Wild Horses by Stacie

Chris Larabee slowed his horse as he neared the small town he called home. He was dirty and tired, and his head pounded from three days of non-stop cheap tequila in the bandit town of Purgatorio. When he hadn't been drinking, he'd been in the arms of the beautiful whore Maria, but despite her warm brown eyes and sharp mind, she would never be more to him than a release for his body, though even that lacked the appeal it had provided in the past. He'd gone to Purgatory so he wouldn't be alone, but the distraction wasn't working anymore. As he'd said goodbye to Maria, they both knew it would probably be his last visit. His ride back had been even lonelier than his ride over.

Besides that, his original purpose for the trip -- to buy a strong stud horse from a Spanish ranchero outside of town -- had been a waste of time. The man's stock was little better than skin and bones, and the ranchero was asking ten times what the horses were worth if they'd been healthy. The abuse of the horses had frayed his edgy nerves even further, and he'd sworn if he came back and those horses weren't fed, he'd take it out of the man's hide. Maybe a good fight would have improved his mood.

Within sight of the town, he noticed the trail was covered with tracks from a lot of horses and wagons. Off to the left, he saw white tents arranged in neat rows, and a slip-shod corral crowded with horses and guarded by soldiers.

"Shit," Chris said out loud, spitting out dust from the trampled trail. "Army." He spurred his horse toward the town.

On the outskirts, the road began to get crowded with soldiers and other people he didn't recognize. The crowd made him wary; he scanned faces looking for trouble. A few people glanced back but didn't meet his eyes. All these new people in town were bad news. He hoped Vin had hightailed it out until the army moved on.

He left his horse in the livery and hurried through the crowd. People stepped out of his way as his glare radiated from under the brim of his hat, his black duster billowing behind him revealing the well-used Colt on his hip. He passed the old office of The Clarion News, now used by the milliner. A few doors down he nodded to a frazzled Mrs. Potter, who was trying to keep order in her store filled with rowdy soldiers. Chris normally would have stopped to help, but first he had to find out about Vin. He hurried across the street to the saloon.

He was stopped by a wall of calico.

"Sir, repent your sin and God will forgive you," a high-pitched voice said to him, and a thin hand was placed on his arm. He looked at the hand, then into a pair of grey eyes gleaming with fervor. "Whiskey is the devil's water, and you'll drown in it. Let Jesus help."

He removed the woman's hand from his arm. Several replies, none of them polite, came to mind, but he held his tongue and walked silently through the group of women blocking the saloon entrance. They gasped and moved out of the way.

"God forgives you," the leader called after him.

"I doubt it," he said, stopping in the doorway to let his eyes adjust to the darkness inside the saloon. Apparently the Jesus brigade hadn't saved anyone else either because the saloon was packed with ranch hands, soldiers, and working girls. He scanned the crowd, noting all of the new faces, then looked over to the back corner. He saw a worn slouch hat and shook his head. Damn fool didn't know when to get out of town, he thought.

Vin Tanner sat against the wall, the brim of his hat covering his eyes and most of his face. Beside him, Ezra Standish dealt cards one-handed, his emerald-green coat and perfectly coiffed hair making him the obvious center of attention, which Chris was glad for. On Vin's other side, Buck Wilmington frowned at his cards.

"Damn, Ezra, these cards are worse than a bad batch of Mrs. Smithy's prune stew," the ladies man said, tossing them into the center of the table.

Chris stepped around a rowdy table of soldiers to join his fellow peacekeepers.

"Cowboy," Vin said quietly, glancing up for a second with a grin before looking back down. "How was yer trip?"

Chris pulled a chair over to the table. "Waste of time," he said, pouring a shot of whiskey. "What the hell happened while I was gone?"

"Army. They need a place to hang some deserters," Buck answered.

Chris glanced at Vin, but couldn't see his expression. "What about the women out front?"

Buck laughed. "You mean the bulldogs? They've been trying to save our souls all week."

"Lost cause if ever I heard one," Ezra said, reshuffling the deck.

"I thought Mrs. Travis was bad," Vin added.

"Indeed, it appears that our resident moral conscience's departure for the greener pastures of San Francisco created a puritanical void the Temperance Society felt obliged to fill," Ezra said.

Chris took another drink. "Gonna be trouble?" he asked.

"Maybe the soldiers and bulldogs will take on each other," Buck said.

"I'd place my money on the dear ladies," Ezra said.

Vin felt Chris's eyes on him, and he looked into the green stare. He knew what Chris was really worried about. "No trouble so far," he answered.

Chris nodded. He finished his whiskey, not feeling any more at ease, but Vin would do what he wanted. He stood. "I'm going to get cleaned up," he said, and left the saloon, avoiding the Temperance Society as they lectured JD who was trying to get into the saloon.

Vin finished his whiskey and stood to leave. The saloon was getting more crowded by the minute, and the voice in his head telling him to saddle up and head out was getting louder. Ever since the army appeared outside of town, his survival instinct had kicked in, but he ignored it, wanting to wait until Chris got back. Something in Chris's eyes before he left had worried the sharpshooter; there was an emptiness there he hadn't seen before, different from the despair that sometimes came over him when thinking about his family. Chris had said he wanted to look at some Mexican horses, but a week had gone by with no word and Vin couldn't get the image of those sad green eyes out of his head. He was already planning on heading out after his friend when Chris had walked through the door, his mood still sad but his worry for Vin plain as day.

Worry for him. Vin shook his head as he stepped along the wall of the saloon towards the batwing doors. Since his ma died, he'd been on his own. The few times he'd reached out to another person had been disastrous. The calamity with Charlotte had actually barely affected him in comparison to the heartbreak he'd suffered when he was too young to know better. But instead of spooking him, Chris and the others' worry for him soothed him. He still guarded his heart, but he didn't have to always guard his back, and that made him treasure this dusty piss-ant town he'd stumbled into.

That was why he was worried about Chris. He had the look of a man about to move on, and Vin didn't want that to happen. If it did, he'd move on, too. Without Chris, the town was just wood and dust.

He stepped outside and dodged the Temperance women, hurrying to the side alley of the saloon. The late afternoon heat hit him and he wiped a bead of sweat off his lips, scanning the street. Besides the Temperance Society, who looked to be immune to the heat, the streets were nearly empty. He started to step out but stopped as he heard the loud strike of a hammer. He glanced down to the end of town, near Josiah's church. Two soldiers, their hats and coats discarded in the heat, were erecting a large gallows. This wasn't going to be an ordinary hanging, Vin realized. There was already space for two nooses, and the soldiers were still building. Looks like the army is having trouble keeping soldiers, Vin thought. He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. He hated this feeling that came over him whenever he saw a hanging. It was too close to fear, and he couldn't afford fear. Fear made a man do stupid things-things like sticking around a town full of soldiers waiting for an ornery cuss, who was probably off drinking his weight in whiskey, to get home safe. Now Chris was back, and he could ride out until things calmed down again. Except he couldn't shake the feeling that this was the beginning, not the end, of trouble.

He continued to watch the soldiers, lost in thought, so that he didn't hear footsteps near him until it was too late to duck back into the alley.

"Young man," a woman's voice called. Vin sighed. Temperance Society. They could drive a man to drink. "Young man, I'm talking to you."

Vin turned to her, his face hidden by his hat. "Ma'am," he said, hoping for a quick escape.

"You came from the saloon. Aren't you a peacekeeper in this town?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Are you on duty intoxicated? It's a disgrace. I'll have your job."

"No, ma'am."

"What's that?" She stepped closer. He could smell her strong cologne.

"No, ma'am, I ain't intoxicated," he said, taking a small step back.

"Ain't is not a word. And look at me when I'm talking to you."

He peered at her from under his hat and took another step back. One more step and he'd have his back against a wall. "Talk to Chris Larabee, ma'am."

"Chris Larabee," she spat. "He's the worst of the bunch. Don't you think a law man should have the decency not to show up intoxicated?"

"I ain't intoxicated. Ain't a lawman either, ma'am. If you'll excuse me." He sidestepped her and walked back down the alley.

"Come back here while I'm talking to you! I'll have your job," she yelled after him.

Vin didn't glance back. He'd take the back way to the livery, but before he could get there, two soldiers appeared at the end of the alley, cutting off his freedom. One was young and looked a little green, and the other was older and had a long scar slicing through his lips and down his chin. His uniform was too tight, but Vin could see it was from brawn, not bulk.

He again dropped his head and kept walking. All he wanted was to get away from all these people and be left in peace.

"Stop him, soldier! He's intoxicated," the woman yelled.

A burly hand grabbed his arm and Vin sighed. There was no way to get out of this easily now. Whatever happened, it was going to get ugly.

"What's your hurry, son?" The sergeant said, peering under Vin's hat. Vin could see a name on his uniform, and he spelled it out. B-a-r-r-e-t-t.

"No hurry," Vin said. It bothered him that he couldn't meet the soldier's eyes, but that lingering dread of hanging kept his gaze to the dirt.

"Don't you know you don't walk away when a lady's talking to you?" Barrett asked.

Vin kept his thoughts whether she was a lady or not to himself. "Sorry, ma'am," he said to her and tried to pull his arm out of Barrett's grasp. The soldier's grip tightened. Vin could feel meaty fingers digging into his arm. He swayed a bit as he remembered a time from long ago; a time he'd made himself forget. Strong fingers on his arm, dark blue uniform; his knees nearly buckled at the strength of the memory. But he stood up straight, and forced himself to raise his eyes, locking into the flinty ones of the soldier. The younger soldier had scurried back into the saloon, and even the Temperance lady knew enough to back away. For a moment, neither moved, as the soldier grabbed him tighter and Vin's eyes pierced the shadow of his hat brim.

"Let go," he said quietly.

Barrett smiled. "Sure," he said, releasing Vin's arm, then taking a swing that connected with Vin's stomach. Vin doubled over before rushing the soldier, catching him in the midsection and knocking him to the ground. Barrett grabbed his arms and tried to roll on top of him, but Vin head-butted him, and Barrett fell back with a grunt. Patrons spilled out of the bar, cheering the fight, until several soldiers pulled Vin up and held him fast.

Barrett stood slowly, brushing dirt from his uniform. Blood trickled from his nose, running down the scar on his chin. "That's the last mistake you'll ever make," he said, and again punched Vin in the stomach.

Vin knew it was hopeless to struggle, so he concentrated on not flinching and not making a sound. He knew from the Comanche that an enemy relished the sounds of pain. Barrett threw another punch, hitting a kidney, and Vin's vision exploded into stars, but he still didn't cry out. He stiffened as Barrett pulled back his arm to hit him again, but the sound of a gunshot stopped the punch.

"Throw that punch and you're dead."

Vin finally breathed. He'd never been so glad to hear Larabee's voice as he was at that moment.

"Let him go," Chris said. The soldiers hesitated, and Chris aimed at Barrett. He slowly pulled back the hammer. "I haven't killed a soldier since the war. Don't reckon I forgot how."

Barrett wiped the blood from his mouth, and then nodded at the two men holding Vin. When they released him, he slumped slightly but then straightened.

The crowd filed back into the saloon, disappointed. Barrett backed away slowly. "This ain't over," he said.

"I can end it now," Chris said.

Barrett grinned, his teeth red with blood, then he and the two other soldiers headed back into the saloon.

Chris holstered his gun and hurried over to Vin. "Come on, let's get you to Nathan's," he said, wrapping an arm around Vin's waist.

The sharpshooter pulled away and winced. "Don't need a doctor. Some whiskey'd be fine."

Chris shook his head. "Vin, you're hurt."

"Hell, he hit like a girl." His smile was weak.

Chris let him go. "Can you ride?" he asked.

Vin ran his hands along his ribs. "I reckon. Nothing's broken."

"Then head out to my cabin. We've got enough law here anyway, and it's a risk someone will recognize you." He reached into the pocket of his duster and pulled out a small pouch, handing it to Vin. "Nathan gave me this for when my knees start acting up. It should help your ribs too. There's plenty of food out there."

Vin stared at the pouch, then took it from Chris's hand and placed it in his own pocket. "Much obliged," he said, looking away down the alley.

"You ain't running, Vin. Hell, I'd get out of here with you if I could."

"Why can't ya?"

"I need to talk to this Barrett's commanding officer about him," Chris said, a slightly wicked grin crossing his face. "Besides, I want to look over their ponies. Buck said they may have some for sale."

"If they ain't, I know where ya might get some Indian ponies." He held out his hand, and he and Chris grasped forearms, then Vin walked away, keeping to the shadows.

"Vin," Chris called after him. "Watch your back."

Outside the church, people rushed by, hurrying to pick up supplies from Mrs. Potter's or nails from the hardware store before dinner time. Off to the side, soldiers still worked on the gallows. Some who passed avoided looking at it, pulling their children closer, while others gazed in curiosity as more wood was added, making room for even more deserters to hang.

None that passed considered entering the dusty church. Although most of the holes in the walls had been filled in, the roof no longer leaked, and the worn pews were free of splinters and dust, only a few religious souls ever ventured inside, and then only on Sunday mornings. No matter how hard Josiah Sanchez scrubbed or buffed or mended, the small church always held a certain despair that no amount of whitewash could cover. Somewhat like the town, which was why Josiah knew that this was the place God intended for him to end his days.

Small candles lit the podium of the empty church. Beyond, in a small alcove for altar boys to sit, if they ever had any, Josiah strained against the newest addition to his church, shoving the heavy piece of equipment further into the small room.

"Hold up there, Josiah, before you shove me into the wall."

Josiah stood and wiped the sweat from his eyes. "Sorry, Nathan. I think that's far enough. Climb on out."

The healer scrambled over the black iron contraption, standing beside his old friend and rubbing ink from his hands. "What do you want with this newspaper press anyway? You going to start your own paper?"

A large grin crossed the preacher's face. "Now that's not a bad idea. But I was thinking I could print church programs for Sunday, with words to the hymns on them."

"May bring more people in."

"I doubt it," Josiah said.

The two men peered at the levers of the machine.

"You know how to work a printing press?" Nathan asked.

Josiah glanced at him. "No. Do you?"

"I can fix broken bones and lance boils. I'll leave the written word up to you."

Josiah laughed and clapped his friend on the back. "Thank you for your help, brother."

"You're welcome. Just do me a favor. Next time you need something moved, ask Buck."

"That I will." Josiah watched Nathan as he left the church and then looked back at the black contraption. "I wonder if Ezra knows how to work this thing."

The sun was setting as Chris waited outside the jail, smoking a cheroot. He knew somebody from the army unit would come to see him about the afternoon's events, but he was in no hurry. He hadn't gotten along with army captains while he was in the army, and he didn't expect to get along with this one now.

He inhaled the strong tobacco and tried to relax, even though he was second-guessing his decision to let Vin ride out alone. The tracker had barely been able to get on his horse, but he'd still resisted seeing Nathan, although Chris didn't know why. Hell, he didn't know if the stubborn sharpshooter had even gone to his shack or was going to sleep on the cold ground. He shook his head. Vin was a grown man, and independent as a lone wolf. If he wanted to sleep on dirt and lick his wounds, Chris wasn't going to interfere, although he did hope Vin had the common sense to use the liniment Nathan had made.

He took another drag of the cheroot, then flicked the stub into the dirt. To outside eyes, he looked lost in thought, staring at nothing, but he'd heard the sharp spurs of what could only be a career Army officer before the man even appeared around the livery. He kept his eyes across the street, waiting for the Captain to address him.

The Captain stopped in front of Chris and rested one leg on the step. He was tall and thin, his hair bleached and his skin reddened by the sun. Chris figured his leg for an old war wound, and the man from back East. He met Chris's eyes and nodded.

"Mr. Larabee," he said in an accent that proved Chris right. "I'm Captain Abrams. I apologize for not introducing myself sooner, but I was informed you were away on an errand."

"Could say that," Chris said.

"One of my men has made serious charges against you. I need to find out what happened this afternoon."

Chris was a decent judge of character, and he pegged Abrams as fair, but tired. He couldn't imagine a career in the army, especially with the soldiers nowadays. Morale was low. There seemed nothing to fight for, and many signed on just to kill Indians. Chris didn't envy the man. He nodded at the chair beside him.

Abrams smiled and took the offered seat. He removed his cavalry hat and pushed his nearly white hair off his forehead. "Want to tell me what happened?"

"My men keep the peace in this town. Your Sergeant Barrett was drunk, and your men held one of mine while Barrett hit him."

Abrams nodded and replaced his hat. "I was afraid of that."

"Barrett's lucky he's not full of holes."

Abrams' grin told Chris he wasn't completely against the idea. "We'll be out of your hair by Sunday. Until then, I'll keep my men in line if you keep yours."

Chris looked at him. "I can keep my men out of trouble. I'm not sure you can."

Abrams looked at the ground. "I can. I just don't like doing it."

Chris pictured the pillory his captain during the war carried around for troublemakers. He understood the deserters more and more. "If you can't, I will," he said.

Abrams stood and straightened his uniform. "If your reputation is only a fraction accurate, then I'm sure you could. But it's not necessary. My men will conduct themselves in a manner befitting the United States Army." He walked down the steps and away from the jail.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Chris said.

Vin slid off his horse, groaning as his feet hit the ground. It had taken him twice as long as usual to get to Chris's place because he had to ride at a snail's pace; the slightest jostle sent pain up his spine and down his legs. He knew he should have seen Nathan, but then he'd end up in the clinic, and being boxed up in town was more than he could stand right now. At Chris's, there was nobody around for miles, the way both men liked it. He'd sleep off his aches a lot better out here where he could hear someone coming by the way the crickets sounded, than in town where his every nerve was always on alert.

He rested for a minute against his horse's saddle, trying to work up the energy to remove the heavy leather. The horse was as hungry and tired as he was, and pranced forward, jerking Vin with him. "Goddamn," he said, grinding his teeth at the sharp pain. "When I get back to town, I'm gonna cut out that Barrett's eyes with a hot knife." He unbuckled the saddle, and the horse pranced again. "And then I'm comin' after you if ya don't stand still."

Once his horse was released into the corral with enough food to keep him happy, Vin shuffled to the shack, feeling like an old man, taking small steps, one hand pressed to his back, the other wrapped around his middle. Every step produced a small groan. He really should have seen Nathan, he realized; maybe he was worse off than he figured. He stopped in front of the shack, staring at the three steps that led up to the porch. "Goddamn," he muttered again. He'd helped build those steps, but right now they looked high as mountains. Taking the steps slowly, he made it to the porch and leaned against the doorframe. Sweat ran down his face, but he wasn't about to take off his coat. Just the thought made him cringe.

He opened the door and walked into the dark room. Chris hadn't been here in a while. The small cabin smelled like saddle oil and wood, and a fine layer of dust powdered the rough wood table that Chris had made himself. Vin looked around, at the equally rough chairs, the shelves holding the bare essentials of salt and flour plus a few old books, the iron stove they had lugged out here from the Taylors' after the family had moved back East. The large double bed in the corner was the only concession to luxury. They had lugged that mattress back too. Chris found the colorful blankets in Mexico.

Vin stood still just inside the doorway. It felt odd being here without Chris. As sparse as the place was, it was still Chris's, and as often as Chris said he was welcome any time, Vin always waited for an invitation. Being here alone was like invading his privacy, and Chris treasured his privacy like most men treasure gold. It made Vin uncomfortable. He turned slightly and looked back outside. He could sleep on the ground under the trees. Then he looked back at the bed, his ribs throbbing at the slight movement. His decision was made.

Chris filled a second glass of whiskey, but didn't drink it. He still had the nagging feeling that he should be out at his cabin, that Vin was more hurt than he let on, or than he realized, although he didn't know what exactly he could do about it. He wasn't about to wipe Vin's sweaty brow or hold his hair back as he puked, not that Vin would let him even if he were inclined to. Vin was fine, he told himself again, and downed his whiskey.

The bar was quiet. Captain Abrams had held to his promise and kept his men at their camp tonight, so only a few regulars braved the Temperance Society for a drink. Most nights quiet suited him just fine, but tonight he wanted a little action to take his mind off that nagging worry.

He looked across the table to where Buck and JD fidgeted with a new fishing lure JD had bought.

"Where's Ezra?" Chris asked.

Buck shrugged.

"I saw him talking to Josiah earlier," JD said.

Chris poured himself another drink. "The one night I could really use a card game, he's not around."

"Mr. Sanchez, that's the wrong toggle."

Josiah threw down the hammer he was holding and glared at Ezra, who was sitting on a chair in the doorway, shuffling a deck of cards.

"When I asked for your help, Ezra, I did mean actually helping."

The gambler looked up, continuing to shuffle. "And I am. I'm assisting with my wealth of knowledge, which fortunately doesn't require coating my hands in ink to impart." He pulled out the ace of spades, then shuffled it back into the deck. "When can we expect your first issue?"

Josiah buried himself again in the mechanics of the press. "Issue of what?"

"Why, your newspaper, of course. For what other purpose would one obtain a newspaper press?"

"Church programs," came the muffled reply.

A gleam appeared in the gambler's eye. He stood and pocketed his cards. "Mr. Sanchez, the opportunities presented by this press are boundless. With our own newspaper, we can communicate to the world at large how truly great this quaint borough we call home really is."

Josiah looked at him. "You hate it here."

"Au contraire. This town has all the comforts of a thriving metropolis, except sanitation, education, and decent cognac. Those are all things that will surely follow when people migrate here after reading the paper."

"Town's too crowded now."

Ezra stepped closer, avoiding the ink dripping onto the floor. "Think about it, Josiah. You could print your sermons in the paper. You could reach an audience wider than the half-dozen who dutifully show up on Sunday. More importantly, your readers would be interested and willing, and your church would be filled. This press is truly God-sent, my friend."

Josiah stood and wiped his hands on a rag. "Would be nice to spread the word. Figured to do that with the programs anyway." He looked at Ezra warily. "What's in it for you?"

Ezra held up his hands. "Your suspicious nature offends me. I simply hoped to contribute articles on the occurrences around town, and given my financial expertise, to collect the advertising revenue, which is necessary to finance such an operation. Josiah, my friend, you are embarking on a glorious venture." He patted Josiah on the back and rolled up his sleeves. "Now, let me show you how to operate a printing press."

He bent to adjust the levers, and Josiah shook his head in wonder. "The Lord does work in mysterious ways."

"Goddamn!"

Vin threw the match at the stove, where it bounced harmlessly off the iron and landed on the floor. His back had tightened up, his ribs were pounding, even his head throbbed, and whenever he bent over to try to light the stove, pain from practically everywhere made him dizzy. "Fuck it," he said. His own voice sounded odd in the small cabin. Chris should be here. It's his home, and the place felt empty with just Vin there.

He reached for the jerky he had in his saddlebag, and the small pouch Chris had given him fell out. He forgot he had shoved the liniment in there before he left town. He could definitely use it now. Tearing off a bite of jerky, he leaned back against the table. He took a deep breath and tried to shrug out of the coat he still wore. Pain shot up his back, but he was finally able to slide out of the hide coat, cursing the whole time. He still had his shirt and long johns to go. Slowly raising his hands, he slipped off his suspenders and unbuttoned his faded blue shirt. He took another deep breath. That wasn't so bad. But when he slid the shirt from his shoulders, the pain nearly doubled him over. "Goddamn, Goddamn, Goddamn," he muttered as he finally got the shirt off. One layer to go. Moving as slow as he could, he unbuttoned the large buttons on his long johns, waiting until the pain receded to a dull throb before taking a deep breath and pulling the long johns down to his waist. This time the pain did double him over, and he stayed as still as he could, trying to focus on anything other than his aching ribs.

He looked across the room at the soft bed with the plump pillow, and slowly made his way to it. He sat on the mattress, sighing as he sank into the softness. In the dim light of a single kerosene lamp, he glanced over his injuries. Mottled bruises covered his stomach and chest, but it was the bruise on his arm that stopped him cold. On his arm, four circular discolorations formed the shape of a human hand. He knew if he looked on the underside of his arm, he'd find a thumbprint as well, where Barrett had grabbed him. He closed his eyes against the same flood of memories that overwhelmed him at the sight of that bruise, memories so long buried he'd convinced himself he'd finally forgotten them, but the tightness in his chest and the rush in his head reminded him that it would never go away.

He stood suddenly and then sat back down as pain shot through him, taking his mind off the past and into the aching present. Sleep would do him good. He looked around for the liniment and spotted it still on the table, next to the jerky and his gun belt. From where he sat, the table looked a mile away. His stomach growled and his gun wasn't within reaching distance, but his legs wouldn't listen when he told them to stand. Instead, he lay back against the soft pillow.

He shifted his weight so the pressure was off his back, and the bed squeaked with the movement. He smiled. Chris carved the bed himself out of a tree it took the two of them four days to cut down. It had taken Chris all winter to smooth out the wood, but when he was done, it was an amazing sight. Chris had even carved designs into the posts, but Vin had never had a chance to get a good look at the designs. Now, in the dim light, he saw the outline of trees around one round post, a forest of pine and oak, just like right outside. On the other post was a horse, in profile, looking off at an unseen diversion. Vin felt a calm come over him as he looked at the carvings. Most folks would be amazed at the gentleness buried deep in that gunslinger, Vin thought. Hell, Chris himself would be surprised that he had a poetic soul.

Vin turned slightly on his side. He still wore his pants and boots, but he couldn't bring himself to remove them. The pillow was soft, and smelled like tobacco and lye, and something else he couldn't place, and Vin snuggled into it. Then his eyes flew open. The pillow smelled like Chris. He turned onto his back, not liking the direction of his thoughts. Chris had been married, and that made him dangerous. Vin had learned that lesson well enough from Conrad. He sat up suddenly and lay back down, relishing the pain that chased away his wayward memories. No way in hell he was going to dredge up old ghosts, and no way in hell would he think about Chris as anything other than the best friend he'd ever had. He'd denied himself enough, and he'd keep on doing it.

As the pain eased again, he drifted to sleep, and in his dreams he saw pine trees and running horses, and he soaked in the essence of tobacco and lye while sitting in a chair carved by Chris and watching the sun highlight his best friend's golden hair as he carved another design for the bed post. And when he woke up, he had a raging hard-on. "Goddamn," he swore, unbuttoning his pants.

The Temperance Society was already at the saloon at sunup, so even those stopping by only for breakfast received a lecture on the evils of whiskey.

In the granary next to the saloon, Buck and JD huddled beneath a window with several other men.

"What are we doing here?" JD said, trying to get comfortable while crouching.

"Keep quiet," Buck replied. "You want them to hear us?"

"They can't hear us way up here," JD said.

"They can hear us anywhere." Buck peered over the windowsill and smiled. "Here comes our saving grace."

JD tried to look too, but Buck pushed him back. JD sat back down with a huff.

On the street below, Ezra adjusted the cuffs of his linen shirt before heading to the saloon, but instead of avoiding the platoon of woman barring the door, he walked straight toward them and bowed slightly. "Good morning, ladies," he said with a smile, trying not to squint in the bright morning sun. If Buck hadn't agreed to take his patrols for a month in trade for distracting these women, he'd still be in blissful slumber in his featherbed. But sometimes one must shovel manure to get to the diamond beneath, he thought.

"You're that gambling man," the gray-haired woman before him said. "Are you here to repent?"

"Indeed I am," Ezra replied. "Ezra P. Standish. The P is for Penitent. And whom may I thank for shining the light of redemption on my tortured soul?"

"Agnes Monroe," she said, looking momentarily confused before regaining her composure. "You aren't trying to swindle me, are you?"

Ezra glanced over his shoulder where he could see his comrades climbing from the window of the granary to an upper window of the saloon. Buck stopped long enough to grin down at him before disappearing inside.

"My dear lady, of course not. I have been looking for a way out of this sordid lifestyle for a long, long time, and your presence has provided that path to salvation. Perhaps we could retire to the church to discuss it further?"

Agnes sniffed. "That church is for heathens and the preacher drinks as much as everybody else. My parlor will do just fine." She took Ezra's offered arm and stepped away from the saloon.

"Won't your sisters-in-arms be joining us?"

"Martha, Louise, Amanda, come along," Agnes called. The small group left the saloon, and as soon as they disappeared around the corner, men crowded through the batwing doors.

The army camp was just waking as Chris arrived. A hush fell over the men as he rode past. Apparently news of his altercation with Barrett had spread quickly. A small smile lifted his lips at the angry looks he was receiving. Ezra had once said that if he had a dollar for every man who wanted Chris Larabee dead, he could buy his own saloon. It looked like Ezra would be able to buy a whole row of saloons after today.

Chris stopped his gelding in front of the Captain's tent. Abrams stepped out, in shirtsleeves and still wiping shaving cream from his face. "Larabee," he said. "Trouble?"

Chris climbed off his horse. "Not unless you call me riding in here unchallenged trouble."

Abrams glanced at some of the men who had gathered around, and they hurried away.

"I heard you had some ponies you were looking to sell," Chris said. "Came to look them over."

Abrams nodded. "I'll go with you. Give me a minute." He disappeared back into his tent, and Chris caught the smell of frying bacon from inside. He could still feel the eyes of the men boring into him, and he smiled again.

When Abrams stepped back out, he was in uniform, neat and pressed this time. Chris reckoned Abrams probably started each morning with good intentions, but, like his uniform, they went awry with the realities of the day. He knew the feeling.

They walked away from the Captain's tent.

"So, you been in town long?" Abrams asked.

"I suppose," Chris answered.

"It's a nice town. Can see why a man would get used to it."

"I suppose."

Abrams glanced at the taller man walking beside him. "Not one for conversation, are you?"

"Nope."

Abrams shrugged and they walked in silence to the end of camp, where a large corral had been set up. Inside, a herd of horses ran in circles, nipping each other and kicking up dirt.

"Your men ride these?" Chris asked.

"Try to. That's why we're selling them. Too wild. We'll get some better ones at Fort Laramie." The Captain leaned against the fence, resting his leg. "They're not bad horses, just not army horses."

Chris looked at them more closely. Abrams was right. Most were small, barely 15 hands, built for speed, not heavy work. They wouldn't suit his ranch either. He stepped away.

"Where will you sell them?" he asked.

"A local rancher named James said he's interested."

Chris looked up sharply. "You're better off dealing with the devil."

Abrams stood up straight. "James is bad news?"

"Yep."

"Then we'll take them to Laramie, trade them there."

Chris nodded. "These horses won't work for me either. Don't know what James wants with them."

Abrams held out his hand and Chris shook it. "Sorry I couldn't help you out," Abrams said.

"Thanks for your time." Chris started walking back to his horse.

Abrams called after him. "You going to be at the hanging later?"

His worry for Vin returned in full force. He nodded grimly and kept walking.

"Good day, ladies. We shall meet again soon," Ezra called to the group sipping lemonade on the porch. "It has been a pleasure." As he turned away, he nearly ran into Josiah. "Mr. Sanchez, how fortuitous. I was just singing your praises to the Temperance Society. Perhaps you should..."

"Give it back, Ezra," Josiah said.

"Give what back?"

"Mrs. Monroe's bracelet. You slipped it off her arm when you kissed her hand."

Ezra took a step back. "I am appalled at that accusation. I would never stoop to pick pocketing to...unhand me sir!"

Josiah held on to Ezra's arm while he searched his pockets, pulling out a gold and pearl bracelet from his waistcoat.

"She dropped it earlier and I simply forgot to..."

"Give it back, Ezra."

"Actually, I was intending to. I thought it might prove an ample distraction when she returns to blocking the saloon."

Josiah crossed his arms and waited.

Ezra turned back to the ladies. "My dear Mrs. Monroe, look what I found lying in the street. I do believe it's your heirloom."

Mrs. Monroe gasped and checked her wrist.

Ezra grabbed Josiah's arm as he started to walk away. "And here's our local preacher, who I'm sure will be as interested as I was about your views on morality." Josiah glared at him, but Ezra only smiled.

The main street through town was crowded, yet strangely quiet. People had gathered around the gallows, built to hold four. A few feet away, a group of young men from the local ranches jostled for the best view. Behind them, the crowd thinned; families bunched in small groups, not wanting to watch but unable to look away. Old men rocked in the shade of the porch, and a young mother had spread a bright yellow blanket over the dirt so she could feed her children. There was no breeze to dry the sweat that ran down foreheads and necks, and no sound except the occasional cough or cry of a child. Even the saloon, usually busy with the breakfast crowd, was silent and empty. The bartender stood near the front, craning his long neck to see the gallows, bigger than most of the townspeople had ever seen.

Ezra had seen one like it before, and the bile that rose in the back of his throat reminded him that he hoped to never see it again. However, he schooled his features to ambivalence and walked to the jail, where JD hung onto a rail trying to see over the crowd and Buck leaned back in a wooden chair.

"Will they drop all at once?" JD asked.

"I told you already, yes," Buck answered.

"But how does it work?"

Ezra stepped to the doorway of the jail. His red coat was suddenly very hot and he peeled it off. "It's a mastery of human ingenuity," he said, looking away from the gallows. He hadn't thought about leaving this town in over a year, but that massive gallows had him thinking.

"Chris is back!" JD said, pointing out the lone figure riding back into town. Ezra wondered how he didn't burst into flame dressed in head-to-toe black. It's so hellfire hot today, he thought. Just like last time.

Chris tied up his horse in front of the jail and nodded at the others. "Any trouble?" he asked.

"Nope. Everybody's behaving real nice," Buck said.

"Are you going to watch?" JD asked, jumping off the steps.

Chris glanced at him. "I can see from here."

"Buck?"

"No thanks, kid. Ain't interested."

"Ezra?"

Ezra still stared back down the street, empty away from the gallows. Hot as the devil's prick, he thought, a face from his past appearing before him to say those words. He jumped as his name was called again. "Beg your pardon?" he asked.

"I said are you going to watch the hanging?" JD repeated.

Ezra straightened his vest. "No, I think I'll stay here in the sanctity of the shade."

JD shrugged and ran toward the gallows.

Buck shook his head. "This ought to kill his curiosity," he said.

Chris looked at Ezra. "You all right, Ezra?"

Ezra glanced at him. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You tell me." Chris wasn't in the mood to struggle through Ezra's guises. He had hurried out of the army camp as fast as he could, no longer amused by the soldiers' hostility. He'd headed back to town, wanting this damn hanging over with and the soldiers gone.

A dust cloud started to form at the edge of town, and the Army marched up through the street in rows. Four shackled men walked to the side. The soldiers passed the jail and continued to the gallows, where the crowd parted to let them through.

"If we'd marched all slouched like that, our captain would have skinned us alive," Buck said.

"He skinned us for having dust on our boots after marching all day," Chris said.

"He was a bastard, but he kept us alive," Buck said. Chris didn't reply.

Around the gallows, the soldiers lowered their guns and, wilting under the hot sun, watched their former comrades led up the stairs to the gallows. Two of the four condemned looked at the ground, their shoulders slumped in defeat; one looked up at the sky, his lips moving in prayer. But one stood tall, his eyes forward and blazing. His shackled hands were clenched in front of him, and he raised his chin when the hangman shoved him to his place. All the worry for Vin that Chris had been denying came flooding back, and he was about to get on his horse and ride fast as he could out to his shack when Abrams spoke behind him.

"Finest soldier I ever had," the Captain said.

Chris followed his gaze to the proud man, still standing tall while his feet were roped together.

"What did he do?"

"Deserted during a campaign against the Sioux."

"Why?"

Abrams looked tired. "I have no idea." He lifted his head and kept walking to the gallows.

Chris stepped into the street. All the men were bound, both hands and feet, and their heads covered. The hangman, a hooded soldier, waited for the Captain's order. Chris watched the proud soldier, sorry he was going to die this way. A brave man should be allowed to go out fighting, not strung up like a mangy dog, as Vin had said.

Abrams raised his hand and dropped it suddenly. The hangman leaned on the lever, and the men dropped, the ropes stretched tight. The crowd gasped; some turned away, some looked on in fascination; a few smiled. Three of the men had their necks broken immediately, but the proud soldier wasn't one of them. He tensed as the rope choked him, then began to involuntarily spasm as his body fought for air, a wet stain spreading across his pants as he twisted against the rope. Chris couldn't breathe either, watching the man flop around struggling for air. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat, and he clenched his fists. Seconds ticked by, turning to minutes, and the man gradually stilled, his body slowly spinning at the end of the rope. Chris let out his breath suddenly, his heart still pounding. Abrams turned back to him, but Chris walked away, gathering his horse and galloping off without a word.

When Chris reined in front of his shack, he saw Vin sitting in a chair, shirtless, his legs spread in front of him. The tracker opened his eyes slowly and smiled.

"You all right?" Chris asked, climbing off his horse.

"Never better."

Chris nodded and unsaddled his horse, letting it into the corral. When he came back to the house, Vin was in the exact same position.

"You sure you're all right?"

"I'm sure."

Chris stepped onto the porch, removing his hat. "Is there coffee?" he asked.

"Nope."

Chris paused, looking at Vin more closely. Dark purple bruises covered his torso, and a few welts had risen as well. More bruises circled his arm. His long johns and suspenders hung around his hips. "Vin, can you move?"

Vin had closed his eyes. "Sure can. Just took me a while to get here, so I think I'll stay a while." He smiled into the morning sun.

Chris smiled too, shaking his head. His worry disappeared, and he walked into the shack.

Vin listened to the sounds from inside. It took his mind off the throbbing in his ribs. He heard Chris light the stove and take down a pan, and soon he smelled sausage and coffee. His stomach growled in response.

A short while later, Chris stepped back out, holding two plates full of eggs and sausage and two cups of coffee. He handed Vin a plate and watched as Vin held it gingerly, and just as gingerly lifted a bite of sausage to his mouth. After the first bite, he ignored the pain and began wolfing down the food, shoveling in eggs and sausage together.

Chris raised an eyebrow. "How long since you ate?"

Vin looked up at him, his mouth full of the last of the eggs. "Ate last night."

"What did you have?"

Vin swallowed but didn't answer.

"Because there's a half-eaten piece of jerky on the table, along with your clothes and gun," Chris said.

Vin looked down sheepishly. "Weren't hungry."

"Sure you weren't." Chris handed him his plate, still full.

"I had enough," Vin protested.

"I'll make more."

Vin hesitated, but then dug into the eggs. Chris smiled as Vin finished his second plate faster than the first. He took both empty plates and set them on the railing, sipping his coffee as he looked over the expanse of green grass and trees surrounding his house.

"How was the hangin'?" Vin asked.

Chris looked back at him, his eyes cloudy.

"It's over," he said, taking the plates inside.

Vin looked after him, tried to stand, but fell back, his arms wrapped around his middle. "Goddamn," he whispered.

The saloon was crowded but somber. Everyone had plates full of potatoes and bacon in front of them, but most picked at their food, still remembering the site of four swaying bodies. Ezra didn't even pretend to eat. A game of solitaire was spread in front of him.

"You actually losing there, Ezra?" Buck asked.

"Momentary setback," Ezra replied.

"Why don't you just cheat?"

Ezra looked at him. "Why would I cheat myself?"

They both looked as the batwing doors swung open and JD entered. He walked to the table and sat down heavily, calling for whiskey.

"You okay, JD? You look a little green," Buck said.

"I ain't never seen nothing like that, and I hope I don't ever see it again." He gulped down the whiskey.

"You've never seen a hanging before?" Ezra asked.

"Not like that. All of them, and that one, twisting and struggling. Shooting him would be kinder."

"They don't usually hang that many at once," Buck said. "I guess the Captain wanted it over with quickly."

"It's supposed to be a deterrent, to keep the rest of the soldiers from attempting the same. I fear that out here on the frontier, stronger deterrents are required," Ezra said.

JD took another gulp of whiskey. "I just hope I never see nothing like it again."

"Then keep pulling Vin's wanted posters out of the stack they send you," Buck said.

JD turned even paler. "Oh God, they won't do that to Vin. I'll shoot him myself first."

Vin had nearly drifted off to sleep when Chris came back out of the cabin. He'd removed his coat and gun belt and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his black shirt. Vin noticed he looked more relaxed than when he'd first arrived, and he understood why; this cabin was like a sanctuary for both of them, where they didn't have to be on guard all the time.

Chris carried the small pouch from Nathan. "Did you use this?" he asked.

"No."

"Why?"

"Hurts to move," Vin answered.

Chris grinned. "You're more trouble than a new-born colt," he said, kneeling in front of Vin. "Sit up."

"Why?" Vin asked.

Chris opened the pouch and scooped out some of the thick paste. "This'll help."

"I can do it," Vin said, sitting up slowly. He stifled a groan as he held his hand out for the pouch.

"You sure?"

"Nope," Vin said, letting his hand drop.

Vin sat as straight as he was able, and Chris spread the liniment over the darkest of his bruises, on his right side.

Vin winced as Chris's fingers pressed on his tender flesh. "Ouch, Godamnit," he said.

"Gotta rub it in," Chris replied, smearing the paste over the bruises, across Vin's sore ribs and down his side.

Vin's skin began to feel warm wherever Chris's fingers touched, and the pain began to ebb. He looked down at Chris's hand running across his stomach, the fingers strong yet gentle in their kneading. He also felt heat in another part of his body and closed his eyes, willing his traitorous flesh to wilt, but he couldn't concentrate as the warm hand eased the soothing balm down his left side and along the waist of his pants.

"It hurts that bad?" Chris asked. "Your ribs don't feel broken, but maybe I should go get Nathan."

"Feels better," Vin answered, eyes still closed. He'd never noticed the smoky timbre of Chris's voice before now. Jesus, if Chris didn't stop touching him he was going to come in his pants.

Then he felt Chris's hand on his arm. His eyes opened as Chris started to rub the liniment on to the bruises there. He yanked his arm away, all pleasant thoughts chased away by bitter memories. "It don't hurt there," he said.

Chris glanced at the paste still on his fingers. "Anything else need easing, so this doesn't go to waste?"

Vin grinned, remembering his earlier predicament. "Lookin' ta finish what ya started?"

Chris looked at him questioningly then stood, wiping the liniment back inside the pouch. "I think you may be a bit touched in the head, Tanner."

"I think you're right."

Chris went back inside and came back with Vin's shirt.

"I can dress myself," Vin said.

Chris tossed the shirt at him and went back inside, emerging a few seconds later with hammer and nails. He watched Vin struggle into his shirt.

"Vin?"

"Yeah?"

"You normally wear your long johns outside your clothes like that?"

"Shit!" Vin looked down at the pink material bunched around his waist. "I ain't goin' nowhere fancy anyway." He leaned back in the chair.

"I'm gonna work on that soft spot on the roof," Chris said.

"Need help?"

"From you?" Vin glared at him. "You want to help, do the dishes," Chris said.

"I'll supervise," Vin said, closing his eyes. Chris laughed and walked around back for the ladder.

Eyes closed, Vin listened to Chris on the roof, pulling up rotted wood and hammering in new. Last rain storm, he'd discovered several places were leaking and needed replacing. An hour passed as Chris worked, and as the sun got higher, the day got hotter.

Vin slowly stood and walked to a nearby tree, where he could see his friend working on the roof. He sat down against the tree to supervise. Chris removed his shirt and wiped his forehead with it, then stood and walked to another rotted place on the roof. Vin wondered at the easy grace of the man, like a cat, walking surely across the slanted roof. Chris crouched and began prying up the wood, his black jeans tight against his ass. When Vin realized where he was looking, he stood suddenly, the movement jostling his injured ribs, and walked stiffly back to the house. Maybe washing dishes wasn't such a bad idea after all.

Ezra patted Agnes on the arm as he led her into the church. It was already half-full. The sun shone through the windows, but the inside was covered in a dull buttery glow. Josiah had scheduled a special service following the hanging, and Buck said he'd care for Ezra's horse for a month if he talked the Temperance Society into attending. Surprisingly, they'd been anxious to go. Ezra wondered what Josiah had said to the women to win them over.

Inside, Agnes fanned herself with the still-wet church program, not even glancing at it, but Ezra looked it over, grimacing as the ink smudged his fingers. He skimmed the list of hymns until his eyes stopped on the topic for the sermon: "Temperance: God's Will be Done." He glared up at the empty dais, thinking seriously about breaking the sixth commandment.

Vin winced as he dried the breakfast plates. The liniment had helped a lot when he was sitting still, but movement still aggravated the bruises. He set the clean dishes to the side and sat down in one of the rough wooden chairs, taking a deep breath and allowing himself to rest. He stretched out in the position that he found hurt the least: slouched in the chair, legs spread before him, eyes closed.

He dozed, listening to Chris on the roof. He allowed his mind to wander back to that morning, when Chris had rubbed in the liniment. Even though Chris hadn't a clue, his ministrations were the nicest touch Vin had in a long time. Since... he frowned. Every time he started thinking about Chris, it always led to Conrad. Probably a good thing, he realized. Thinking about Chris that way would possibly get him shot, or worse, lose him the best friend he ever had.

He went back to listening to the hammering on the roof, but there was silence. He opened his eyes and caught himself before he fell out of the chair. Chris stood in the doorway, his arms above his head resting on the doorframe. Sweat glistened on his chest and arms, and his blonde hair fell forward into his face. Vin had never seen anything so beautiful, and his heart pounded so hard he knew Chris had to hear it.

Chris smiled. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. I came back for the hacksaw." He stepped into the room. Vin couldn't speak. He felt the heat from Chris's body as he passed, could smell sweat and fresh air from his being outdoors. The sudden longing that overcame him reminded Vin how really long it had been, and he nearly cried out at the intensity of need that shot through him. He tried to pull himself together before Chris noticed his agitated state, but jumped when he felt Chris's hand on his shoulder. The sudden movement caused him to double over in pain.

Chris helped him back into the chair. "Jesus, Vin, are you all right?"

Vin nodded, trying to catch his breath. The pain, both in his ribs and his heart, was overwhelming. He looked up at his best friend with wide eyes.

Chris checked over him, worried. "Just sit here. I'll get Nathan," he said.

"No, I'm okay. Just give me a minute to catch my breath." He paused between gulps of air. "Then I need to go. I need to get out of here."

Chris stepped back. "Why?"

"Just got to. Be better off that way."

"Vin, you're hurt. Riding is going to..."

"I'm goin'!" Vin insisted.

Chris backed away. "Okay, whatever you say." He couldn't for the life of him figure out what had just happened; when Vin had first seen him, he'd looked like he'd seen a ghost. But he wasn't going to stand in the way when Vin Tanner made up his mind. He knew the sharpshooter better than to try to stop him from going his own way. He picked up the hacksaw and started back to the door. "Take what supplies you need. And if it's not too much trouble, point me in the direction of those Indian ponies you were telling me about." Then he stepped back outside.

Vin collapsed back in the chair. "Goddamn!" He wished he'd never told Chris about the Indian ponies. He couldn't let Chris go alone. Dealing with Two Bears was delicate business, and required an introduction. If Chris went alone, which he would whether Vin gave him directions or not, he was liable to come back wearing an arrow. Vin settled back into the chair, forcing his breathing to slow. This is what fear gets you, he thought. Fear and remembering. He'd take Chris to see the ponies, then he'd leave. Where he was going, he had no idea.

Ezra escorted Agnes back home, then rushed away with a tip of his hat. The church was empty, so he headed to the saloon, now free of protest thanks to him. He pushed open the doors and saw Josiah sitting at a table sipping beer and watching Buck and JD play poker.

He stormed over and pulled the church program from his pocket. "What is the meaning of this...this drivel?" he asked.

Josiah looked up at him. "Come again?"

"And when the victory shall be complete -- when there shall be neither a slave nor a drunkard on the earth -- how proud the title of that Land, which may truly claim to be the birth-place and the cradle of both those revolutions, that shall have ended in that victory," quoted Ezra.

"It worked for Lincoln," Josiah said.

"You stole your entire sermon from Lincoln, and I don't think I need to remind you what happened to him," Ezra said. "Given your current choice of beverage, one might accuse you of being hypocritical."

"Given why you were there in the first place, so are you."

Buck pulled over a chair. "Take a seat, Ezra. You look like you're about to bust a gut."

Ezra sat. "I was doing a favor for a friend."

"Favors don't cost a month of patrols," Josiah said.

"That's incidental. You didn't believe a word of what you said on that pulpit today. What possible reason would you have to incite these women to more puritanical fervor?"

Josiah thought it over. "Town could use a little moderation, and if you'd listened to the speech, it's about tolerance, not Puritanism."

"You knew full well how those woman would interpret it," Ezra said, standing and turning to Buck. "My days distracting the Temperance Society are over. When you are again climbing through windows for your daily libation, thank Mr. Sanchez." He walked to a far table, joining a card game.

"What did you say to get him so riled up, Josiah?" Buck asked.

"Essentially, drinking is a sickness, but gambling's a sin."

Buck laughed. "That it is."

Vin smiled as the aroma of cooking meat washed over him. He was still stretched in front of the table, eyes closed, the pain in his ribs that had been growing stronger all day waning against the smell of food. "You're a right good cook, Chris," he said. "You'll make somebody a fine wife someday."

He felt something hit his forehead and land on his chest. He opened his eyes and picked up the biscuit Chris had thrown at him, taking a bite. "Butter?" he asked with his mouth full.

Chris picked up the tub of butter, seriously considering throwing it at him too, but then slid it across the table. He put the cooked roast on the table as well, and a bowl of beans. He poured them each a shot of whiskey and sat down.

Vin sat up slowly, pulling his chair closer and reaching for a plate. "Where'd you learn to cook so good anyway?" he asked.

Chris paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. "Sarah," he said quickly, then finished his bite.

Vin looked down at his plate. "Sorry," he said.

"Don't be. Her cooking was 100 times better than mine."

"Yeah?"

Chris nodded. "She could make more than roast and beans too. She made spicy pork chops, marinated chicken, and devil's food cake so good it'd make a man swear off sin. One time, she made something she called hasenpfeffer."

"Hoss in what?"

"Hasenpfeffer. That's what she said. Rabbit, basically, with some vegetables."

"Hell, pard, I make that all the time," Vin said.

"Yeah, but she served it with candles on the table, and sent Adam to a neighbor's for the night. Of course, I ended up wearing it instead of eating it."

"Why?" Vin asked, serving himself more roast.

"Because I forgot it was our anniversary," Chris said sheepishly.

"You dog."

"I was busy. We had three pregnant mares, and the porch needed fixing, and winter was coming."

"You're lucky she only threw food at ya."

Chris poured them more whiskey. "Oh, that was just the beginning. Let's just say I was sleeping in the barn for awhile."

Vin laughed. "Bet you didn't forget again."

Chris finished his whiskey. "Didn't get a chance to. They died that May." He stared into the small flame burning in the stove.

"You miss them," Vin said.

"Yeah, I do." He stood suddenly. "Speaking of sleeping in the barn, I'll put a bedroll outside. Take the bed."

Vin also stood. "I'm not takin' yer bed. I got my bedroll too."

Chris picked up the plates from the table. "That's stupid. You're hurt. I'm not. Take the bed."

"I'm not takin' yer bed."

Chris set the plates down and leaned his hands on the table, staring at his friend. Vin crossed his arms in front of him and stared back.

"Did you sleep in the bed last night while I wasn't here?" Chris asked softly.

Vin was instantly wary of the soft tone. "Yeah."

Chris nodded and stepped to the small shelf where his hat and gun were. He began strapping on his gun belt.

"What are you doin'?" Vin asked.

"Going back to town, so you'll sleep in the bed."

"The hell you are. I'll go back to town."

Chris finished buckling his belt, then looked up. "Okay, if you can saddle your horse, then I'll take the bed. If not, then you take it."

Vin stood still. Even crossing his arms had caused pain up his spine and down his legs. But he wasn't about to admit that, so he started for the door.

Chris's hand on his arm stopped him. "You're hurt, Vin. It's just me here, and you ain't got to pretend it don't hurt for me. Take the bed."

Chris's quiet voice broke through. He didn't want to sleep on the ground, and he didn't want to go back to town. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to trust, like a small shaft of light piercing a dungeon wall. He nodded. Chris relaxed behind him and pulled his hand away to remove his gun belt.

"If you feel guilty, wash the dishes," Chris said. "Did a good job with the breakfast plates. You'll make somebody a fine wife someday too."

Unable to throw anything at him, Vin lifted his middle finger.

Chris leaned against the porch, lighting a cheroot. He watched the red tip flare in the darkness as he brought the small cigar to his lips and inhaled. The pungent smoke hit his lungs and he held it there for a few seconds before exhaling into the shadows. Behind him, the door to the cabin was open, and he could hear Vin's light snoring, indicating a deep sleep the tracker rarely allowed himself.

Chris was glad Vin had finally trusted him at least enough to watch his back, but he was puzzled over Vin's reaction earlier, almost like he was running away. When Chris was applying the liniment, he had thought for a second that Vin was enjoying it, like a stray dog getting a scratch behind the ears. Then when Chris came back after working on the roof, he looked ready to bolt. He'd seen that look on Vin before, a day earlier when Barrett had been hitting him. It bothered Chris that Vin had seemed to be just taking the punches instead of fighting back, and he'd wanted to ask why. Vin wasn't a coward, far from it. In fact, many times his own self-preservation took a backseat and he stood up for someone else in need. It was one of the things Chris admired about Vin, but he worried that it would get the wanted man killed. So he couldn't figure out why Vin didn't fight the soldier.

Then he'd looked at Chris like that. Vin never was fond of the Army, but it had never made him apprehensive before, and he'd seen Chris lots of times, but that had never made him jumpy either. What was the difference? With the soldier, he'd walked in at the end of the altercation so he didn't know if the soldier had said anything to Vin, but this afternoon, Chris had been on the roof all morning, so he couldn't have said anything to piss Vin off. Besides, Vin wasn't able to keep it to himself when he was pissed, so it was something else.

Chris continued smoking the cheroot while he puzzled it out. He'd climbed off the roof, hot and tired. Inside the shack, he'd seen Vin in the chair and thought he was asleep, so he rested on the doorframe before sneaking in to get the saw. That's what Vin saw when he opened his eyes...him in the doorway, sweaty and shirtless, and Vin had jumped like he'd been bitten.

Chris inhaled from the cheroot, and then a slow smile crossed his face. Maybe Vin did enjoy it when Chris was rubbing in the liniment, more than he should. That might make Vin jumpy, although the army connection still eluded him. He tossed the cheroot and looked back at the empty doorway. Vin Tanner, what secrets are you hiding, he wondered.

He climbed the steps to the porch, his bare feet not making a sound as he crossed the cool wood. He stopped in the doorway. Faint light from the stars shone across Vin's face, calm in sleep, although his gun belt rested inches from his head. Looking at his friend sleeping, Chris felt a sudden longing, an emptiness he'd felt once before, when Ella Gaines had showed up. This emptiness was different than the dark hole left when his soul died along with his family. That was rage and despair. This emptiness was gentle, requiring closeness and touch. He'd thought Ella could give him that, but he'd been more wrong than he'd ever been in his life. All the time when that bitch had been leading him around by the nose, the real answer had been right beside him, watching his back and waiting for him to come to his senses.

Now that he realized what he wanted, Chris didn't know what to do about it without spooking Vin even more. "Jesus, Vin," he whispered to his sleeping friend. "What the hell do we do now?"

Josiah woke to an unfamiliar sound. A mechanical clank was followed by rhythmic whooshes, and another clank. He opened his eyes, trying to place the sound, thinking for an instant he was back working on the railroad before realization hit. The printing press.

He stumbled from his bed, wrapping the blanket around his naked form, and headed for the alcove where the press was. It was barely dawn, and a few candles were lit in the small room. Inside, Josiah saw Ezra, his sleeves rolled up and a smudge of ink on his nose, working the press.

"Ezra, what in God's name are you doing?"

"Good morning, Mr. Sanchez. You're just in time to see the first edition of the Standish Tribune." He handed Josiah a long printed sheet of paper.

Josiah grabbed the paper and looked at the headline: "Local barkeep saves choking man." Further down, there was a story about several local ranch hands helping Widow Hawkins repair her fence, and a smaller story on new plows that used iron instead of wood.

"You've been busy, Ezra."

"Proficiency in language has always been my forte."

"No doubt," Josiah said. He scanned the articles again. "So what's your angle?"

Ezra paused long enough to look shocked. "I am merely reporting the news, sir. The fourth estate has been underrepresented in our little berg, and I am remedying that."

"Uh-huh." Josiah turned the page over. On the back were three ads - for Digger Dan's saloon, Three Rivers ranch, and Ed's Plows and Wagons. But it was the editorial at the top that caused Josiah to crumple up the page. "Jesus drank wine" by Ezra Standish.

Ezra enlisted JD's help and distributed newspapers to all the town's citizens. By the time the sun was fully up, he was already back in his room, catching up on sleep he'd forfeited the night before, small wads of cotton in his ears so he couldn't hear the chants of the Temperance Society, more vocal and inspired than ever outside the saloon. Josiah and Nathan took one look at the wall of women blocking the batwing doors, and decided to eat at the hotel.

JD stepped out of the jail and saw Buck enter the granary. Knowing he was going to climb to the saloon through the upstairs window, he quickly followed the ladies man. When he reached the third floor, there were already several men waiting their turn to make the short jump across.

"Morning, Buck."

"JD. Remind me never to cross Ezra."

JD smiled. "He does know how to get folks riled up."

"Too bad he doesn't do it for something good," Buck said.

"Like what? Preaching?"

Buck laughed. "Don't give him any ideas. He'd put Josiah out of business."

It was Buck's turn to climb through the window. "See you inside," he said.

JD watched as Buck climbed out onto the windowsill and jumped across to the slanted roof of the saloon, then into an open window. JD climbed out after him, took a deep breath, and started to jump. Just as his foot left the window, a cry sounded below him, and he looked down to see Agnes Monroe pointing at him in surprise. The look on her face would have amused him, except he realized that instead of landing on the roof, the ground was rushing up to meet him. He braced as the dirt came closer and closer. Then everything went dark.

After a restless sleep, Chris made a decision. He rose at dawn, stretching the aches from his back and knees, and quietly entered the shack, stirring the fire and putting on coffee.

Vin awoke as the aroma of coffee reached him. He didn't want to open his eyes. He couldn't remember the last time, if ever, he'd slept that well. He started to stretch, but gasped in pain as his ribs still throbbed. "Goddamn," he said, struggling to sit. He pushed his hair out of his eyes.

Chris poured him a cup of coffee and brought it to him, then sat on the edge of the bed. He was holding the small pouch with the liniment, twisting the string around his fingers. "Did this help?" he asked.

Vin took a sip of coffee. 'Yeah, it helped a lot." He held out his hand but Chris didn't give him the pouch.

"I'll do it," Chris said.

It was on the tip of his tongue to argue, but something about Chris's demeanor stopped him. He set his coffee aside and sat back against the headboard. Chris pulled away the blankets covering the long john bottoms he still wore.

Chris scooped out some of the paste and gently spread it against the bruises. "Looks better," he said.

"I thought you said you had to rub it in," Vin said.

Chris pressed against a bruise and Vin winced. "Like that?" Chris asked with a grin.

"Bastard," Vin said. Chris rubbed the balm into his skin in small circles, easing the pressure over the particularly tender spots.

"You know, when we first met, Sarah was afraid of me."

Vin sat up straighter at Chris's sudden admission. "Why?"

"She thought I was dangerous. She wouldn't even give me the time of day. Most folks looked away from me or crossed the street to get away from such a cold-blooded killer like me, but she looked me right in the eye. Never could figure out how she did that: look me right in the eye and ignore me at the same time." He shook his head. "I had to show her she could trust me, and that I'd never hurt her."

"What did you do?" Vin asked.

Chris thought it over. "Nothing. She'd have seen through it anyway. I got a job breaking horses, went to church. I sat through a lot of sermons just to be near her. Finally, she stopped ignoring me." He took a small amount of paste from the pouch. "Ain't felt like that in a long time, caring what somebody thought. Until now." Before Vin could respond, Chris smeared the liniment onto the bruises on his arm, left by Barrett's hand. Vin instinctively tensed.

"You want to tell me about it?" Chris asked.

Vin shook his head.

"Then tell me something else," Chris said. Vin looked into his eyes, green flecked with gold. "What's it like being with a man?"

Vin pushed away from him in shock, falling off the bed with a groan. "What the hell kind of question is that?"

"I ain't never thought about it until last night." Chris stayed on the bed, bracing for Vin's reaction.

"What makes you think I know?" Vin asked.

Chris shrugged. "Way you looked at me earlier."

Vin leaned against the table, trying to think clearly. He wasn't quite sure this wasn't a dream. He pressed against his side and pain shot up his chest. Nope, he was awake.

Chris stood, slowly, but didn't move closer. "Vin, look at me," he said softly. Blue eyes met his and he could see he was on shaky ground. "If I said you could, what would you do?"

Vin shook his head. "You have no idea what yer talkin' about."

"Then show me."

"Can't. It ain't right."

Chris smiled. "Since when do you care about what's right?" He took a few steps closer, encouraged when Vin didn't back away. "I ain't after a quick fuck, Vin. Had enough of those. Is that what's worrying you?"

Vin turned his head, looking out the small window. All those old feelings, the fear, shame and anger, were coming back, and he couldn't stop them. Chris was his friend and wouldn't hurt him, but he'd thought that about Conrad too. He wasn't going through it again. He'd kill someone before getting that hurt again, and he didn't want it to be Chris. "No," he said, his voice stronger than he expected.

"No what?" Chris asked.

Vin couldn't look at him, into those honest green eyes searching him for an answer. He couldn't reconcile the trust he had in Chris Larabee with the bitterness gnawing at his gut.

"Just no," he said. He walked around Chris to where his clothes were, and ignoring the pain, began to get dressed. "You want to look at them Indian ponies, we've got to leave now."

Chris knew when to back off. "You okay to ride?" he asked.

Instead of answering, Vin grabbed his gun belt and stormed out of the cabin to saddle his horse.

Two hours later, Vin was regretting his decision. He hurt so much, he was regretting even being born. He and Chris hadn't spoken the whole ride to Two Bears' land, and Vin was thankful for that. Whatever Chris was thinking, he could deal with it later. They'd look over the horses, and then all he wanted to do was to curl up in a ball and not move.

Both men knew the instant they were spotted by Two Bears' scouts. Vin raised his hands, palms up to the sun, using the signal that was years old. He brought his arms down slowly and then spurred his horse to a slow walk.

"They recognize you?" Chris asked.

"We ain't dead yet. That's a good sign."

A winding trail through a ravine led them to a small camp, where five braves waited, unsmiling and holding rifles.

"Get off yer horse real slow, and whatever ya do, don't put yer hands near yer gun," Vin said.

They climbed down and waited. One of the braves stepped forward and took their weapons, then said in broken English, "Why you here?"

"Name's Tanner. We're interested in lookin' over yer ponies," Vin said. "Two Bears owes me a mount."

Chris kept his eyes on the Indians before him. The one who spoke English looked Vin over and then spoke to another in a language Chris didn't understand. The young brave ran off down another path. They waited in silence. The sheer cliffs surrounding them blocked the sun, and shadows lengthened as they waited.

Eventually a booming voice echoed around the small camp. "Vin Tanner, you have returned. I had thought you'd be swinging from a tree by now."

Vin smiled at the large man emerging down the trail. "Two Bears, it's good to see you. You look good, almost like Three Bears."

The Indian laughed and patted his protruding stomach. "My wife's food agrees with me, unlike that slop the Army served us. Who is your friend?"

"Chris Larabee."

Two Bears' eyes narrowed at the name, but Vin held up a hand. "Don't believe what you've heard. Chris here is tame as a kitten." Chris glared at him as Two Bears laughed.

"Take no offense, Mr. Larabee. He said the same about me. Come, look at my ponies." He handed them back their guns, then led them down another path, nearly hidden in the rocks.

"You were in the Army?" Chris asked.

"Not exactly," Vin answered, but refused to say more.

The path opened to a wide prairie, sheltered from harsh weather by the cliffs and teaming with grass and plants. Under a tree, a small band of horses grazed, not even looking up at their observers.

"They're pretty tame," Vin said.

"Yes, this is good land," Two Bears said.

Chris eyed the horses. They were strong and healthy, he could tell that even from a distance, but like the Army ponies, they were small and built for speed.

"These are nice stock, but do you have any work horses?" Chris asked.

Two Bears shook his head. "No, not anymore. One of my sons sold them to a rancher."

Chris and Vin glanced at each other, both thinking about Stuart James.

"Sorry to waste your time," Chris said. "I'm looking for something a little bigger."

"No trouble. It gave me a chance to see Ears Like a Bat again."

Vin had started to walk back to the trail, but stopped mid-stride.

"Ears Like a Bat?" Chris asked, trying not to smile.

"Not a word, Larabee. I'll shoot ya where ya stand."

"Sure, Vin."

Vin started back down the path, the tips of the ears that had earned him that name tinged pink.

Walking back more slowly, Chris glanced at Two Bears. "You've known Vin a long time?" he asked.

Two Bears stopped to look at the gunslinger, sizing him up, then nodded. "We were scouts for the Army during the war. Just kids, really."

Chris didn't say anything, still trying to puzzle out Vin's reaction to Barrett. "Was he injured?"

"More than you can imagine," Two Bears answered, then grabbed Chris's arm. "I don't suppose he told about the time he wrestled an alligator, did he?"

Vin leaned against his horse, waiting for Chris and Two Bears. The whole trip had been a waste, as his ribs kept reminding him. He wished he'd never gotten out of bed that morning. He'd slept well, with no bad dreams. Hell, he hadn't woken up once after his head hit the pillow, when usually he woke up every hour or so listening for intruders. Then Chris had to go and offer him the one thing he'd wanted and thought he could never have, and he'd shoved him away. Chris wasn't Conrad; he wouldn't use him and hate him for what he was, all the while claiming to love him. Maybe, he thought, maybe he could try again.

Two Bears and Chris were laughing as they came down the trail.

"Ah, Ears Like a Bat. I was just telling your friend about the day we scared off the whole Mexican Army."

Chris's amused eyes met Vin's, and his grin disappeared at the anger he saw there. Vin didn't say a word; he just climbed on his horse and rode away.

Chris looked after him, knowing that Vin was thinking Chris was spying on him.

"Take care of him," Two Bears said. "He is like an injured wolf who will bite you when you tend to his wounds."

Chris nodded and held out his hand, and Two Bears shook it. Then Chris climbed on his horse and followed Vin.

He caught up with the sharpshooter a mile out of the hills, still riding like hell but obviously in pain. Damn fool wasn't going to stop if it killed him, so Chris just raced alongside him, gently nudging Vin's stubborn horse toward Clear Creek. When Vin sped up, so did Chris, and when he slowed, Chris did too. He heard a muttered "bastard" as Vin finally reined in, guiding his horse to the creek. Vin climbed off to let the horse drink, and Chris did too.

"Didn't mean to pry," Chris said, leaning against a tree. The blue-eyed glare he received in response told him how much Vin believed that. He looked down at his hands. "Two Bears said you were the bravest white man he'd ever met." Vin looked away at the horses. "He also said you rode headlong into a Reb ambush, knowing full well it was there. Took a bullet in the thigh." Still Vin didn't speak, and Chris didn't push. He could be patient, because he knew it was worth having. He'd been the same way with Sarah.

"What do you want from me?" Vin asked quietly; there was a despair in his voice Chris had never heard before, and he wondered what hurts were putting it there.

"Teach me," he answered.

Vin laughed without humor. "That's all? Here, I'll show ya what it's like between two men." Before Chris could blink, Vin was in front of him, undoing his pants. Vin's warm hand on his cock caused it to spring to life before he could stop it, and Vin knelt before him and took the organ into his mouth, sucking and licking with ferocity.

Chris came to senses and rested his hand on Vin's head. "Vin, stop. Not like this."

Vin backed away. "No? How about like this?" He undid his own pants and pushed them over his hips, resting on his hands and knees. "Go on, take what ya want."

Chris stood still, filled with an overwhelming sadness. He took a few steps to where Vin was and knelt beside him, placing his hand gently on Vin's back. The tracker flinched at the touch.

"Who did this to you?" Chris asked softly, running his callused fingers lightly over the pale skin of Vin's back. "Who hurt you?"

Vin bowed his head, his anger gone. Chris's gentle touch and words took the fury out of him, but he couldn't quite let down his defenses, so long entrenched. He wanted to; his loneliness was as great as he knew Chris's was, and his heart told him to trust Chris, but his heart had also been stomped on, and those wounds refused to heal.

"Let me be, Chris. Please. I ain't never asked ya for anythin', but I'm askin' ya now. Please, let me be."

Chris pulled his hand away, and Vin sat back, his head still bowed.

"I'm here, Vin, when you're ready."

Vin couldn't look at him. "Just go," he said. He remained sitting there, shivering in the heat, as Chris, not wanting to push Vin anymore, climbed back on his horse and rode away. He kept sitting there until finally, numb, he forced himself to stand and start the long ride back to town.

The Army was still camped outside town, to the delight of the saloon owners, but the street was quiet in the afternoon lull when the heat hung over the town like a blanket and minds started to wander toward suppertime.

Up in his clinic, Nathan checked the bandage on JD's head. The bleeding had stopped, thankfully, but the young man was still sleeping from the small dose of laudanum Nathan had to give him when he'd set the broken leg. The break wasn't bad, but JD would be off his feet for a few weeks. Although he'd lectured the sheriff mercilessly about being such a fool, he'd also given thanks that it wasn't as bad as it could be. Three stories and all JD got was a cut on his head and a busted leg. God surely did smile on fools.

Nathan heard steps approach, and he walked to the door. Josiah stood outside, holding a stack of newsprint. "How is he?" the preacher asked.

"He'll live," Nathan answered.

"Good," Josiah said. "Here, take one of these papers. Your article is on the front page." He smiled and hurried down the stairs.

Nathan glanced at the paper. "The Importance of Sterilization," by Nathan Jackson was in the bottom right corner. When Josiah had approached him about writing for the Daily Prophet, he'd been skeptical, but the preacher had convinced him that he could do a lot of good by sharing his medical knowledge, so he'd relented. Truth be told it felt good seeing his name in print.

He started to step back into the clinic when he heard someone else coming up the steps. He nodded at Buck, who was also clutching a paper.

"Did you read my article?" Nathan asked.

"No. Did you read mine?" Buck held up the paper. Under the banner Standish Tribune was a small article called "An Ode to the Fairer Sex," by Buck Wilmington.

Nathan shook his head. "It was bad enough when we had one paper. Now we got two."

"I thought I'd show the kid. There's a big story on his fall. Is he awake yet?"

Nathan looked in, where JD was starting to stir. "Just. Probably not in the mood to talk."

"Hell, I don't need him to talk. Just to listen," Buck said with a grin, and stepped inside the clinic. Nathan followed.

Chris rode back into town alone, not wanting to talk to anyone. He felt like ten types of jackass for what he'd just done. Vin wasn't Sarah, and somehow Chris had gotten it into his head that he could have again what he'd lost. On top of that, he'd scared off his best friend, who was probably going to end up hanging without someone to watch his back.

After handing over his horse, he headed for the saloon, his look daring anyone to speak to him.

Inside the saloon was nearly empty, and he knew something was wrong as soon as he walked in. In a far right corner, Ezra and Buck sat hunched over some papers, while on the left near the wall, Josiah and Nathan looked over a variety of herbs while Josiah took notes. Chris wasn't in the mood to put up with whatever was going on; Jesus, he'd only been gone a day, but still he had to ask.

He stood in the middle of the room, between the two tables. "Where's JD?" he asked loudly. Four heads popped up to look at him.

"He's...he just...well, he was..." Buck started to say.

"He fell off the roof," Nathan finished. "Because some damn fools got it into their heads..."

Chris held up his hand. "Will he be okay?"

Nathan nodded. "Busted leg."

Chris walked to the bar and ordered a beer. Buck got up and stood beside him, spreading a paper on the bar.

"What's that?" Chris asked.

"My article."

Chris glanced at it. "We got another paper?"

"Yep. Ezra started it, and so did Josiah."

"Ezra and Josiah are running the paper?" Chris asked.

"Not exactly. Ezra got his, and Josiah's got one too."

Chris took a long sip of beer. He knew he should have gone back to his cabin instead of coming to town. "So we've got two papers now."

"Yep," Buck answered. "You gonna read it? You could even write an article."

Chris turned back to the bar, signaling for another beer.

"Or not," Buck said.

"We got a problem. Stuart James is up to something," Chris said. "He tried to buy the extra Army ponies, and he bought a bunch of Indian ponies last week."

"Why?"

"Don't know, but I got a feeling he's up to no good, so we should find out."

"I'll check it out tomorrow."

"Send Ezra and Josiah," Chris said.

"But they aren't barely speaking to each other," Buck replied.

Chris smiled at him.

"Remind me to stay on your good side," Buck said, walking back to his table.