"Ezra! C’mon, open the damned door! Ezra, I need t’tell you somethin’ real important. EZRA!"

Nathan had rapped loudly on the gambler’s bedroom door several times, but failed to get a response. The silence from within, along with the firmly locked door, sent an ominous message to the worried healer and he suddenly wondered whether he was too late. Without further hesitation, he stepped back and launched a powerful kick at the solid door. It sprang open with a creaking bang and, as the peacekeeper rushed into the room, his heart leapt in horror at the sight that confronted him.

Ezra Standish sat in an upholstered armchair beside the window, seemingly unaware of the somewhat turbulent arrival of the healer. The normally immaculately dressed man still wore the same shirt and pants that he’d worn on the day they’d all travelled back from the Cummings’ ranch and his feet were completely bare. Dark stubble covered the gambler’s chin and, from the greasy lankness of his tangled hair, it was evident that he’d not bathed recently either. The sling supporting his wounded arm had been removed, and the younger man’s eyes were glassy and red-rimmed from lack of sleep, but Nathan paid little attention to his friend’s unkempt state. All he saw was the revolver that Ezra held to his right temple.

"Oh, shit! No!"

The whispered oath tumbled from Nathan’s lips, his alarm increasing as the gambler’s forefinger trembled against the primed trigger. Ezra said nothing, his vacant gaze fixed on something only he could see, but the unflinching look of resolve on his face made the healer shiver in apprehension.

"Ezra. Why don’t you jes’ put the gun down, huh?" Nathan said in a quietly persuasive tone, hoping he sounded more convincing than he felt.

Carefully sidling across the room and hardly daring to breathe for fear of startling the Southerner into making a rash move, Nathan tried again. "Ezra. That ain’t the answer. Yer shuttin’ us all out, but ya’ve gotta let somebody in eventually. We can help you get through this if ya’ll allow us. Its jes’ gonna be a day by day process, Ezra."

The gambler gave a shuddering sigh, but the gun remained in place against his head. "You’re assuming that I wish to get through this, Mister Jackson," he murmured in response, although he didn’t look at the transfixed healer.

"Fiona wouldn’t want this. She’d want you t’carry on an’… an’ exist… no…to live and uphold what she stood fer. You both shared a special love, an’ it was cruelly ripped away from ya before you had a chance to begin, but she’d be aggrieved and angry if you gave up on life. Yer belittling all that she represented. It jes’ ain’t the way fer this to end, Ezra."

"But end it shall," Ezra replied in a dull, toneless voice. "The days are too long now, and there must be a dark malevolence surrounding me, because everything I touch seems to go wrong. I put Fiona at risk by insisting we ride out that morning and, in effect, I pulled that trigger myself. It has always been my burden. People I care for leave… get hurt… die… but I can no longer live with that responsibility, my friend."

"How could ya have known what ‘ud happen? You were an innocent victim ‘n’ all," Nathan stated, his voice soft, but firm.

The younger man remained silent, but the healer could tell that his friend was considering all that he was being told. Sensing he had the opening he’d been looking for, the former slave doggedly pressed on. "It wasn’t yer fault she was killed, Ezra, an’ you ain’t got no call blamin’ yerself."

"That’s what I came t’tell you," Nathan added quickly, taking a hesitant step towards the other man. "The Kehoe boy told us who carried out the attack – he was able t’give us the names o’ the killers. We know fer a fact they’re working with this Joseph, so we reckon they must all be heading fer the Tanner homestead. It’s definitely connected to Chris and Vin’s disappearance, but we think those bastards made a mistake by shooting the wrong… "

The healer paused, recognising a renewed look of fear in the other’s green eyes. Ezra had shrouded himself in his own grief, blocking out everything else that had occurred on that day of murder and destruction, and paying little attention to what was happening around him. Nathan and Josiah had told him what they had learned about Will Tanner, Samuel Joseph and the hidden gold, but the gambler had been too deeply immersed in his own troubles, and he’d made no mention of Chris and Vin. Clearly the Southerner had listened to his colleagues, but his personal grief had completely engulfed him, and he’d evidently not thought about the fate of the two missing peacekeepers. Until now, that is.

"Yeah, it seems Chris was the real target, but they found another way of takin’ him down. Josiah’s jes’ gone to wire Buck and tell him t’try an’ bring those guilty back alive. I guess you want ‘em to stand trial, don’t ya? ‘Cause I know that Robert an’ John want justice t’be served. You all have a constitutional right to that."

As he talked, Nathan had been looking for a way to wrest the gun from his overwrought friend. On seeing a fleeting spark of interest in the gambler’s green eyes – the first since the tragedy occurred - the healer slowly extended his hand. "Please let me have the gun, Ez," he pleaded in a soft, but firm voice. "I understand why you think ya have nuthin’ left, an’ I feel yer grief an’ pain; but blowin’ yer head off ain’t gonna change what’s happened. Yer important to us, you mean somethin’ t’me an’ the fellas an’ this town still has need of ya - perhaps now more than ever. I ain’t sayin’ it’ll be easy, but you have t’find the strength an’ courage to go on. Ya have t’do this fer everything you both held dear."

The gun quivered slightly and, although the muzzle remained firmly pressed to his skin, Ezra leaned back in the chair, his eyes closing as he contemplated his position. The almost mind-numbing grief and sorrow still gripped him but, through the relentless flood of despair, he suddenly recalled his final conversation with Fiona. He’d made a vow to his beloved as she lay dying in his arms, and now he realised why she had forced him into giving her his promise to continue with their plans. She had obviously known how he would react to her death and, if he went back on his word, then he betrayed her honour and besmirched her memory.

But there was more. It was as if Fiona’s love had suddenly reached out from the grave, its encompassing potency strengthening his crushed spirit and empowering his broken soul with a new vigour. Strangely enough, that illuminating thought gave him some comfort where previously he’d had none. For the first time in many days, Ezra felt a renewed purpose, a clear edict for what he must do and, as this realisation came upon him, another formidable emotion started to gain prominence. Anger.

During the first few days of shock and bereavement, he’d given no thought to retribution. Now hearing that his friends had identified and were on the trail of the murderers, the desire for vengeance had suddenly been kindled - and it was a flame that was steadily growing.

Nathan’s eyes widened, as he saw the gambler’s trigger finger move, but then he gave a silent sigh of relief as the other man carefully lowered the weapon.

"Where precisely are Buck and JD, Nathan?"

Ezra’s quiet enquiry was extraordinarily calm and the healer couldn’t believe how normal his friend’s voice sounded, considering what had just transpired. Hastily scooping up the discarded gun and tucking it safely into his belt, Nathan crossed to the small writing bureau in the corner. With a slightly shaky hand, the former slave poured two glasses of whiskey from the decanter sitting on the top of the desk, before answering the other man’s question.

"I ain’t sure. Josiah’s down at the Telegraph Office right now, so we may know more later on. We’re meeting downstairs fer a meal and t’talk through what we know."

"Thank you," the gambler murmured, as he took the offered liquor. "Am I correct in assuming that you will be leaving town to make contact with our esteemed colleagues?"

"I… don’t… think that’s… what we had in mind, Ezra."

"I see. Waal, regardless of yours and Mister Sanchez’ plans, I intend to join our friends in their search. I shall need to consult the maps held by Miz Travis, but once I know Mister Wilmington’s current location, plus his proposed route into Texas, I will ride to Ridge City tomorrow and take a train to the area. With any luck, I should be able to rendezvous with our colleagues by the end of the week."

Nathan swirled the remainder of his drink in the glass as he deliberated over the other man’s single-minded, but not unexpected declaration. "If yer set on goin’, then I’ll ride wit’ you," he said at length.

"Nathan!"

Josiah suddenly came through the door, his urgent call immediately getting the attention of both men.

The healer stared fearfully at the paper in the ex-preacher’s hand and, anticipating bad news, he threw the neat whiskey down his throat in one quick motion.

"It’s encouraging news from Buck," Josiah hastily supplied, seeing the fear and uncertainty in the healer’s dark eyes. "They’re in a town called Cottarville, which he says is just over a week’s ride from Grendon… although they ain’t seen hide or hair of Tanner. But, they’ve found a bandanna of Vin’s, plus tracks from where five, mebbe six horses were bedded overnight. Buck seems to think that they’re not too far behind Joseph and his men."

Nathan took the paper from his older friend and, after scanning the lengthy message, he then passed the sheet to Ezra.

"Yo’ sent him word ‘bout the other two?" the healer asked the big peacekeeper distractedly, as he studied the thoughtfully silent gambler.

Josiah nodded in reply, his grey eyes resting alternatively on each of the younger men. There was a slight tension between his two friends that had him baffled, but he said nothing as he watched the pre-occupied gambler carefully fold the note, and then tuck it into his shirt pocket.

"It would appear that Grendon is our ultimate destination," Ezra murmured thoughtfully, unaware of the oldest peacekeeper’s scrutiny.

A large mirror hung on the wall by the bed and, looking at his dishevelled appearance, Ezra’s nose wrinkled in distaste. "Gentlemen, I’m in urgent need of the facilities at the bath house, so if you’ll excuse me, I will attend to my personal requirements, and then meet you in the saloon later." As he spoke, the gambler had crossed to the door and he now held this open for the other men.

Before the two peacekeepers had a chance to move, an out-of-breath youth suddenly appeared in the doorway. "Mister Sanchez! The lady downstairs said I could find ya here. This telegram came earlier, but pa forgot t’give it to ya," the youngster explained, thrusting his hand out and offering the crumpled sheet of paper to the ex-preacher.

Josiah pulled a nickel from his pocket and handed it to the waiting lad. "Thank you, son. I may need to send a reply. Is your pa still at the office?"

"No, sir. The lines went down right after you sent yer other message. Pa’s pinned a note to the door tellin’ folks to give any urgent wires to the driver on tomorrow’s stage. This’ happened afore, an’ he always sends ‘em from the next town on his route."

As the lanky youngster disappeared, Josiah wandered over to the lamp on the bureau and began reading the message.

"May that lying bastard burn in Eternal Hell!" the ex-preacher suddenly roared, as he scrunched the note in his hand and shook his fist in the air. "No! Satan’s fiery domain is too damned good for that perfidious sonofabitch! I’ll kill him!"

Nathan and Ezra were taken aback by Josiah’s sudden and furious outburst and could only look on in stunned disbelief as their friend savagely kicked the heavy armchair, sending it crashing into the corner of the room. A small side table followed the chair, one of its slender legs snapping as it was flung forcefully against the wall. The ex-preacher’s face was twisted in anger but, having previously seen demonstrations of the other’s erratically violent behaviour when either drunk or infuriated, Nathan wisely let the older man’s temper run its course.

Ezra flinched as the tray holding the whiskey decanter and glasses was swept from the top of the writing bureau by the enraged peacekeeper. Another animal-like snarl fell from Josiah’s lips, and the gambler hastily ducked as a heavy, leather bound book flew over his head to bounce harmlessly off the solid oak closet.

Fearing his older friend might lash out at them next, Nathan pulled Ezra into the corner of the room, as the ex-preacher kicked in frustration at the heavy rug beside the bed. As the bundled up carpet disappeared under the iron bedstead, the healer tried to break through the other man’s apoplectic fit.

"Josiah! What’s wrong?" Nathan demanded to know. "Is that another wire from Buck? Talk to us, J’siah! For God’s sake, what’s happened, man? JOSIAH!"

-7-7-7-7-7-7-7-

Vin sucked in a shaky breath, his head drooping in anguished misery and defeat as he tried to blot out the horrific sight of Chris’ motionless body. Following his frantic struggles to get free, blood spots had appeared on the tracker’s shirt where the tightly fastened rope had lacerated his chest and arms, but any physical pain was secondary to his mental suffering and the raw ache in his heart.

It didn’t matter what the older Texan did to him now. Vin was sinking deeper into a quagmire of grief and desolation and, accepting that he was responsible for what had happened to Chris, he welcomed death. There was no point in evading the truth. He was condemned to die knowing that his closest friend, his chosen brother of heart, soul and mind, had paid the ultimate penalty for something connected to the Tanner family’s unlawful and inglorious past.

Joseph had disappeared for a short while, leaving the blood spattered gunslinger dangling from the tree, but he’d now returned and, plucking the heated knife from the campfire, he strolled over and crouched down beside the long-haired peacekeeper.

"Are you ready t’talk yet, Vin? Or do I give you a taste o’ what yer friend had? If ya think Larabee suffered….waal, his pain’ll be nuthin’ compared to what I can do t’you. Have you ever seen a man’s flesh burn?"

Vin wasn’t afraid, but he couldn’t prevent the reflexive recoil as the knife’s blade materialised in front of him, and for one drawn out minute he thought the man would place the hot metal on his face. He could feel the heat emanating from the glowing object and, his eyes followed the weapon hypnotically as Joseph dropped it down level with the tracker’s torso.

A thin wisp of black smoke drifted up Vin’s nose and he tried to press his back closer into the rough tree trunk, squeezing his eyes shut and bracing himself as he waited for the inevitable pain to register. Astonishingly, it never came.

The outlaw laughed, patting at his prisoner’s smouldering shirt and brushing off the material that had been burned to ash by the knife. "I don’t want t’hurt you, Vin. I jes’ need t’know what yer grandpa did wit’ the gold. Hell, I ain’t even gonna be pissed if he spent some of m’money!"

A low, barely audible moan, plus a slight movement from Chris caught Vin’s attention and, letting out a small gasp, he squinted through the gloom at his friend. Relief surged through the tracker and hope, in that instant of thankful euphoria, was suddenly reborn. The outlaw had deliberately misled him - Chris was alive!

Joseph correctly interpreted the emotions that flashed across the tracker’s face, as the younger man stared at the awakening peacekeeper. "Yeah, lover-boy ain’t dead… not yet anyhow. Larabee’s life rests in yer hands, Vin. But I ain’t without some compassion. As a sign of good faith, an’ t’show you that I can play fair, I’ll let ya tend to that Yankee boy’s hurts. Then mebbe later you might be inclined to share some happy memories of Grendon wit’ me. We’s got a lot t’talk about, you and I."

As he spoke, Joseph ambled over to the gunslinger, and then slashed through the ropes binding the man to the tree.

Chris groaned as he fell to the ground, the inferno in his injured back being rekindled with the sudden jarring movement. It took him several seconds to control his ragged breathing, but finally the gunslinger was able to move a little, carefully shifting onto his side and forcing away the blazing pain as he desperately scanned the area in search of the tracker. Soaring elation rejuvenated Chris when he saw that Vin appeared to be unharmed; although his friend was still firmly tied and lashed to the tree. Craning his neck around, the black-dressed man watched in angry, brooding silence as Joseph rummaged distractedly through his saddlebags.

Vin had also kept the outlaw under close surveillance and his senses were working overtime as he looked for a way to get himself and Chris free. Clearly Joseph was reluctant to inflict too much physical pain on his fellow countryman; it was obvious to Vin that the man wanted precise geographical information out of him, so he needed his younger captive in one piece and able to ride. However, the ongoing danger for Chris meant that Vin needed to act swiftly, before his friend was sexually abused or hurt too badly to even consider making an escape. Giving the gunslinger an imperceptible nod as the other blinked several times, the younger peacekeeper casually raised his knees and carefully repositioned his bound feet into a more practical stance. It was now or never.

Vin’s blue eyes held Chris’ alert hazel gaze for a fleeting second and, almost in a melding of two minds, an unspoken message leapt between them. That mutual look of understanding had been the catalyst at their initial meeting and, from that momentous day the pair had saved Nathan Jackson from a lynch mob, they’d had no practical need for words when danger was imminent.

Joseph had paid little attention to his two silent prisoners as he pulled the handcuffs from his satchel. Moving back to Vin’s side, he squatted down on his haunches next to the tracker, and then sliced through the ropes around the younger man’s arms and torso.

This was the opportunity that Vin had been waiting for. As the bonds fell away, the tracker sprang at the outlaw, knocking the startled man off balance completely. The knife bounced across the grass, but the peacekeeper wasn’t ready to make a grab for the weapon. Interlocking his fingers together, he made a firm ball of his bound hands and whipped them across the other’s face, throwing his entire body weight into the blow as he propelled the older man towards the waiting Chris Larabee.

The manacles around the gunslinger’s ankles clinked as he wriggled and rolled closer to the melee and, as Joseph sprawled headlong in the dirt, Chris viciously kicked out at the man’s unprotected face. The outlaw had lost his hat in the fall and, as the peacekeeper’s boots connected squarely with the other’s forehead, Joseph let out a pain-filled howl. Blood poured from the outlaw’s head but Chris didn’t stop his offensive; his legs smashed once again into the older Texan, giving the man no chance to climb to his feet or defend himself.

Vin had hastily crawled over to where the knife lay, trusting his friend implicitly to handle any resistance from Joseph, and within seconds his ankles and hands were free. Scrambling to his feet, the tracker rushed over to help his friend.

Adrenaline and anger had coursed through Chris, lending him strength as he launched his surprise attack and, for the moment at least, he had no need of any assistance. As Vin materialised beside him, the gunslinger allowed himself the satisfaction of a mirthless smile, as he aimed yet another mighty kick at Joseph’s skull. The force of his final successful blow instantly rendered the older man unconscious, but it also catapulted the gunslinger backwards. As he fell to the earth, dirt and stones ground into his raw and bloodied back, and Chris gasped in agony, rolling onto his side as the white-hot pain brought tears to his eyes and took his breath away.

Vin bit his lip in sympathy for Chris’ suffering and, as he saw his friend’s face contort in pain, it took a mammoth effort to stop himself from slitting Joseph’s throat there and then. But vengeance would have to wait. Realising that their noisy scuffle could have alerted the other two outlaws hunting beyond the camp’s boundary, the tracker knew that he couldn’t even spare the time to see to his friend’s injuries. A rapid and unhindered escape was his main priority now. Snatching the revolver from Joseph’s holster and pushing it through his pant’s belt, Vin dispassionately searched the man’s pockets for the key to the manacles. With a quiet, but exultant whoop, the younger man hurried over to the stricken gunslinger with the key.

"Easy, cowboy," Vin soothed, as he dropped to his knees beside his wounded friend. Within seconds the older man was free from the chains and ropes and, after giving Chris’ shoulder a brief squeeze of encouragement, the Texan darted over to where the horses were picketed.

Joseph’s horse was still loose saddled – a puzzling fact that Vin fleetingly considered, and then quickly dismissed as he tightened the girth – and it didn’t take the tracker long to ready Chris’ black. With a final hasty check to make sure the gunslinger’s bedroll and saddlebag were securely strapped to the saddle, he turned his attention to the other mounts. Slashing through the tether reins, Vin set loose and chased off the three horses before grabbing two of the refilled canteens of water.

The red and blacks spots had ceased dancing before Chris’ eyes and, he’d managed to straighten and refasten his shirt. Carefully turning onto his stomach, he pushed himself onto all fours, his breath whistling in and out shakily as his trembling arms supported his pain-wracked body. Wiping his sweaty face on his shirtsleeve, the gunslinger finally got his breathing under control, and he glanced around the camp area. His eyes immediately fell on the inert form of the stocky outlaw, and a murderous rage filled him as he glared malevolently at his unconscious tormentor.

"G… gun, Vin! H… he’s mine!"

As the fair-haired peacekeeper growled out his furious command, Vin quickly led Joseph’s roan, plus Chris’ gelding across the clearing. The unmistakeable sound of footsteps hurrying through the undergrowth spurred Vin on and, shaking his head urgently, he rushed to his friend’s side and started to haul the older man upright.

"No time fer that. We gotta ride!"

-7-7-7-7-7-7-7-

Nathan’s loudly persistent calls finally filtered through Josiah’s destructive wrath. Breathing heavily, the older man’s face clouded in shocked disbelief as his dismayed gaze fell on the shattered glass on the floor and the damaged, overturned furniture.

"Damn! I’m truly sorry, Ezra," the ex-preacher mumbled in a chagrined tone.

Visibly pulling himself together, the big peacekeeper dragged his shirtsleeve over his sweaty face. "I received this information from a Father Tomas," Josiah began by way of explanation. "He’s the elderly priest at Grendon’s church, who I’ve been in contact with regarding the Tanner family. As God is my witness, I never expected this! You’d both better read it, and you’ll see why the Devil took control of me just then."

The dark-skinned peacekeeper took the screwed up telegram that the older man held out and, with Ezra standing at his shoulder, the pair read the note in silence.

"Shit! No wonder he ran out on us. He’s played us all fer fools!"

"That he has, Brother Nathan," Josiah agreed sombrely. "And I’ll wager he’s not particularly interested in finding Vin and Chris on the trail either; he knows exactly where Joseph’s heading. The odds are that he’s making directly for his father’s homestead."

"Those odds are unfavourably one-sided and that is not a bet that I would take from you, Mister Sanchez," Ezra drawled succinctly. "However, I would estimate that the threat to Chris has just doubled, whilst the personal ramifications for Vin are virtually incalculable."

"Yep – and we thought Chris was only at risk from Joseph! This is Old Testament justice. ’An eye for an eye’," the ex-preacher quoted bitingly, running his fingers through his short grey hair. "Dear Lord! Vin will be ripped apart by this information, and the emotional backlash may affect us all; more so if Tanner’s secret has already been revealed by that bastard Joseph. We need to go after our friends. The mood Buck was in when he left, there’s no saying what he’ll do if he does finally catch up with that traitorous liar Tanner."

"That’s gotta be the understatement of the year, preacher! Ezra an’ me were gonna leave at sunrise anyhow, sooo.… it looks like yer ridin’ with us now, huh?"

It wasn’t really a question; Nathan could see from the grim determination in his older friend’s eyes that the man had already decided on his best course of action.

"I am," Josiah replied in agreement. "We all played a part in some of this, so Tanner’s treachery and need for restitution concerns us as well. I’ll go and see Judge Travis and tell him everything we know. We need to eat, and then make arrangements for the journey."

"Ah… erm… Mister Jackson and I have already spoken about this. I believe that our most expedient mode of travel would be by railroad. We can purchase mounts at the other end, and I have the necessary funds to cover all of our costs," Ezra stated.

"Thanks, Ezra. I was wonderin’ how we’d manage fer dollars an’ horses," the healer murmured gratefully.

Nathan wasn’t sure at what point the gambler had started to be more generous with his money or had become less self-centred but, from the former slave’s viewpoint, he welcomed the astonishing transformation. Of course, in the time the men had been together in Four Corners, all seven peacekeepers had altered in many small ways, the most significant change being their collective sense of loyalty and brotherhood. But that steadfast association with Ezra was something the healer would never have believed he could share with a man who had been born and raised in the Southern, slave-owning States.

Josiah gave a thoughtful nod. "That’s a very magnanimous offer, Brother Ezra, and one we appreciate. In the meantime, I’ll draft a note to the sheriff in Eagle Bend, and get the driver of the morning’s stage to deliver it on our behalf. Hopefully, Sheriff Taylor will be able to spare a deputy to come and keep an eye on things in town while we’re away. I’ll speak to Mary before we leave. I’m sure she won’t have any objections to acting as a message intermediary, once the telegraph is up again. Then we should get some rest. We all look like we need a decent night’s sleep before we go – we have a lot of miles to cover tomorrow."

"I cain’t argue with that, Josiah. Ezra, I’d like ya t’come up to m’clinic after you’ve bathed an’ eaten, so I can check and redress yer shoulder."

Nathan was relieved when the gambler gave a nod of assent to his suggestion. The younger man seemed to have found a hidden reserve of fortitude and, although still mourning his loss, the thought of participating in the hunt for the killers had enabled him to push his grief aside. It was the first light of hope that the healer had seen in his friend for many days, and he prayed that the other man was emerging from the sorrowful cocoon he’d wrapped around himself.

The healer was at once sanguine about his friend’s renewed purpose, as the gambler seemed finally to be on the cusp of a healing period. It was a new beginning, and the lengthy process of coming to terms with his loss would be helped once Ezra had acquired restitution from those guilty of perpetrating the heinous crime. Nathan gave an inward sigh as his thoughts wandered back to the awful days following the deaths of Fiona and the four ranch hands.

The grisly job of readying the bodies for the mass burial on Robert Cummings’ land had fallen to Andrew MacIntyre and the healer. As the pair had taken on the sad task of laying out the woman’s corpse, the medical men had made a startling and worrying discovery. Fiona had been with child.

The experienced Scottish physician had estimated that the murdered woman had been at least six weeks into her term, although he’d had doubts whether Fiona had actually been aware of her condition. Knowing this shocking information would upset the grieving family and the bereft gambler even further, the two medical colleagues had made a professional decision. They would become custodians of this sorrowful truth, and Fiona Cummings had taken her heart-breaking secret to the grave.

Nathan had vowed that he would never breathe a word of this to another soul, not even Josiah Sanchez, who had on many occasions been the healer’s trusty confidante. If Ezra Standish ever found out that he’d not only lost his wife to be, but also the unborn child of their love, then the dark-skinned peacekeeper was certain his friend would not hesitate in taking his own life.

As Jackson gazed compassionately at his suddenly invigorated friend, he made a silent, solemn pledge to himself and Ezra. He would have to find a way of covertly seeking justice for that unborn life, and somehow redress the balance. It was the only thing he could do for the grieving Southerner. Now reasonably secure in the knowledge that Ezra was no longer a danger to himself, Nathan followed after Josiah, allowing the resolute gambler to get organised as the healer went to make his own preparations for the long trip.

-7-7-7-7-7-7-7-

"No time fer that. We gotta ride!"

As Vin spoke, he cupped his hands together and boosted the older man into the black’s saddle, praying that Chris’ riding instincts would take over and he would be able to stay on his feisty horse. Leaping astride the roan, the tracker kicked the gelding forward, relieved that the gunslinger appeared to be coping with the agony that the necessary movement must be causing his flayed back.

A bullet sang noisily as it winged past Vin’s ear and he instinctively hunched lower in the saddle, leaning closer into his mount’s neck.

"Make fer those hills, Chris," the tracker urged his friend, as he glanced worriedly at the man riding beside him.

Joseph’s Spencer carbine hadn’t been clipped to the roan’s saddle, and in their haste to escape, the long-haired peacekeeper had had no time to look for it. Letting out an exasperated grunt, Vin pulled the revolver from his belt and fired a single round in reply at the men behind them, although he knew the shot would be ineffectual over the ever-increasing distance.

Chris winced as he felt something smash against his leg, but the brief pain was quickly forgotten as he urged his horse onward. Gritting his teeth as he jounced in his saddle, the gunslinger ignored the sticky wetness that could only be blood trickling down the back of his shirt and seeping into his pant’s waistband. Their fast pace was causing his torn skin to throb and burn relentlessly and his arms hurt, the numbing pain from supporting his weight having stretched his shoulder muscles to the limit of their tolerance. But these agonising pangs had been pushed away for the moment, as the pair fled from their captors.

Another blast rang out, the deeper bellow of a Winchester this time, and it was quickly followed by a third, fourth and fifth volley from the rifle. The pair of peacekeepers had managed to get well clear of the campsite area and were now cantering into the open countryside, hoping that the dark would give them a modicum of cover. Several more shots echoed in the cold night air, but Vin was reasonably confident that he and Chris were at last out of range of their horseless pursuers. But the men were not out of danger yet. Travelling at speed after sundown was perilous at the best of times, although the risks multiplied threefold if under gunfire, or in unfamiliar territory.

Vin craned his neck, trying to see if there was any movement behind them. It was unlikely that the three horses he’d chased off would stray too far in the dark, so the tracker knew it was just a matter of time before the outlaws would be on his and Chris’ trail. With that thought in mind, he nudged his mount closer to the gunslinger.

"We daren’t stop yet, cowboy. Can you handle this pace fer a spell?"

Chris could just about make out Vin’s face in the darkness, but he didn’t need to see his friend to know how concerned the younger man was for him. "Yeah. I’m fine."

"Now yer startin’ t’sound like me," Vin muttered, shooting his companion a rueful grin.

"That fuckin’ stubborn an’… ornery I could… never be!"

"’S’that all the thanks I get fer savin’ yer skinny ass?"

The gunslinger gulped in a great, heaving breath and, suddenly realising the double meaning of his jocular comment, Vin immediately regretted his uncensored and off-hand remark. "Aw, Hell! I’m sorry, Chris. I didn’t… mean…. Damn! If he’d’ve… Lord, if that bastard had… touched you like that…. I’d have…. Shit!"

The tracker’s last sentence and expletive had been uttered so quietly that Chris had barely heard his friend’s words. But he’d recognised the anguished horror in the other’s voice and knew that, despite the brutal lashing, he’d escaped relatively lightly from Joseph’s evil hands. There was no doubt in Chris’ mind; the Texan outlaw would have taken great pleasure in raping him, and probably wouldn’t have stopped after abusing him once either. The gunslinger knew it, and so did Vin.

"Well, he didn’t. But I ain’t letting that… sick sonofabitch get away. Once we’ve… rested up, I’m heading out after him," Chris avowed, his soft voice dripping fire and ice.

Vin said nothing for a few minutes as he concentrated on his cantering mount. He’d already decided to head further into Texas, or more specifically Grendon, and knew without question that Chris would ride with him. The seed of doubt about his father’s morality and motives for seeking him out had been firmly planted in the tracker’s mind. Even with the ongoing risk of being in his home State, he had to find out more about his family; he needed closure. It was clear to Vin that Joseph knew more about his grandfather’s murder than he’d intimated, so the younger man was keen to meet up with the outlaw again – but the tracker had promised himself their next encounter would be on his terms. However, the two peacekeepers needed to see to their personal needs first, and also secure some provisions and weapons.

Money wouldn’t be an issue; Robert Cummings had paid Vin ten dollars for hunting down the rogue wolves all those weeks previous and the folded bills were still safely hidden in the heel of his boot. But riding into a Texan town in their current physical state would merely attract attention to themselves – and that was a scrutiny the former bounty hunter couldn’t withstand. He’d seen one of the official wanted posters issued on himself. The unknown artist of the portrait had evidently been extremely talented, as the pencil drawn picture of Vin was a very good likeness.

"We’re partners, remember? We know where he’s goin’, and we’ll get him together. But I’m more interested in finding somewhere safe to hole up fer the night," Vin eventually responded.

The two men from Four Corners had been riding for several hours, and the terrain had got rockier and more hazardous. They were approaching a hilly area dotted with trees and bushes and, knowing they couldn’t risk even one of the horses picking up an injury in the dark, the tracker guided his mount closer to Chris’ black gelding. "There’s good cover near the top of that rise, an’ we’ll be able to see if anyone tries t’sneak up on us. How’re you doin’?"

There was a brief silence as the older man’s addled brain assimilated the question. His entire body had been numb earlier, but that had worn off, and his many injuries were now making themselves known. Chris’ right thigh burned and ached and it was becoming harder to grip the saddle. He’d already made his own summation of his condition; during their escape, a bullet had caught him in the leg, and he had no idea whether the lead was still in his thigh.

In addition to the bullet wound, the gunslinger’s bloodied back was afire with an almost unbearable heat, and his body was alternating between icy chills and sweaty spasms of trembling. The incessant thumping at his temples, plus the stomach clenching nausea also told Chris that he had a fever building, but he stubbornly pushed his pain away. From necessity they’d put as many miles between them and their captors as possible so, knowing he and Vin needed to keep riding, the gunslinger had fixed his attention on staying atop of his horse.

"Been worse," Chris finally grunted in reply to Vin’s worried enquiry. It was a pointless exercise, but he still tried to conceal his pain and increasing lethargy from his partner.

It didn’t fool the younger man one bit. Vin heard the agonised weariness in Chris’ voice. Even in the dark, he could see the tense lines in his friend’s posture and knew that the gunslinger needed rest and medical attention. Vin sighed inwardly. He’d give anything to hear the calming and reassuring tones of Nathan right now. Hell, he’d even welcome being confined to a bed again under the supervision of the overly fussy, but gifted physician Andrew MacIntyre, if it helped Chris in any way! However, the pragmatic Texan knew that was wishful thinking on his part, and finding a doctor to care for the injured gunslinger just wasn’t an option right now. Angrily dismissing that useless train of thought, the tracker edged his horse nearer to Chris’, and pointed ahead to a massed group of trees, that were barely discernible in the night gloom.

"It’s getting cooler and I reckon we’re in fer some more rain. Chris, those trees will give us some protection t’night, so jes’ keep riding straight along this trail. I’m gonna go take me a quick look-see to make sure nuthin’ gives us a surprise up there," Vin informed his friend.

The tracker could feel exhaustion seeping through his travel weary and barely-healed body, but he doggedly forced away his own fatigue as he spoke. Vin knew there would be little respite for him in the coming days, as he was acutely aware that his friend’s survival rested in his hands now. It was his fault that Chris had been put into this dangerous situation, and he also took some of the blame for his closest friend’s barbaric torture. So the younger man was resolute about the possible outcome if Chris’ physical condition deteriorated even further; he would sacrifice himself if medical intervention was needed to save the gunslinger’s life. Tapping the roan’s sides with his heels, the tracker urged the horse on quicker, determined to check out the area ahead of Chris’ arrival.

Vin knew that the pair weren’t just at risk from human pursuers. During the night hours, other nocturnal – and hungry – predators roamed the countryside, and the peacekeepers’ only form of long distance defence was the solitary handgun the tracker had taken from Joseph. He’d checked the weapon’s chamber earlier, dismayed, but un-surprised to find only two bullets remaining. Until Vin could replenish their meagre armoury and supplies, the Texan knew he could only use those two precious rounds as a last resort.

There were other factors that Vin also had to consider. Neither he nor Chris had eaten since being given a small chunk of jerky by their captors the previous evening, and the only way they would regain their strength and have a chance of outrunning the outlaws, was by eating. Not only that, the tracker was sure his friend had a fever building after the brutal treatment Joseph had inflicted and, to fight any probable infection, Chris needed nourishing sustenance. It would be a difficult and lengthy process armed with just a knife, but Vin also needed to hunt.

Living off what the land had to offer was nothing unusual for the long-haired peacekeeper. He’d spent several of his formative years with various Indian tribes, integrating into their way of life, and learning traditional skills deeply rooted into the land and their culture. And Vin had learned those lessons well. Seeing a couple of rabbits scurry away from him as he rode up a steep bank, the tracker drew Joseph’s blade out of his pant’s belt, and began to seek out the tell-tale hump of the warren’s entrance. A small sheltered fire in the dark wouldn’t give away his and Chris’ position, so all Vin had to do now was try and catch their meal.

-7-7-7-7-7-7-7-

The faint light on the horizon heralded the new day and, crawling across on his knees to the meagre campfire, Vin pulled the knife out of the glowing embers and began gently blowing ash from the sterile blade. Glancing across at the sleeping gunslinger, the tracker was only too aware of what had to happen next; and the thought of it made his stomach churn in terror. To make things even worse, the Texan wasn’t sure if his friend was aware of the extent of his injuries.

The previous evening, after eventually reaching the campsite area that Vin had indicated, it had taken the injured peacekeeper’s last remaining strength to stop his horse. There had been no awareness of dismounting, nor had Chris felt the strong hands that had first lowered him onto a bedroll, and then begun to tend to his wounds.

Vin had stripped off one of his own undershirt’s to use as additional bandages, and with just the muted light from the campfire, had managed to clean and wrap the lacerated skin on his friend’s back. He’d then discovered the bullet still embedded in Chris’ thigh. The wound had already stopped bleeding but, on finding this fairly serious injury, despair had filled the worn out tracker, and Vin had begun to wonder if the pair would be able to avoid re-capture. Shaking off the feeling of utter despondency, he’d split the side seams on Chris’ blood encrusted pants, and temporarily bandaged the limb. Until he had daylight, he couldn’t even attempt to dig out the lead.

A soft moan dragged Vin from his sombre and weary musings and, balancing the hot blade on a rock, he hurried to Chris’ side. "Hey there, cowboy! I was wonderin’ when you’d wake up," the tracker murmured to the rousing man, his hand automatically going out to touch his friend’s bare shoulder.

"Vi…n? You… okay?"

The gunslinger’s voice was weak and croaky, but Vin had never been so glad to hear his friend. "Never better. Chris, you need to drink somethin’. D’ya think you can roll over?" he asked, as he lifted the heavy covering off the older man’s injured back.

Chris had been lying flat on his stomach, with Joseph’s quilted suggan over him, and he clenched his jaw against the pain as he slowly shifted onto his left side. His entire body felt stiff and sore, and the gunslinger couldn’t honestly say what part of him hurt the most; his back, his shoulders and arms or his leg. As Vin carefully adjusted the cover back over him, the older man’s teeth chattered, and he started to violently shiver.

"Sh…sh…shit! C…c…c… cold, Vin!"

The tracker placed his hand on the other’s forehead, feeling the dry heat of the gunslinger’s skin. "That’s because you got a fever. It ain’t too bad fer now, but… you’ve got a bullet in yer leg that’s gotta come out."

"It’s… still in there? Oh, fuck!"

"Huh!" Vin grunted scornfully, as he unscrewed the cap from the water bottle. "Why the hell didn’t ya tell me you’d caught a bullet?" he demanded of his friend.

"There…. didn’t seem much point. So… you got any… more good news, Tanner?"

"That’s what I like about you, cowboy - you always want t’hear the nice stuff first," Vin groused, as he cupped his friend’s head and lifted the water canteen to Chris’ mouth.

"Waal, I guess it must be yer lucky day, ‘cause I ain’t got any of Nate’s skunk’s piss brew to give ya t’help wit’ that fever," the tracker continued, watching his friend intently as the injured man slaked his thirst. "Fortunately, I found carbolic and a medical kit in yer saddlebags, so I’m kind’a hopin’ we’ll be able to rest up here fer a spell while I fix yer hurts."

Vin was thoughtfully silent for a few minutes as he allowed his friend to drink his fill.

"I don’t reckon those bastards will find us that easy ‘mongst these bushes an’ such," the tracker said at length, "but I’ve set-up a few s’prises around our camp, just in case they do pick up our trail. ‘Course, we need supplies afore we head out fer Grendon, an’ another revolver plus a rifle ‘ud be a mite useful too. We gotta send a wire to the fellas ‘n’ all… tell ‘em we’s alive. The town mos’ likely needs ‘em, if that lyin’ sonofabitch can be believed, so I don’t want ‘em riding out because they’s frettin’ on us."

"Yep, that sounds like… a plan. How… long was I out?"

Chris pushed the flask away. Letting his head drop back onto the bedroll, his eyes scanned their campsite as he asked the question. Vin had chosen the spot well, as it provided excellent concealment from the casual eye. The younger man had obviously been busy while the injured gunslinger slept, as a cleverly woven canopy of evergreen branches and long grasses strung high above him offered Chris protection from the elements. It also gave additional camouflage for the afflicted man. The rocky area was partway up a hill, and surrounded by dense bushes and trees, although the small clearing was of sufficient size for the two men, plus their horses. The gunslinger’s black and Joseph’s roan were tethered some ten feet away, happily grazing on dew-soaked grass, and the pair’s few possession’s sat in a small pile on the other side of the fire.

"You slept most o’ the night. Chris… now I’ve got light, I need to…."

"Yeah, I know," the older man interrupted, hearing the uncertainty in Vin’s soft tone. "You ever… done this before?"

Vin gulped and, biting at his lower lip, he suddenly wondered if he had the nerve for the task. He could end up crippling his friend – or possibly even kill him, if the knife hit an artery. "Nope," the tracker finally whispered.

Hazel eyes met blue and, in those azure pools, Chris easily read the anguished worry in his young friend. Not much frightened the worldly wise and trail-hardened Texan, but the gunslinger could sense the other’s fear for what lie ahead.

"You don’t have a choice, pard. We can’t risk riding for help, because Joseph could be anywhere. ‘Sides, I’d rather have you do it than a drunken barber in some two-bit town," Chris murmured, his hand reaching out to his friend.

There was no false bravado in the gunman’s comment; he was simply stating facts. Realising his friend was right, Vin nodded in mute understanding, as the pair gripped each other’s arms in the clasp that was exclusive to them. There was nothing more to say. Both men were silent as the tracker passed his friend a short piece of leather, and then organised their scant medical supplies on Chris’ unrolled bandanna.

Chris placed the stirrup strap between his teeth, hissing out a whistling breath as Vin carefully eased him back onto his stomach. The gunslinger shivered as he felt the quilt come off his lower limbs, but he willed his body to remain motionless as the tracker gently unwound the bandages from his thigh. He steeled himself as Vin elevated the leg momentarily to slide a coarse blanket underneath, and then flinched as cold water suddenly hit the site of the injury. The icy liquid briefly numbed his leg, but Chris set his jaw in anticipation of the pain, as he felt Vin’s weight press down on his calf muscles.

The tracker straddled his friend’s legs below the knee, knowing he couldn’t afford to let Chris move during the tricky procedure. Closing his eyes momentarily in supplication, Vin sent a quick, fervent plea heavenward, before turning his concentration to the ragged bullet hole. Taking a deep breath and hoping the churning nausea in his gut would subside, he started to probe the wound with the tip of the knife. Vin didn’t know how it was possible, but his hand was rock-steady as he began following the path of the bullet with the blade.

Chris broke out into a cold sweat, his entire body tensing from the white-hot agony emanating from his thigh, and he forced his face into the bedroll as he felt the sharp metal gouge into his flesh. He would have screamed, but the leather strap stopped his cries, and he almost welcomed the reawakened agony in his back where his salty sweat stung at the welts beneath the bandages. Biting down harder on the leather, his jawbone started to hurt from the rigid pressure and he struggled to draw breath through his tightly clenched teeth.

The gunslinger was certain he could feel Vin’s blade scraping at his bone and, as black dots swirled before his eyes, he heard a roaring in his ears that made his pounding head spin. Chris’ hands clutched at the quilt, his knuckles white and his entire body knotted up with an aching tension which left him quivering uncontrollably. He felt hot and light-headed, and thought he was about to vomit but, as the gunslinger vaguely heard his friend let out a hissing sigh, he jerked when a fiery spasm shot up his leg to his back. This new attack of pain was unbearable but, as he fought the desire to push away his persecutor, his vision tunnelled and everything suddenly went black.

Sweat poured down Vin’s face as he methodically worked to locate the bullet. His concentration was centred on the procedure but, as he felt Chris suddenly convulse and then relax under him, he heard the knife’s blade hit something metallic. With a relieved gasp, he gingerly prised the bullet upwards with the steel tip, and then plunged his forefinger into the bloody hole. The compressed lump of lead hadn’t penetrated too deeply into Chris’ muscle, and the tracker was able to extract it with his fingers.

"Thank God!"

At his exultant cry, Vin flung away the blood-sticky bullet, and then reached for the bottle of carbolic acid. It didn’t take him long to clean out and stitch the torn wound and, picking up a fresh roll of bandages that Nathan insisted they all carry in their saddlebags, he competently wrapped it around the unconscious man’s thigh. Not that the recumbent gunslinger was aware of any of this; the older man hadn’t stirred or made one sound since passing out. After hastily rinsing and drying his hands, the long-haired peacekeeper put two trembling fingers to the pulse point in Chris’ neck.

"Aw, hell! Don’t do this t’me, Chris," the tracker pleaded, when he failed to find a life sign.

Turning the gunslinger’s head to the side, the tracker put his hand close to his friend’s mouth. Warm breath hit his icy palm, although it was rapid and fairly shallow but, to Vin, it felt like the gentle caress of a summer breeze. The sickly fluttering in his stomach abated a little, and he felt like doing a jig in happy relief when he put his hand once again to the gunslinger’s throat and found a rapid, but reasonably strong beat under his fingertips.

"Trust a mule-headed, dumb-assed, Yankee cowboy t’scare the shit outta me!" Vin exclaimed in a not too steady voice, as he re-adjusted the thick suggan over his friend.

"You… jus’ call me…a… cowboy?"

Chris’ quiet voice was tinged with pain and fatigue, but the teasing comment gave Vin’s shaken confidence a much needed boost. "Yeah, I did - ‘n’ I don’t reckon yer in a position to do somethin’ ‘bout it neither," the tracker responded tartly.

"Think you’re… smart, huh?"

"Sometimes. D’ya want some more water?"

Chris licked his dry, cracked lips, suddenly thinking that he didn’t really know what he wanted. He couldn’t recall ever feeling this depleted, and his pain-wracked body begged for succour from the hard ground, although his friend had made him as comfortable as possible considering their lack of possessions. It wasn’t just his physical state that concerned the gunslinger. They were stuck in the wilds of Texas, with limited supplies and weaponry, plus they had three vicious men on their trail. It was a precarious situation that he and Vin found themselves in although, with the bounty on his friend’s head, the tracker was in greater danger than Chris.

"I’d prefer a whiskey," the gunslinger murmured at length, attempting to push away his mounting fears.

Vin helped his friend roll onto his side again, and then held the canteen to Chris’ mouth. "Yeah, I expect you would, but life’s full of disappointments. I ain’t got any coffee, so I used yer pot t’cook rabbit stew. You really need to eat somethin’ ‘fore ya sleep," the tracker instructed the other, although his still queasy stomach roiled at the thought of eating food himself.

Pushing away the water, Chris looked anxiously at his friend, his shrewd gaze making an accurate assessment of the other’s tired and fragile condition. Despite the thick stubble of gold-tinged whiskers covering the tracker’s chin, Larabee saw evidence of how dearly the past days had cost Tanner. The younger man’s face was pale and gaunt, and his entire demeanour seemed enervated. The arduous ride from Four Corners had sapped what little strength Vin had regained after his illness, and the younger man looked worn to the bone; which probably meant that the tracker had neither slept nor eaten since setting up their camp. Chris knew the other would shoulder all responsibility for the pair – and continue that guardianship until he eventually collapsed from sheer exhaustion. However, the older peacekeeper wasn’t about to let that happen.

"I’ll eat and sleep when you do."

Vin sighed, rubbing at his chin as he considered the older man’s brusque statement. "You always this cranky in th’ mornin’?" he asked, hoping to sidetrack the concerned gunman.

"I am when a stubborn jackass tries to pull the wool over my eyes. Vin, I won’t have you getting sick again, because of me."

"Why not? You’ve bin whipped an’ shot ‘cause of me!"

"That’s pretty stupid! Who’s being dumb-assed now?"

"Waal, reckon I must be. Anyone else wit’ a lick o’ sense would’a got you to a real doctor. But what do I do? Hide out without any shelter, proper food or medical supplies. That ain’t the actions of a sensible man."

The gunslinger could hear the self-reproach in the other man’s dejected voice, and he was suddenly fearful of what his friend might resort to if Chris’ condition worsened. "Vin, you got the bullet out, and you’ve taken real good care of me thus far. So I want your word that you won’t decide to head into a town if…"

"If you get any worse," the tracker finished for the other, when Chris’ words were suddenly cut off as he began to cough and splutter.

Taking another sip of water, the older man nodded gratefully as Vin gently sponged his hot face with a damp cloth. "Thanks. We’ll get through this, but I want you to swear to me that you won’t seek out help. How would I feel if you were jailed and then hung, all because you decided to find me a comfy bed for the night?"

"Prob’ly the same way I’d feel if you died, ‘cause I’d done nuthin’ t’save yer life."

"Why are you blaming yourself, Vin? This ain’t your fault. It’s all down to…"

"Don’t go there, Larabee!" Vin interrupted angrily. "I’m not in th’ mood t’hear you lay blame on m’pa ag’in. This is my stinkin’ business, wit’ my family’s honour at stake, an’ I’ve got t’settle this fer m’self."

"I wasn’t gonna accuse your pa, I was talking about Joseph. Nor do I think that Tanner’s working with him, because I reckon that bastard only said that to get you rattled. I admit, I don’t wholly trust your father, but I don’t believe he’s party to our abduction. He’s sought you out and made his peace with you, so he wouldn’t risk losing all that now," Chris said with sincerity.

Vin squinted up at the weak, watery sun rising above the treetops, as he thought things through once again. He knew he was being overly sensitive about his family’s misdeeds, but he was confused by what Joseph had told him concerning the missing gold. Had he seen his grandfather hide the stolen booty all those years ago? Was it all linked to the old man’s murder? Several weeks ago, Will Tanner had surmised that his son had witnessed the killing, but had buried all knowledge of it. So was the gold’s location also locked deep within Vin’s childhood memories? Perhaps his father hadn’t been siding with the outlaw, but was the hidden money the only reason the man had contacted him? Despite what Chris had said, the younger man wasn’t sure. It hurt to think that he might have been duped by his own kin, but until Vin had incontrovertible proof of his sire’s involvement - or his innocence - he wasn’t prepared to speculate any further.

"Let’s eat, an’ then we’ll both get some shut-eye."

Chris could tell from Vin’s brittle tone that his friend wanted the subject of Will Tanner dropped. But he still needed his friend’s assurance about riding into a town if the worst happened. "That’s the first rational thing you’ve said in a while. But Vin, I still want your promise about not heading for a town."

"Shit! Yer like a dawg wit’ a bone! You never give up, do ya, Larabee?"

"Nope."

Vin closed his eyes momentarily, his emotions whirling as he chewed over his friend’s ultimatum. He wasn’t upset by the other’s attitude, but he felt that his freedom of choice was being snatched away and, for the fiercely independent tracker, that was something he wasn’t used to. However, he could see that Chris was not going to be swayed. As blue eyes met pain-filled hazel ones, a message seemed to arc between them.

"’S’long as we’re in Texas, I’ll stay away from towns. There, you satisfied now?"

Nodding wordlessly at Vin’s toneless affirmation, the injured gunman carefully propped himself up on his elbow, and watched the younger man as he began to organise their food.

Vin rummaged for the two metal spoons and a plate in Chris’ saddlebags, and then placed the coffee pot filled with rabbit stew in front of his silent colleague. It was with some regret that he scooped a few handfuls of dirt onto the fire, and he shivered in the cool air as the dying flames extinguished. He couldn’t take the chance of their smoke being spotted, although it would mean that he and Chris wouldn’t be able to have another hot meal until darkness fell again.

Putting the knife close to Chris’ right hand, Vin stood up and pulled the revolver from his belt. "Keep the blade close," Vin informed his friend. "I’m gonna have a quick check ‘round ‘fore we settle in."

The fair-haired peacekeeper smiled in acknowledgement, wrapping his fingers around the knife’s handle as Vin stealthily slipped away from the camp area. Chris felt a little happier; he was certain his friend wouldn’t break his word to him, regardless of how desperate their situation became. The gunslinger suddenly wondered whether the pair’s luck was starting to change, a feeling that he attributed to their successful, although not effortless, escape from Joseph and his men. Chris was a realist though. It would take all of his and Vin’s skills to get them through their current predicament. But while there was life, there was still hope.

-7-7-7-7-7-7-7-

"How dare you come here and tell me you lost him!"

Samuel Joseph looked away from the woman seated at the oak desk, unable to maintain eye contact with the frosty stare she directed at him. It was with some reluctance that he’d finally admitted he needed additional men to look for his missing quarry and, leaving his accomplices searching the barren foothills, the Texan had ridden fast to his partner’s land. He knew she wasn’t going to be pleased with his costly error, but he had every confidence that he would locate the two peacekeepers. This was just a temporary setback. However, he could tell that the woman would refuse to see it that way.

"It ain’t the end of the world, ma’am. This could even work in our favour."

"I’m not even going to bother asking you to justify that ridiculous statement! I thought you said that it would be easy to capture him? This is outrageous, and completely unacceptable!"

The outlaw rubbed his whiskery chin, wondering yet again why he’d agreed to work with this capricious woman. Of course, to realise his dream of finding the gold, he’d needed her money and also her expertise. The businesswoman had access to the mining equipment Joseph required, and was also supplying a German geological engineer - one of her employees - who would make the trip to Grendon with him and Vin Tanner.

The woman’s ranch was four to five day’s ride from George Tanner’s cabin, and she had already dispatched a small force of workers to the area to await instructions from Joseph. But first, the outlaw had to recapture the two peacekeepers. Whilst he could understand the other’s fury, this was an aspect of his associate that he’d not yet witnessed, although from their previous meetings, he’d seen evidence of the woman’s ruthless nature and spiteful personality. Coming here today to inform her of his failure, it was likely that he would experience for himself the lashing of her biting tongue – but he was confident that’s all he would endure. They were in partnership together and neither one of them could bring their plan to a successful conclusion alone. Secure in this knowledge, Joseph ignored the other’s angry tirade and merely gave a small shrug of his shoulders.

"The capturin’ part wuz a cinch, but they won’t get far," the outlaw assured the woman. "Larabee’s totin’ too many hurts, an’ Tanner’s bin laid up sick at Cummings property these past few weeks – he nigh on died from what I wuz telled – so he ain’t gonna be travellin’ easy like. We rode real hard an’ fast from Four Corners, an’ I deliberately kept ‘em short o’ vittles, water an’ rest. I don’t reckon they’ll split up, or try an’ find a town t’lie low in neither. Lady, this is Texas, an’ a hangman’s noose is waitin’ fer Vin, so he ain’t got too many options open t’him."

"I don’t need you to tell me we’re in Texas!" the woman muttered. "But tell me, if they’re that badly off, how did they manage to escape? I warned you not to underestimate them, Joseph, but it appears they gained the advantage. I see you’ve been injured. Was it Chris who gave you that wound?" she asked, pointing to the bandage wrapped around the man’s forehead.

Joseph’s hand came up automatically to touch the grubby dressing, and his face darkened in anger. "Yeah. I took m’eyes off o’ ‘em when I shouldn’t’ve done. I won’t make the same mistake ag’in, an’ Larabee will get his just rewards."

"I’m beginning to have my doubts. Chris is more dangerous when backed into a corner. I’ve known him for a long time, and I can assure you - he will fight to the bitter end."

"Waal, the only ending here will be his death. ‘Sides, he ain’t exactly in a fit state t’put up much of a fight."

"Why, what have you done to him?"

There was an acid timbre to the woman’s voice as she asked the question, but the outlaw sensed ambivalence and an element of concern in her puzzled enquiry. This conversation was proving to be more interesting than he’d thought. Maybe he could glean something from this to use against her if the need arose.

"Like I told ya afore," he replied smoothly, "there’s only one way to make Tanner talk, an’ I’d already started working on that. Ya sound a mite worried. I thought ya warn’t fussed ‘bout how I treated Larabee? We’d agreed I could use whatever means I felt necessary to get the boy’s co-operation, and you were fine wit’ that, providin’ I delivered that murderin’ gunman to ya alive."

The woman rose from her seat, and crossed to the window, staring out at something only she could see. "Yes, I do want Chris alive – at least for the moment. He got away from me once but, this time, I will take from him that which should be legally mine," she replied in a soft tone.

Joseph noticed the possessive way the woman rested a hand on her flat stomach, and he watched dispassionately as she traced her forefinger across her lips before trailing it down her throat. The outlaw had a fair idea why this cold, bitterly twisted, but beautiful woman needed Chris Larabee alive, although he wasn’t prepared to relinquish any claim he had on the unsuspecting gunslinger. He had waited too long for his personal revenge to allow anyone to get in his way. "I ain’t interested in yer… reasons fer bringin’ him here, ma’am, jes’ as long as y’remember why I want Larabee dead."

"You’ll have him once I’m finished!" she responded, turning to face the man again. "It may take a few months to bring my scheme to fruition, but from what little you’ve told me, it sounds like your business in Grendon won’t be resolved that swiftly. Once we’ve both achieved our aims, we will share a bottle of champagne I’ve saved for the occasion. We can celebrate our mutual success as Chris’ coffin is lowered into the ground."

"Good. We ain’t got a problem then."

"No? Then what do you call this ludicrous debacle? I see their freedom as a major problem, Joseph. I was under the impression you could tackle anyone and anything."

"These things happen," the outlaw replied philosophically. "My men are still out there searching, but I’m gonna need some extra hands t’start ag’in tomorrow. That’s if you still want this t’be resolved quickly."

"Don’t be impertinent! If you were that close to my land, why didn’t you bring them here when you had the chance? You’re not the only one who can make a man talk."

"We warn’t that far from Beresford so, last night, I wuz gonna make contact wit’ yer man in town, jes’ t’keep ya informed of m’progress," Joseph explained patiently. "Y’see, ma’am, Larabee’s not stupid, an’ I didn’t want to play m’hand too early by bringin’ you into the frame. They would’ve both guessed what wuz in store fer ‘em an’ I wouldn’t ‘ave stood a snowball’s hope in Hell o’ getting Tanner t’open up. That boy’s tougher than he looks, but I ain’t outta ideas yet. Once I get him alone on the trail t’Grendon, he’ll be as good as… gold!" The outlaw chuckled at his own joke.

The woman’s eyes glittered angrily, the subdued lamplight in the room making them appear black, as she thought of the scruffy-looking and uneducated Texan who rode with the infamous gunman. "Tanner’s a lying snake in the grass! He’s no better than a dog, and needs to be kept on a tight leash!" she spat out viciously.

"It sounds like you know ‘im real well. Course, yer welcome to try yer female… wiles on ‘im. Mebbe a ‘softer’ approach might work better. But first I’ve gotta track those hombres down. So, do I get more men and a fresh horse?" Joseph asked doggedly.

The stocky Texan was tired, and his head still ached from Larabee’s blows. What he wanted right now was a full night’s sleep in a decent bed, before resuming the hunt for his elusive prey. He and his cohorts had spent the day – from sun-up – scouring the land for any sign of the two peacekeepers, and had covered many miles in the process. Joseph had finally had to concede defeat and, ordering his men to continue looking, he’d ridden at a mile-eating gallop to reach the woman’s property by late afternoon. He had known this conversation would be awkward, but he’d had no other choice.

"You’ll get the men. There’s much at stake here, Joseph, so I shall have my foreman accompany you when you leave in the morning. That’s my security, because I don’t want any more stupid blunders. I’m not renowned for my forgiving nature."

The man’s mouth thinned into a line, as he surveyed the woman. "Neither am I, ma’am… neither am I."

Crossing to the fireplace, she tugged on a plaited cord, and a bell sounded deep within the bowels of the stone-built hacienda. Returning to her desk, she hastily wrote a message on a sheet of paper, and then tucked it into an envelope.

A few minutes passed before there was a timid tap on the door. An elderly woman fearfully entered the office, nodding her head to Joseph and giving her mistress a stiff, formal bow of servitude.

"Anna, I want to speak to Benson straight away. Also, send Miguel into town, and have him deliver this letter to Xiang Ho tonight. I will expect them both to return here by mid-morning, so inform your boy that I will not tolerate any delay. Mister Joseph requires a meal – see that he gets it. That will be all."

"Si, senora."

Taking the envelope from the younger woman, the Mexican peon quickly scurried out of the door, glad to be out of the way of her unpredictable and ill-natured employer.

"You can eat in the kitchen, Joseph. I will send someone for you if I need to speak with you again."

Joseph knew a dismissal when he heard one, although he was relieved to be away from the woman’s overbearing presence. "I’m grateful, ma’am," he muttered, hating the subservient manner he was forced to adopt when speaking to this haughty woman.

As the door closed behind the Texas outlaw, the woman pulled a small key from her dress pocket and unlocked a drawer in the desk. Taking out a small silver picture frame, she studied the sepia coloured photograph for several minutes. She’d had a copy made of this precious memory, but this one was the original, and she smiled as she recalled that glorious occasion when the picture was taken.

"Oh, yes, you are the most handsome Devil I have ever known, Christopher. We looked as though we could have ruled the world that night! This past year’s been wasted, but we’ll soon make up the time we’ve lost. Nor will I let that jealous, uncouth buffalo hunter interfere with our joyous union. I promise you, Vin Tanner won’t come between us again, my love."

There was a smile of triumph on her face and, as she gently caressed the gunslinger’s likeness with her thumb, the woman felt a thrill of burning, sexual desire course through her. Life felt wondrously good once more, and the thought of being with the only man she’d ever loved and needed, made her tremble like a smitten schoolgirl. Chris Larabee would fall under her spell for this third and final time and, with the right kind of persuasion, he would be helpless to resist the many charms of Ella Gaines.