousness by a swift, painful kick aimed directly into his wounded side. With a groan he opened his eyes to a bright, dancing glare; after a few confused moments he realized he was staring into the campfire. The pain had mad it feel like an eternity since he was shot, but the dark sky and still-oozing wound indicated that only a little time had passed.

A thin shadow stepped between him and the light, its stance one of anger and arrogance.

"Should've taken my offer, Chris," it said in Jack's voice.

Chris gasped and tried to sit up, his face wrenched in agony at the effort. "Dammit, Jack," he rasped through clenched teeth, "I said... I wouldn't turn you in--"

He heard jack chuckle, and saw him crouch down in front of him, a black shape against the flickering fire, waiting to spring. "Yeah, you did, Chris, an' that was a nice try. But I got plans for me an' the boys here, an' they don't include lettin' folks like you go who know where we're at an' what we're doin'."

Chris bit back a moan as the wound in his side stabbed at him, an icy hot blade of agony slicing through his body. He clutched at the wound, felt the warm blood flowing freely between his fingers, soaking his clothes.

"Why, Jack," Chris gasped, lifting accusing, angry green eyes to the dark face of his tormenter. "We were--"

"Friends?" Jack snorted. "We were once, I'll agree. But you ain't the Chris I knew. That Chris wouldn't have cared two cents for right or wrong. He just knew how t'help himself to the world, an' the hell with everyone else. He'd have had the sense to take what I was offerin'. And he never would have let some damn woman catch an' tame him. Yeah, that Chris was a good friend of mine. But you ain't him, an' I'm through talkin' to you."

He rose and walked away. Chris tried to call out to him, but he was quickly prevented by a sea of hands grabbing at him, fists driving themselves brutally into his face, his stomach, his bleeding wounds. As the agony tore through him in white-hot sheets, he felt the hands snatching away his watch and gun.

"This guy ain't so tough!" he heard one of the men pronounce roughly, and his hands were wrenched behind his back and tied tightly as the other men laughed.

Oh God, Chris thought as he was dumped back to the ground. For a few moments he lay there, choking in the hot dust, his mind spinning from the anguish. He could see nothing of the men around him, they were only shadows against the flames of the fire, faceless demons waiting to strike.

Chris no longer had the power to speak, but he clenched his teeth as his green eyes swept the murderous crowd. He had no idea how he'd gotten into this hell, but they weren't going to have the satisfaction of seeing Chris Larabee beg for mercy. He was determined to fight every step of the way, even if that journey led to the grave.

The first kick broke some ribs; he could sense them give way, feel the sharp pain as they delicate bones snapped from the vicious blow. A second boot lashed out, striking his shoulder. The world dissolved into a whirlpool of sharp blows, each more painful than the last. He was picked up and thrown to the ground, the laughter of the men rising as he landed on his wounded side.

"This is Chris Larabee? Shit, he ain't nothin'," one rustler exclaimed, proving his point by slicing into Chris's arm with his knife. Chris felt the cold steel tear into his flesh and choked back a cry. Then it was more kicks, more blows, a seemingly endless assault of clawing, mindless torment. The punishing fists laid open several more wounds on his unprotected body, each one burning as it was contaminated by the gritty, acrid dust of the desert.

"Bet you wish you'd come along, Chris," he heard Jack taunt him through the thick, stifling pain. Chris was barely conscious now, but he managed to seize on that thought. He could have avoided this if he had only agreed to ride off with Jack, back to the lawless life he had once lived, a life of excitement and freedom. Of not caring who got hurt.

Of empty, selfish days lived only for his own gain.

The life Sarah had rescued him from. As if she had never lived.

For a moment, he realized through his bitter agony that the pain he was feeling now was nothing to the agony of his heart, if he had betrayed the goodness he had once had, through his love of her. Jack had hated that, was trying to destroy it, and might succeed.

But he still would not win.

Another kick to his side, more ferocious than before, and Chris's thoughts were swallowed up and lost in the icy clutch of oblivion.

"Any sign of Chris?"

JD's words greeted Vin as he strolled through the doors of the saloon, the afternoon sun blazing across his buckskin-clad shoulders and long brown curls. As the tracker made his way to a chair, he met the anxious eyes of the five other men gathered in the nearly deserted bar room, and his expression was not encouraging.

"Nope," he sighed, plopping down next to where Ezra was busy shuffling cards for another hand of poker. "Rode halfway t'Eagle bend, didn't see a trace of 'im."

"Perhaps Chris elected to tarry a while in that fair city," Ezra offered hopefully as he swiftly dealt the cards. The other men around the table didn't seem to agree.

"It don't seem right," Nathan said with a worried frown as he removed the cigar from his mouth, the blue smoke curling lazily in the still summer air. "He was aimin' to come back last night."

"Hell, with Chris it could be anything," Buck advised, his casual attitude betrayed by the concern in his deep blue eyes. "He can be real hard t'find when he wants to be. Could be he just decided to ride off for a spell."

"He's entitled, after that fuss a while back," added Josiah, whose mind did not seem to be entirely on the hand he'd just been dealt. "A wound like that can try a man's soul somethin' fierce."

JD crossed his arms over the back of the chair he was sitting backwards on and frowned. "Maybe we oughta--"

The young man's words were interrupted by the loud arrival of a new set of faces, a burly dust-covered group of eight men who filed into the saloon with a distinct lack of grace. One look at the them, and the six men braced themselves. It looked as if things might get a little too interesting.

Some of the men ambled up to the bar and loudly ordered the nervous bartender to scare up some drinks. A few of them wandered over to the poker table, eying the nattily dressed Ezra with interest.

"You boys playin' poker?" one of them asked with a twang.

"Your powers of observation are astonishing," Ezra replied with thinly veiled disdain, his green eyes darting to each of his friends. Be ready for anything, they said.

"Kin we join you?" the dirty man inquired. "I got money, lookin' to make some more."

Buck laughed. "Hell, you're at the wrong place for that, friend," he said. "Ezra here's quick enough to take the scales off a rattler without gettin' bit. Your money ain't gonna be yours for long."

"Yeah?" the man's companion grinned, and sat down with his friend at the table. "We'll see about that!"

The afternoon wore on, Vin and the others keeping a close eye on the group as they drank and gambled. They were trailherders or cowboys, they surmised, not from around the area. They might be just looking for fun, but they had to be ready in case the fun turned violent. The two men at Ezra's table seemed an unlikely pair; the dirty man was rough and uncivilized, his partner more collected and cunning. There was a devious light about his handsome face, and in the way he stroked his bushy, drooping mustache while mulling over his cards. His hair was wild and longer even than Vin's.

"Time to ante up, gentlemen," Ezra finally announced.

"I'm in," the dirty man exclaimed, digging in his pocket.

His companion looked at him. "You done busted yourself after the last hand, Roy," he mumbled.

"Hell with that, Jack!" Roy replied, and pulled something from his pocket, holding it up. "What'll ya take fer this, mister?"

It was a watch, silver and plain, strung on an unremarkable chain.

Ezra looked at it without enthusiasm. "That is hardly a high-stakes item, my odorous friend. However..." he leaned forward and took the watch in his palm, looking at it closely, out of mere courtesy if nothing else. With bored movements he examined the scratched case, the ordinary chain, and finally pressed the crown. The case sprung smoothly open, and he studied the face and the inside of the lid carefully.

Vin noticed it first, how Ezra's jaw suddenly clenched, and his eyes widened by the slightest degree. His head came up, and he eyed the newcomers with sudden intensity.

"Yes, a most interesting timepiece," he said smoothly, handing the watch to Vin. "Wouldn't you say, Vin?"

Vin took the watch, fully aware that Ezra was trying to tell him something. Inside the lid were inscribed the words TO CHRIS, MERRY CHRISTMAS, JD.

Vin was stunned. JD had given this watch to Chris last year, after learning that Chris didn't have one. He knew that meant a lot to Chris. It wasn't an expensive watch, but at JD's wages it was very dear indeed, and also knew that it was unlikely that Chris had dropped or misplaced the watch. He narrowed his eyes and handed the watch back to Ezra with a nod.

He looked over to JD, who was staring open-mouthed. Their eyes met, and JD read the warning light in Vin's eyes.

"A remarkable specimen," Ezra said, weighing the watch lightly in his hand. "Where did you ever acquire it?"

The dirty man grinned. "Took it off this loudmouthed drifter out in the desert."

The other man, Jack, quickly nudged him and gave him a warning glare.

"Indeed?" was Ezra's cool response, although his eyes were snapping. The others were alert now too. "A troublesome sort, was he?"

Jack shrugged and smiled, his eyes studying each of his new companions carefully. Fellow vagabonds and outlaws, he seemed to be thinking. They won't bother me. "Nobody of any account. He gave us trouble an' we dealt with him. I'm sure you boys know the type."

Vin was staring daggers at the man, but his vice was low and icy. "Where'd you leave 'im?"

Jack glanced at him and chuckled. "Why, you wanna pick him over too? He's out in the desert between here an' Eagle Bend, but he's probably dead by now." He sighed and sat up. "Now are you gonna deal that hand--"

The room erupted into action, as the five men turned on the newcomers. Guns were drawn quickly, the butts applied viciously to skulls and jaws. As the room echoed with several thuds as the stunned rustlers hit the floor, Vin launched himself at Jack, knocking him to the ground and slamming his fist against the man's jaw.

"Hey!" Jack sputtered.

Vin grabbed Jack's collar in two choking handfuls, hauling him up just enough to look into his face. Vin's blue eyes glowed with anger.

"I'll deal you a hand of hot lead if you done anythin' to hurt Chris," he said in a chilling whisper.

"Chris who?" Jack replied. Vin gritted his teeth and punched the man across the jaw, then dropped his unconscious body to the floor.

"Let's get these scum t'jail an' lock 'em up," he said as he leapt to his feet.

The other outlaws were nudged along with gun barrels shoved into their ribcages, daunted by the lethal expressions in their captors' eyes.

"Who the hell are you guys?" Roy asked as he stumbled out, Ezra's Derringer firmly planted in his side.

"We're friends of Chris Larabee's," Buck said in a low, furious tone, "an' the law in this town."

"Oh, shit!" was the chagrined reply, and the men were hustled out the door.

"Figures Chris ran into trouble," Vin said as he hauled his catch to his feet.

"The way between here an' Eagle bend is mighty wide," Nathan said in a worried tone as he pushed two of the men along. "How you reckon we gonna find 'im?"

Vin's expression was deadly serious.

"We'll find 'im," he replied, and they headed for the jail.

The desert was wide and desolate, devoid of any life save the small, insignificant figure now struggling to stay alive beneath the pitiless rays of the sun. But Chris knew the struggle was rapidly becoming a losing one.

The night of agony had turned into a day no less torturous. Throughout the night he had been subjected to cycles of agonizing beatings, followed by too-brief plunges into the welcome darkness of unconsciousness. But it had never been long before he'd be brought back to more pain, until it seemed the night would never end. When morning dawned, Chris was weak and covered with blood and open wounds. But he had not cried out, not once.

Let's go, jack had then announced, and the men had left him lying there to die of heat and thirst. Not worth it to waste a bullet on him, someone had said. Real shame, Jack had replied. He was a lot of fun, once.

And they had ridden away.

Chris strained at the devilish ropes binding his wrists, but their strands were tight and glued with blood. Sweat stung every open cut, adding to the already unbearable misery. Dried blood stiffened his clothes, gluing the sandpaper-like folds to his skin. When he had the strength to move, Chris lifted his eyes to search his surroundings; but all about was desolation, sand and rock stretching endlessly around him with no sign of shade or water. He gasped and tried to lick his lips, but the movement of the parched tongue across his cracked lips was searing.

He tried to think, but thoughts were elusive through the pain and heat. He was fairly certain he was going to die; no one in town knew where he was, and he would not last long enough for anyone to find him.

Damn, he thought. Aw, damn.

For a long time Chris lay motionless. Then, slowly, his arms began to move, working on the ropes again. A new determination was born in his soul; he might die out here, alone, but he was not going to die trussed up like a common outlaw. He was still willing to fight, even if it was for nothing more than a dignified death.

The ropes cut and burned his hands as he worked them back and forth. He no longer cared; the new agony was barely felt amidst the anguish already torturing his body. Every movement was hell, but Chris knew that if he could at least free his hands, it would be worth the price.

For what seemed like hours he strained against the ropes, bursts of frenzied activity paired with long periods of gasping for breath while lying absolutely still. But he could feel them slipping, just a little, and that renewed his efforts, despite the vicious pain shooting up his arms. Just a little more--

Finally the ropes loosened just enough, and he wrenched free of them. His wrists were raw and covered with blood, but he cared nothing for that. He was free.

Chris gasped and rolled onto his back, panting from the exertion as he slowly rested his trembling arms at his sides. It was a triumph, a small one, but still a triumph. His head was spinning violently, and he thought for a moment he was going to pass out. He pushed against it; his plan was to fight, and die on his feet, not lie here and quietly expire. He was going to find help, or die trying.

With extreme effort he rolled over, every bone and muscle screaming with the effort. His blood-stiffened chafed against the sore wounds, and he gritted his teeth against the pain as he struggled to his knees. Then, very slowly and carefully, ignoring every wail of protest sent up by his tortured body, Chris rose to his feet. His wounded leg felt as if it were burning off, and his throbbing side almost sent him back to the ground in blinding anguish. But he steeled himself, determined to press on. They would expect no less of him.

Through half-closed eyes he glanced around; there were a few homesteads to the west, he knew, they were his only hope. Clutching his side with shaking, blood-soaked fingers, Chris forced his painfully numb legs to move, and began to slowly make his way towards the west.

The desert shimmered before his eyes, the heat assaulting him in waves. His free hand rose to wipe at his sweat-soaked face, wincing as the hand raked across open cuts and torn flesh. A violent trembling seized his whole body, and it felt as if he was not making any progress at all, merely walking helplessly forever in place.

The ground became rocky and uneven. He stumbled and fell, the sharp rocks tearing at him anew as he struck the ground. For a long time he lay on his hands and knees, gasping for breath against the pain, the searing thirst and cramping hunger. His body was close to quitting, he could sense it, and for a brief moment he considered giving in. It would be so much easier than this.

Dammit, Jack, he thought as he closed his burning eyes against the blazing glare. What was there about me, that you had to do this?

And the reply came from Chris's memory: Bet you wish you'd come along...

But Chris knew he could never have done that. He had a duty now, a way of life he could not turn his back on, no matter how tempting the offer or how dire the punishment. He was no hero and he knew it, but he would be in a worse hell than this if he were to abandon the few beliefs he still clung to. Beliefs he had found with Sarah and believed lost forever when she died.

Chris took a deep breath and forced himself back to his feet, climbing slowly as every movement brought a new wave of torture. If he had met Jack again after Sarah had died, he realized as he resumed his arduous journey, perhaps this might have turned out differently. Life had meant nothing to him then, and taking up an existence of lawbreaking and thievery would have been just as good as anything else. There was no one who cared if Chris lived or died, was damned or saved, so why not be damned? It made little difference to him. he would have gone with Jack, and returned to the lawless life he had lived before meeting Sarah.

But that was impossible now. There was something in his soul now that recoiled at what he had once embraced, and he found Jack's casual offer of a life of crime repugnant. As a lawman he had seen the misery men such as Jack created, and he no longer wanted any part of it.

He could not tell exactly why or how, but there was a part of him striving to reach that small point of light shining in the darkness of his soul. It was a light kindled by Sarah's love, one which had almost been extinguished when that love was taken away. Now it burned again, fitfully but with growing strength. He had hope again, a hope which he knew men like Jack could never understand. A hope which would die now if he didn't push on.

But it was growing more difficult to force his body along. Blood poured from his side and leg, the red liquid drying to his skin in rough, sticky clumps. Every step, every movement felt like a fiery knife being driven repeatedly into his body. If only he could stop and rest. But there was nowhere to rest, and Chris knew that if he lay down he would never rise again.

Grimly he pushed on, renewing his resolve with every step, reminding himself why he had to live. He could never go back to what he had been, before Sarah, when all he cared about was himself, or after her death, when grief had driven him to lethal recklessness. Those early days had been fun, but it had been a hollow joy born of youthful selfishness. And the later days had been a seemingly endless nightmare of bitter, isolated mourning. Accepting Jack's offer would have saved his life, but it would also have damned his soul.

Telling Jack he was bound by duty would have only provoked a confused laugh. Chris could almost laugh himself at the idea that he was bound to anyone or anything again; yet here he was, driven to survive this hellish suffering for an ideal he could scarcely define. he had told Judge Travis once that he did not believe in as much as he used to; but among the few beliefs he still held on to was the notion that a man had to fight evil with all he had, until he could no longer stand.

For a long time after his family's murder Chris was too immersed in his own suffering to notice the misery of others, but as he slowly raised his eyes to the sun again it had become more apparent, and infuriating. The darkness which had murdered all he loved still lived, a hydra with a thousand heads. Now he was engaged to help stop it; it had been a task he was reluctant to take, but if it saved one family from suffering what he had suffered, it would be a burden he could accept without regrets.

And there were new faces, too, to help him hold to that acceptance. Old friends, like Buck, and new ones, like Vin, and the people of Four Corners, all considered him a man worthy of trust-well, most of them, anyway. His fellow lawkeepers accepted his imperfections, as he did theirs, and together they supported each other as they plied their possibly fatal profession. He could not turn his back on that trust, turn his back on them, and ride back into a life where friendship was only something to be exploited and betrayed.

These thoughts wandered through Chris's mind as he staggered on, urging his exhausted body forward when it insisted it could not go another step. The agony was blinding now, much worse than before. The cuts and wounds were throbbing intensely, his vision blurring until the blazing landscape before him melted into an indecipherable glow of blue cloudless sky and burning sand and rock. The violent trembling which seized him made walking even more difficult, and he was no longer sure how far or how fast he was moving. Perhaps he was going in circles, there was no way to know.

Mirages passed before his eyes, born of the heat and pain. Suddenly he was back in Four Corners, the buildings wavering in the stifling afternoon sun; he would almost collapse with relief and stumble towards the saloon, only to watch the doorway dissolve as he neared it.

Ghostly apparitions danced across the rocky ground in front of him, faces of past adversaries living and dead, urging him to draw. Colonel Anderson bore down on him, blood streaming from his several wounds as he held his saber out poised to strike Chris down. Cletus Fowler watched his suffering impassively, his face and body a mass of ghastly charred flesh. Hank Connelly watched with damning eyes, blaming Chris for his daughter's murder. He could hear Ella Gaines's mocking laughter, hear her accusing words as she informed him that he would be safe now if he had allowed her to love him.

Chris's legs gave way; he fell hands-down in the hot dust, crying out as the sharp rocks sliced into the already ragged skin. Weakness swept over him, and a racking pain that seemed ready to tear him apart from the inside. He slumped to the ground; it was too much. He had fought like hell; there was little else he could do now.

Something made him raise his weary eyes one more time. In the distance, amid the blue-white blur of sky and sand, stood another vision, indistinct and yet more sharply real than any of the more terrifying specters he had seen. A young woman and a small boy.

Chris shook his head and stared again, certain that it was a production of his feverish mind. But they were there, his wife and son, who had died a lifetime ago. In a hazy, dreamlike daze, he realized they were urging him on, pleading with him to fight death as he had fought his enemies before. A terrible longing filled his tortured soul; wouldn't it be better to let go, to join them, or find solace in endless oblivion? He had fought with all of his strength, but that strength was gone now, bled out on the unforgiving dust of the desert.

They stared at him, unmoving, and Chris's mind slowly began to revive itself. He was still able to move, and as long as he could do that, no matter how agonizing each step was, he had to continue his journey. Maybe it wasn't his time to join his family yet; they seemed to want him to stay alive, and he dared not disappoint them. He had to live, for another family now, and the strength he drew from the memories of one would give him the power to return to the other. he would find his way back to them, or die on his feet trying. But he now swore that he would not quit.

He looked up again. The vision was gone.

The sun began to set, and with the resulting coolness Chris found himself refreshed enough to stand and make another try. The steps were slow and small, and the progress minute, yet each inch gained renewed his determination. That bastard Jack and his gang were not going to whip Chris Larabee; even if he died out here, he would know he had not perished as they intended, like a whipped dog.

The sun dropped rapidly; he was losing track of time, becoming confused. It seemed as if he had walked for a hundred miles, yet in reality he had gone only a short distance. Thunder roared in his ears, although the sky was clear. he lifted his eyes to the moon growing bright in the azure sky, the same moon which had looked down on him the night before. Or was it a hundred years before?

The thunder grew louder, and Chris watched helplessly as the moon began to spin wildly in the sky. Then he realized it was him who was spinning, falling as the last ounce of strength left his body. As he hit the ground, half-conscious, the thunder rolled over him in deafening waves. Then it receded, and a new sound replaced it, eerie and far away. A thousand voices all calling his name.

He couldn't make out the words as the voices continued their cry, they sounded faint and distant. Then hands were grabbing at him, their touch inflaming his blood-encrusted wounds. They've got me again, he thought madly, and tried to struggle, only to find his fiercest attacks were as feeble as a newborn colt's.

A face drifted into view, lit by the last rays of the setting sun. Concerned blue eyes stared into his, framed with long brown hair. I know him, Chris realized, but no name came to mind. Other faces surrounded him, all worried, and Chris realized he knew all of them, even if the names wouldn't come to him.

He felt himself fading, a relaxing sense of release washing over him. He was safe now, even if he couldn't make out why this was. Arms lifted him, sending stabs of icy pain coursing through his body; he stiffened and grunted, but the pain did not relent. It was done to help him, he knew, but it was still pure agony.

He felt himself being lifted onto a horse, and strong arms wrapped around him to hold him on the saddle. The riding began, and it was not long before the anguish of the jostling exacted a price. No matter how gently the rider drove his mount, or how carefully the horse was guided so as to cause the last amount of pain possible to its suffering burden, there was no holding back the overwhelming wave of anguish which swept Chris away from the agony into the welcome nothingness of oblivion.

"Easy there, Josiah!"

The voice cut through the painless void as Chris was jolted back into awareness. He could not yet open his eyes, but he could feel himself being carried quickly upwards, his wounds crying out in pain with every step. He tried to moan but the sound caught in his parched throat.

Bang! A door was rudely forced open, and Chris felt himself deposited gently onto a thin, well-worn mattress. Nathan's, he realized as hands began to remove what was left of his blood-soaked clothing. It wasn't a dream, they really did find me.

The clatter of metal caught his attention, and he could smell the acrid scent of burning wood. Boiling water, of course. he'd watched Nathan treat injured people before. He knew what was coming, and braced himself. The pain was not over yet.

"Chris?" That was Nathan's voice. "You awake?"

Chris took a deep breath and let a weak moan dribble from his cracked lips. a strange sound reached his ears, as if several people were all exhaling at once.

"You hang on there, ol' pard," he heard someone say. Buck, that was Buck. "Nathan's gonna fix you right up."

"I'll wager you'll be wantin' this," said a smooth voice nearby, and he felt a hand gently lift his head. His lips touched something cold and wet. Water! He'd almost decided there was none left in the world. With weak but eager gulps he drained the cup, reveling in every swallow of the precious liquid. He felt as if he could drink a lake of it, but after the cup was gone his head was eased back on to the pillow.

"JD, run to the druggist's an' wake 'im up," Nathan was saying. "I got a list here--"

"You got it, Doc," he heard a young voice say. Footsteps ran out the door and echoed into the night.

"God above," a soft voice whispered as the last of Chris's bloody clothes came off. Josiah, that sounded like, Chris thought, before the pain seized hold of him again in its iron grip.

There was the sound of sloshing water, and Nathan's voice was by his ear. "Chris, I gotta clean these wounds quick, get that dirt out. You gotta stay with me, hear? Vin, can you--"

"Sure, Nathan," came another voice, and Chris felt someone place their hand gently on his head. That was Vin's voice, quiet as always, but also choked with rage.

Chris hissed with pain as the cleaning began; the water was hot, almost boiling, the cloth felt like sandpaper against the raw wounds as it wiped every irritating particle away. He knew Nathan was using the gentlest touch possible, but it felt as if he were scouring the wounds with great force, and there was nothing Chris could do to prevent the feeble groans from escaping his lips.

"Easy," he heard Vin say, the hand staying on his head, steadying him. Chris was breathing quickly now as the cloth rubbed mercilessly in every gash and scrape, across his sunburned skin, awakening new and increasingly excruciating agonies. But finally, it was done.

Chris gasped as the devilish cloth finally eased off of his trembling body. The cup returned to his lips; more water, and something else, bitter and strong-tasting. Chris choked as he drank it; it was for the pain, he understood, but it still tasted like hell.

"Gonna look at these bullet holes now, Chris," Nathan informed him, and Chris clenched his teeth in preparation. He didn't know if he could take the torture of the bullet probe, but there was no choice.

Chris felt Nathan's hands gently feel around the wound in his side. A loud moan split the air as the tender, inflamed wound was pressed and examined. With exceeding carefulness Nathan lifted Chris enough to look for an exit wound, but the motion was still horrific to Chris's shattered body.

"Looks like it went through," Nathan's voice proclaimed as it cut through the red-hot sheets of anguish engulfing Chris's body. He was gently rolled onto his back once more. "You got lucky there."

Sure as hell don't feel lucky, Chris thought, but the power to speak still eluded him. As Nathan examined the wound in his leg the agony took on a sharp, surreal quality, and he had a feeling his luck was about to run out.

"Hold 'im still now, Vin," Nathan said after a few moments, and Chris heard the faint clink as the healer picked up his metal probes. The cold instruments slid smoothly into the bleeding wound, and Chris uttered a strangled cry of anguish.

"Hold on there, pard," he heard Vin say, but his world was fast disappearing, occupied now only by the horrific torture of the instruments as they poked into the tender, inflamed flesh. Chris squeezed his eyes hut and rode it out, trying to focus on anything else, Vin's hand steadying him, the softness of the bed. But it was no use; there seemed to be nothing real for him except the digging, biting probes and the hellish pain they produced.

Sweat drenched him, searing the raw skin even more. Something moved in his leg, causing new torment, and Chris lurched and cried out. His head was spinning now, the pain was driving him mad. There was a sudden burst of activity, the probes made one last, agonizing stab, then the rough metal bullet slid out of the wound in one quick motion.

"There now," Nathan's satisfied voice said, as a loud clang pronounced the bullet's disposal. "Sorry, Chris, had to do it fast."

Chris nodded, or thought he did; his head felt like it was splitting open, and he was no longer sure what he was doing. His entire body ached, every nerve on his sunburn skin throbbing with searing pain. It was hard to breathe, and a new dizziness was assaulting him, making him feel disoriented.

"Here ya go, Doc," he heard JD say as the door banged open. "He said no charge if it'd help Chris."

"There, ya see?" Buck said in a voice still tremulous with concern. "Bet you're glad ya hung on, with folks like that to come back to, pard. They ain't gonna turn their backs on you."

Chris was drifting now in an unreal haze; it was as if he was back in the desert, going mad from thirst and exhaustion, only now he had a better chance. He heard Buck's words, knew they were true. They would help him here to live and heal. It was why he had fought to survive.

After an immeasurable amount of time, something cold and wet hit Chris's chest. Nathan was spreading something over his skin and into his wounds; it stung but also soothed.

"This'll help with the pain," Nathan was saying. "You won't be goin' nowhere for a while, so you best get comfortable."

Chris was beginning to relax, the pain now easing into a vague, distant ache. He had made it, he was safe. But the fight would continue; he still had a job to do, and he had come back from hell to do it.

"You might be interested to know," Ezra's voice drawled as Nathan carefully applied the salve to Chris's arms, "that we apprehended a squad of wrongdoers, one of whom had somehow acquired your watch."

"Don't know much about 'em," Josiah added. "One's named Jack. They're locked up in the jail, waitin' for you when you get better."

Chris rose back to consciousness for just a moment. Jack had come here? God, here of all places? Chris had never told him where he lived, or who his friends were. It had been sheer bad luck on Jack's part to pick the one place where anyone gave a damn about Chris. He would have laughed at the situation, if he wasn't so damn weak. Hopefully he would be able to go talk to Jack soon; there were quite a few things he wanted to tell him.

"There now," Nathan said as he finished up. "Just gonna bandage you up now, Chris, an' that's it. Don't reckon you'll mind that."

Chris didn't mind much of anything as Nathan began winding the long cloth strips around the wounds. There was pain, but it didn't feel a part of him; he was becoming quite lightheaded, and would have fallen asleep had it not been for the work Nathan was doing on him.

Suddenly the work stopped, and Chris felt puzzled; had he passed out? there were soft murmurs and the sounds of leaving footsteps. It was all over.

"You're gonna be sore for a while, but you'll be all right," Nathan was saying. "When you get stronger we'll take you on over to your room." Chris managed to find enough strength to nod.

"C'mon, Vin," Nathan continued.

"Reckon I'll stay here for a while, Nate, make sure he's all right," Vin replied in a tired voice. "Then I'll be along."

"All right."

There was the muffled sound of the door being pulled slowly closed, and the room was quiet. Chris truly relaxed now, for the first time in what felt like ages. The pain was quickly losing its fight with the medicine, and Chris soon found himself slipping quietly into unconsciousness. It had been a hellish journey, but he had survived, and he knew that for all of its agonies there was no other path he would have chosen. It was the right one for him, and that was all the reason he needed to calmly face whatever came.

Somewhere, he hoped, Sarah would be proud.

THE END