The vast expanse of wasteland could be harsh and unforgiving, a veritable prison of emptiness and sterile solitude, yet for some reason, the unlikely home to prey and predator alike. The scorching, breath-stealing heat of the day, the bright glare of the relentless sun, the arid desert countryside, the hot dusty wind; all lay silently in wait for the chance to suck a man dry. A traveler left on foot could walk for days with no sign of water, no sign of life, no living soul to break the numbing sameness. The scattering of bleached white bones across the barren landscape gave mute witness to the many who had fallen victim to its malevolent splendor.
The shadowed nights weren't much better, a biting cold stinging the flesh and numbing the senses, wearing on a man, driving him crazy with just trying to keep warm. For the broken earth was wasted, mostly dying, barely enough tinder to be found to make a decent fire, let alone hold back the bitter chill. Those who knew better said if a man didn't freeze to death first, he was bound to fry in the searing heat of the noonday sun. Or more likely, meet his Maker chasing a vision of shimmering, black water that was always and forever just out of his reach. The desert could drive a man senseless that way.
It was untamed and unforgiving, home to the coyote, the scorpion, the tarantula and the diamondback rattlesnake. A harsh, bitter land that gave nothing away but took all a man had, forced him to earn his place there, to pay for it by the sweat of his brow and the strength of his back, in the work of his hands. Words like grit and determination only scratched the surface of those who endured, but failure was the ever ready victor, death the one true companion. It was a hard way of life and not many survived it long.
The cattlemen hated it, men like Lucas James and Guy Royal whose spreads lay to the east. With their large herds and hired hands, they spurned it, the mesquite thorns and creosote bush that weren't fit for decent grazing. The harsh land took more than it gave, every head of beef lost into its deadly arms meaning more money out of the greedy cattle barons' pockets. They favored the rich grasslands and lush meadows, the trickling streams and spring-fed ponds. Their cattle grew fat and the herds multiplied with a flood of new life arriving every spring. Grazing rights were protected fiercely, often violently, and newcomers who dared to cross their lands found they had neither the strength nor the resources to defend themselves, oftentimes paying for their trespass in blood.
King Cattle ruled the grasslands while the Serpent Queen reigned absolute upon the hostile desert.
But every now and then, the arid wastelands offered up a surprise, something wonderful and unexpected within its barren midst. A place where a thirsty man could find refuge and relief, where there was respite from the merciless heat and shade to cool his brow. An oasis, considered a miracle by some and a gift of God by still others. A place given birth by water nourishing the thirsty ground from below, set forth with an abundance of trees, cacti and green grasses, a haven for the weary traveler, the desert lark and cactus wren.
Here, in this place, life could flourish, establish a foothold and even somehow manage to grow. And it was here that three years earlier, Gunter Larsen brought his small band of sheep, the herd steadily increasing in number and size as well, all under the Dutchman's watchful gaze and the guardianship of his faithful collie dog, Shep.
Knowing full well that he wasn't far from the cattlemen's alert eyes and ears, Gunter kept to himself, his caution a natural consequence of the prejudice and animosity he'd endured, the consequences of not only being an immigrant but a sheep farmer as well. The deep lines on his sixty-something year old face bore testimony to the hard life he'd lived, the salt-and-pepper coloring of his thinning hair offset by the ruddy tan of his skin. As such, Gunter thought of himself as a loner; he needed no one, desired no company, was completely sufficient unto himself.
But all of that changed one dark, almost moonless night as he sat inside his small cabin, quietly sharing dinner with the dog.
The herd outside was restless, the bleating of the lambs and ewes far more noticeable than usual above the trace of wind whispering in the trees. Twice, Gunter went to the door, Shep beside him, gazing out into the darkness and listening to the sounds of twilight. Twice, he shook his head, gazed down at the old dog, then with a quiet word, closed the door and returned to his place before the stove. Finishing his meal a few minutes later, his belly satisfied, he sat back in his chair, pulled out his tobacco pouch and rolled himself a smoke.
Lying on the floor beside him, the large head resting between thick paws, the black and tan collie suddenly growled deep in its throat. Glancing down, Gunter noted the pricked ears, the sharpness of the ancient, film-covered eyes, the tensing of that big, solid body. When Shep gave a short bark, lifted to his feet and padded to the entry, the man needed no further urging. Grabbing his rifle, Gunter got up and carefully moved to stand beside the dog. He listened hard, then reached for the latch, easing the wooden door open with a squeak and a tiny rasp.
Too silent. Tense. Expectant. Waiting.
Then the dog exploded from his side as the harsh screams and cries of the sheep suddenly filled the night. Stepping out into the light spilling from the doorway, Gunter cursed his failing eyesight, blinking rapidly as he peered into the inky darkness. Rough growls and snarls and the sound of snapping teeth charged the air, Shep's deep bark of anger layered with the frightened bleating of lambs and ewes.
The herd was under attack and Gunter's heart raced wildly with sudden fear. He couldn't see but a few feet past the doorway, but his ears brought him the din of the fierce battle now being waged somewhere out there in the darkness. He listened, turned his head in that direction, squinted into the night, then shuddered with horror at the high-pitched squeal of pain he knew could only belong to Shep. The big, loyal dog was trained to protect and defend the herd with his life; Gunter knew his faithful companion had most likely paid a heavy price.
Trying to salvage what he could, Gunter lifted his rifle and fired three times into the air, heard the sudden scrabble of hooves upon rocks and then the padded thud of paws that represented the hasty retreat of the mysterious attacker. He waited, silence settling in, hearing only his own heartbeat and the heavy rasp of breath inside his chest. Retrieving a kerosene lantern from the cabin, he lit the wick and went to inspect the carnage.
Six of his best ewes lay dead with their throats ripped out; four young lambs were motherless and his devoted friend and partner lay bloodied and badly wounded. Gunter settled the rest of the herd as best he could, then carried Shep back into the house. He tended to the dog's injuries, ran a gentle hand over the large head and in response, received a single thump of the thick and heavy tail. Settling in for the night, the old man spread his blankets on the floor beside his wounded companion. But sleep did not come easy.
In the full light of the morning, Gunter surveyed the damage, trying to figure out what had attacked his herd and then resigning himself to seeking help. There was a fairly small settlement a few hours' walk to the north and over the last two years, he'd heard rumors of men-for-hire there, seven peacekeepers paid by a territorial judge to protect the town and keep the peace. It was also rumored that these same hired guns weren't afraid of Lucas James and Guy Royal and other men of their kind. Gunter figured that was a good sign. For if what he suspected was true, they were precisely the kind of men he needed to help him protect his sheep.
"Stage comin' in," JD called out from where he stood on the porch of the sheriff's office. Stretching out his long legs, Buck lazily pushed up from his chair, yawned loudly and moved to stand beside him. Twinkling blue eyes regarded the dusty red coach with a hint of playful amusement. The day had been decidedly quiet and boring so far. Perhaps the early arrival of the afternoon stage might just liven things up a bit.
A cloud of dust billowed out behind the moving conveyance as the thunder of horse's hooves and the jangling of harnesses filled the air. The groan of leather and the cries of the driver as he called out to his team joined in to drown out the usual hum of everyday conversation and commerce. With a final shout and a jostling of brakes, the stagecoach rattled slowly to a halt in front of the town's single hotel.
"Four Corners," the reinsman called out as the shotgun rider clambered down from the box. Setting a small, square step on the ground, he opened the door and indicated for the passengers to disembark. Helping hand extended, his gruff voice could be heard giving them instructions to the hotel, the nearest saloon and coincidentally, the sheriff's office. That had JD's eyebrows lifting as he turned to glance quizzically at the taller man beside him.
Grinning beneath his thick mustache, Buck just shrugged his shoulders and continued to peer across the street. A soft, low whistle issued from between his lips a moment later as a pretty, dark-haired woman in a light blue traveling dress alighted. Always one to appreciate the finer aspects of the opposite sex, the ladies' man was instantly intrigued. But his grin of interest quickly turned to a frown of disappointment when a man appeared from behind her, a proprietary hand gaining hold of her elbow to escort her up onto the sidewalk.
*"Damn!"* Buck cursed silently. The lady was either married or at the very least spoken for. Not that he'd ever paid much mind to that in the past but these days, he'd learned to be, as Ezra would say, more... circumspect. Yeah, he chuckled, that was the word the fancy gambler would use.
Circumspect.
Buck's easy grin reappeared, an acknowledgment of how much he'd changed over the last couple of years. Ever since he'd been hired by Judge Travis to protect one small, frontier town and taken up with the six other men who were now his closest friends. He'd bought himself into at least a degree of respectability, not something he'd ever had cause to worry about before, but there were certain duties and privileges that came with that position. Oh, he still enjoyed a good, lusty romp between the sheets with a willing woman to warm his backside afterward. He'd just learned to be more...discreet...yep, he sighed, another one of Ezra's fancy words...he'd learned to be more discreet about it and avoid getting his butt shot full of rock salt for his troubles.
He shook his head, his grin widening, white and toothy as memories of his younger days spent riding side by side with Chris Larabee flashed through his mind. They'd been a wild pair, the two of them, riding hard, drinking and fighting even harder, chasing after anything in skirts that flashed a smile in their direction. No risk too great, no woman too ugly, at least as long as she was willing and a bottle of whiskey was close at hand. Hell, Buck reflected, truth be told, he was amazed they hadn't gotten themselves killed.
Not that there was a lack of folks willing to try, especially with Chris's reputation with a gun. Nobody slicker, nobody meaner, nobody faster. A cool hand, a cold mind, an even colder heart. At least, that's what everybody had thought.
But all that changed the day Sarah Connelly had walked into Chris's life. It changed even more the day she'd been taken away. She and Adam...and the man Chris used to be.
Buck sighed, fighting back the dark thoughts that came from remembering the tragedy that had befallen his oldest friend. He'd long ago resigned himself to the fact that nothing good ever came from dredging up the past. Nothing good for him and certainly nothing good for Chris. Not that either of them ever forgot. There were just some things that stayed with you no matter where you went, what you did or who you became. Sarah and Adam Larabee's deaths were one of them.
And even though it still gnawed at his gut on occasion, Buck had learned to let it go. He couldn't change the past, couldn't bring them back and had therefore resigned himself to moving on. And for the longest time, he'd wished that Chris could do the same. But the man had been driven by his need for revenge, his quest for answers. Answers the tall, angry blond hadn't found until recently, answers that Buck wasn't sure his friend could deal with, even now, some three months later.
Ella Gaines's treachery, her obsession with Larabee and the "execution" of Chris's wife and young son by Cletus Fowler still left a sour hole in Buck's stomach. It made him almost physically sick every time he thought about it and about the bullet her hired hand had put into Chris's chest that nearly ended the gunslinger's life. They'd almost lost Chris then, not only to his physical wounds but to the unseen ones buried deep within Larabee's fractured soul.
‘Still waters run deep' was what Josiah would say and Buck truly believed it. Ever since he and Chris had returned from Mexico that day, he had known that somehow, deep down, Chris blamed himself for the deaths of his wife and son. But always at the back of the blond's mind, there'd been a niggling doubt that somehow, some way, maybe it was just possible that it wasn't...and it had been hard that day at Ella's, seeing all of Chris's fears and doubts swept aside, confirming once and for all that the reason Sarah and Adam had died was so that Ella Gaines could finally have Chris Larabee for herself.
It didn't matter that the woman was crazy, deranged, obsessed, out of her mind and had apparently killed other innocents before. No, it hadn't mattered one damned bit. Chris had all too easily tried, convicted and sentenced himself as guilty, acting as defendant, prosecutor, judge and jury, all in the court of his own damned conscience. The verdict was still written in the harsh lines of Chris's gaunt face and the unnatural thinness of his already too lean frame. Wilmington had wondered on more than one occasion if perhaps his friend was simply willing himself to die, the unhealthy pallor surrounding the blond reminding him all too clearly of the stench of approaching Death.
They had all tried, even JD and then Ezra, the least likely among them to breach that impenetrable wall. God knew how all of them had tried, but particularly Nathan and Josiah, one man seeking to heal Chris's physical wounds, the other offering his spiritual help and guidance to deal with a sickness that invaded the mind as well as the soul. Buck had tried too, only to be met with a stony silence, a passive resistance, his very presence seeming to hurt more often than it helped. In retrospect, he supposed that he reminded Chris too much of what had been and all that he had lost, their shared history coming back to haunt them. And so he withdrew, not wanting to cause pain, letting Chris have the time and space he needed, hoping the man would heal.
Then there was Vin.
For a time, Buck had hoped that Vin, their reserved and nearly silent tracker, would find a way to reach Chris, to help him in his grief. The two of them were close, closer than he and Chris had ever been, best friends in a way that allowed them a communion of souls not often seen between two such disparate men. But Vin, well, these days the tracker seemed to be wrestling with his own internal demons, ever since he'd returned to town having failed to track Ella Gaines down. It was as if he blamed himself for what had happened to Chris, hadn't warned him strongly enough. As if he'd personally let the gunslinger down by not finding that bitch and killing her, an opportunity missed to exact Larabee's long awaited revenge.
Buck shook his head, his dark, shaggy hair a bit long and in need of a good cut. Life went on while you weren't looking, continued with or without you, one day spilling into the next until one morning you woke up and realized nearly three whole months had passed.
Damn.
So here they were now and where did they go from here?
Chris was mostly absent, hiding out at his cabin in the hills, avoiding the town and anything and anyone even remotely connected to it. Vin oftentimes couldn't be found, disappearing God knew where for days on end and showing up at the strangest times with nothing much to say. Not all that unusual really as the man never spoke more than a handful of words in a day to start with, but at times it was downright spooky, the way he slithered in and out of the shadows. Josiah spent even more time than usual working on rebuilding his church while Nate was gone for longer and longer periods of time, visiting with Tastanagi and his people on the reservation.
To all appearances, it seemed as if only JD and Ezra had escaped the growing tension that signaled the rift between the members of their hired band. JD, possibly out of youthful ignorance...and admittedly, exuberance...and Ezra, well, because Ezra was Ezra and looking out for himself was second nature to him. But outward appearances could be deceiving and Buck knew that the gambler's jaunty façade was just another instance of Josiah's ‘still waters running deep.' Truth be told, all of them had been affected by the tragedy Ella Gaines had wreaked upon their lives. They'd all suffered from it, been deeply influenced by it and even now, were still struggling to get past it.
It was a sorry state of affairs and Buck was beginning to wonder just how much longer the Judge would let it go on before deciding to fire all seven of them. Not that the town needed a whole lot of protecting lately. Seemed that the reputation of seven hired guns alone served to drive off most of the unruly riffraff or at the very least make them think twice about deciding to ride in there. Yeah, all in all, it was pretty quiet lately and Buck was beginning to regret not feeling that itch of excitement scratching at the back of his neck.
Then, almost as if he'd conjured the man up simply by thought alone, Buck's eyes narrowed, his body straightening, a grim line replacing his wistful smile. "JD," he called, his gaze never leaving the arriving passengers across the street. "Did Mary Travis say anything ‘bout the Judge comin' ta town?"
"No, why?" the younger man replied, his hands resting on the butts of his twin Colts as he peered across the way. His brown bowler hat rested lightly atop his head; his hazel eyes were bright with interest.
"Well, if I'm not mistaken, I do believe the good Judge has just arrived ta pay us a visit."
JD scowled, eyes narrowed as he recognized the imposing figure in the gray suit with the salt-and-pepper hair. The young man chewed thoughtfully upon his lower lip. "Guess somebody'd better go get Chris," he offered, knowing the Judge would want to speak with their acknowledged leader.
Stepping down into the street, Buck replied over his shoulder, "Send Vin after him, then meet us in the saloon," and kept moving across the way, his long legs striding quickly across the ground. "If ya can find him," he muttered under his breath of their oftentimes errant tracker. He didn't look back to see if JD obeyed, just trusted his young friend to get the job done while the ladies man carried out a bit of a diversionary tactic.
After all, he reasoned, a man was sure to be thirsty after a long ride spent inside a stagecoach eating nothing but heat and dust.
Chris Larabee raised his head, glared up at the hot sun and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of one arm. Glancing briefly at his right hand, he cursed the painful calluses there before bending to resume his task. His left hand held steady while the rasp of metal on wood echoed in the small clearing around the cabin. Then with a final snap, the sapling pole dropped to the ground, landing on the growing pile collected at the gunslinger's feet.
Breathing deeply, Chris put aside the hacksaw and reached for the ladle sticking out of the water bucket he'd set nearby. Filling it, he drank thirstily, letting the cool liquid spill over the edges of his mouth so that it washed down the column of his throat, soaking the front of his sticky, gray undershirt. Filling it again, he closed his eyes and dumped it over his head. The water ran through his matted blond hair and over his chiseled face, washing away traces of the collected sweat and grime from his flushed and heated skin. Droplets flew in every direction as he then shook his head, green eyes opening before he swiped his hair back off his forehead with a careless hand. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a bandana and ran it over his weary features.
Glancing around at the collected tools and materials, Chris sighed heavily, wondering sometimes why he even bothered. It wasn't like his horse needed a larger corral, wasn't like the roof on the cabin had any holes that needed patching, wasn't like the front porch needed new support posts. It was just something to do, something that kept him busy. After all, idle hands were the Devil's playground as Josiah was wont to say.
And God knew Chris Larabee had spent enough time in the Devil's playground lately. He'd gotten himself burned and burned badly in the process. Adding fuel to the fire was the knowledge that his foolish mistakes had almost gotten six good men killed, had nearly gotten him killed as well, not to mention the poor young woman who'd died in the ensuing gun battle.
Hilda. He didn't remember her last name, just her face as she sang that day in the parlor of the ranch house and the look on Buck's face as he listened, enchanted, lost.
Chris sighed deeply, his breath gusting between his lips as he raised one hand to rub at the ache in his chest, the healed scar from Handsome Jack Averill's bullet a permanent reminder of his stupidity, of just how close he'd come, of how close they'd all come. Of how he'd wanted to die once he'd learned the truth of what that bitch had done to his family...and why.
Swearing softly, Chris ruthlessly pushed those morbid thoughts aside. He didn't want to think of her, didn't want to see her face, hear her words, feel the cold rage swelling inside of him. He didn't want to think of what he'd done with her, in her room, in her bed.
Self-hatred then reared its ugly head.
*"You're a pathetic, stupid bastard, Larabee!"*
Angry yet again, Chris bent down and picked up a freshly cut pole. He dragged it over to the corral and with pieces of rope secured it to the thick posts. Taking up his hammer and a handful of nails, he began pounding away, taking out his fury and frustration on the hapless piece of wood. A few minutes later, he went back to retrieve another one, working relentlessly, without pause, driving his barely healed body to the very edge of physical collapse. It was the only way Chris could sleep, the only way to keep himself from thinking, from remembering, from feeling. He pushed himself to the very edge of his limits so that when he blew out the lantern late at night, he fell instantly into a blessed oblivion.
It was the only thing he had left. The only thing he could truly control.
The tormented blond paused to catch his breath, leaned against the post and laughed coldly at himself. Hell, maybe he was just trying to find a way to atone for his sins, to pay penance, like Josiah and his efforts to rebuild the town's neglected church. God knew he had a lot to answer for, a lot of people that he'd betrayed, not to mention the memories of his wife and son. The mere thought of it was enough to make him sick.
His self-recriminations were interrupted by a warm breath against the side of his neck and a soft black muzzle pushing against his shoulder. Without thinking, Chris batted it away, grumbling with irritation, "Get th'hell away from me!" The last thing he wanted or needed was the steady-natured gelding pestering him for a handout.
Puzzled by his master's rough treatment, the big horse snorted, took a step back and eyed the human with an accusing brown gaze. Receiving no apology, Pony lowered his large head, shook it a couple of times before emitting what sounded suspiciously like a grumble. Turning, the black slowly wandered away, finding things more to his interest on the far side of the corral than the bad-tempered, ornery human who had swatted him in the nose.
Chris watched him go, smiling grimly to himself as he realized that he'd even managed to piss off his horse. Hell, at this rate, he'd probably end up alienating the one living thing left on the face of the earth that still gave a damn whether Chris Larabee lived or if he died. Damned horse definitely knew which side of the bucket his sweet feed came from. Just his luck the big gelding would probably follow him to his grave, fussing at him the whole time for not leaving a ration of grain sitting in his feed bin. Chris wasn't surprised when the big animal turned his haunches toward him, swishing that long black tail in a manner that was decidedly irritated.
Funny how even his horse communicated without words. Sort of like him and Vin...
Chris ruthlessly squashed that thought before it could even be fully born, not wanting to think about the younger man and the friendship that he'd thrown away. But some things he couldn't so easily control no matter how hard that he tried. With a heavy sigh and an even heavier heart, Chris turned back to hammering away at the fence, feeling the guilt and pain wash over him once again.
He'd treated Vin badly, treated all of them badly, been ready to run out on them the first chance that came along, the first golden opportunity that presented itself. Ella Gaines's golden opportunity, he snorted derisively. Chris winced inwardly at that, admitting he had more in common with Ezra than he realized, remembering back to when they'd defended the Indian village and the smooth-talking gambler had disappeared. But at least Ezra had found the courage to return, to face the rest of them, whereas he...
Well, Chris couldn't say the same for himself, could he? Technically, the army would consider him ‘missing in action,' possibly even a deserter. He'd been neglecting his duties as peacekeeper, avoiding Buck and the others and anything remotely to do with the town. Truth was, he acknowledged, he was hiding out. Hiding from them and hiding from himself.
And Chris hated himself all the more for being such a weakling and a coward. Sarah and Adam had deserved more than that from him. His friends had deserved more too.
On the other side of the corral, the big black horse suddenly whinnied a loud greeting, the sound of an approaching rider drawing Chris from his disparaging thoughts. Lifting his head, he turned and out of habit inched closer to his gun, relaxing a moment later as he recognized the silhouetted, buckskin figure.
Vin Tanner.
What the hell did he want?
But even as irritation flashed through him, Chris felt guilty for his uncharitable mind-set. The man was supposed to be his best friend after all and yet Chris had been deliberately avoiding him as well. Had been avoiding those all-knowing blue eyes of his, those keen eyes that with one glance could cut him to the quick. Those same eyes that had tried so desperately to warn him of Ella Gaines's treachery.
Chris felt like a damned fool.
A few minutes later, Vin reined his horse to a halt in front of him, sharp eyes sweeping the immediate area and taking in all the materials scattered about and the unfinished portion of the corral. Then, looking back, one hand lifted to the brim of his hat in greeting as he quietly nodded his head.
"Vin," the blond returned, his voice a soft rasp. "What brings you out here?"
Leaning forward in the saddle, Vin crossed his forearms over the horn and rested his lanky frame before answering. "Buck thought ya might wanna know...Judge Travis come in on th'stage today."
That was it. That was all the tracker had to say. And Chris found he couldn't hold the look the younger man leveled at him, so he settled instead for glancing down at his grimy, sweat-stained clothes. Running one hand down the front of his undershirt, he grimaced at the dirty streak it left behind. He'd have to bathe and get cleaned up first before heading into town. There was no way he could face Travis looking like he'd just plowed forty acres of barren field.
Sighing resolutely, he replied, "I'll be there directly."
The gunslinger wasn't surprised when Vin silently nodded his head, straightened and tugged on the reins, urging his horse around as he headed back to town. Chris stood there a moment, watching him go, regretting, wondering just how in the hell things had gone so wrong and whether or not he should try to make them right.
It was a question he'd asked himself many times over the last few weeks. Sighing tiredly, he admitted he was still no closer to finding an answer.
The town saloon was noisy, boisterous even despite the lingering heat of the dying day. Loud male laughter floated through the slotted wooden doors, the click and chime of piano keys and the clank of glasses drifting in the air along with the smell of tobacco, whiskey, sweat and stale beer. One table in the back corner seemed louder than all the others, not because of the men gathered around it, but because of the wealth of their raised voices engaged in lively conversation.
To the outside observer, the five men there were simply sharing a cold beer, slaking their thirsts while idly passing the time of day. But to the keen eyes of Ezra Standish who watched them from across the room, there was an underlying current of tension that belied their easy camaraderie. His green gaze narrowed, the gambler's lips pursed in silent contemplation as he absently shuffled the deck of cards he held in his left hand. Strange, but for once the booming mirth that poured from Buck Wilmington's mouth grated on his nerves.
Something was decidedly off here and it irked Ezra as well as piqued his insatiable curiosity. The southerner prided himself on knowing these men well, better than even they realized, and the fact that something was definitely amiss could not fail to go unnoticed. A master at reading faces and in the fine art of body language, Ezra found himself perturbed by the tight lines at the edges of Buck's mouth, the tense set to JD's shoulders and the way the large, hazel eyes kept flittering across the room to seek out the weathered doors of the busy saloon. Even Josiah, who sat beside the younger man, seemed more somber than was his customary manner.
Only Judge Orrin Travis and his traveling companion appeared to be at ease, the older man's imposing figure leaning forward in the chair so that his elbows rested on the table. A mug of beer was cradled between his hands, a tolerant expression covering the lines of his weather-beaten features. Collar length salt and pepper hair was slicked back from his craggy brow; his dark eyes were lit with intelligence and an inner fire that reflected the strength of his personality. In contrast, the slightly shorter man beside him remained somewhat of a mystery.
Introduced briefly as Arnold Davies, a friend of Judge Travis', Ezra couldn't quite get a read on the man. There was something about him that seemed to defy the gambler's skills, a smoothness in his manner and appearance that was just too slick, too glib, too artificial, as if the friendly outward demeanor was hiding something sinister. As if, Ezra realized, the man were perhaps a charlatan or a con artist like himself, and it set his teeth on edge, watching as his friends socialized with the recent arrival.
"JD, you couldn't tell a good joke if yer life depended on it," Buck asserted with a big, indulgent smile.
"Aw, come on, Buck!" JD protested, his youthful face brimming with outrage. "I tell great jokes and you know it. Just ‘cause you didn't get the one about the three-legged dog is no reason to..."
"Oh, I got it all right," the scoundrel assured him, nodding, his blue eyes twinkling as he glanced to Josiah for support. "It just wasn't funny, right, Josiah?"
The gray-haired man's face screwed up in an expression half way between a smile and a grimace. "A jest's prosperity lies in the ear."
Scowling, JD puffed his chest out, full of righteous indignation. "All right then, why don't we let Judge Travis decide," he declared, certain he could prove his point. "I'll tell a joke, then you tell one, Buck, and then we'll let him decide which one of us tells it best."
"JD, son..." Buck sighed, shaking his head sadly, "when it comes to competin' against ol' Buck here, well, you just ain't even in the same race, kid."
"What's the matter, Buck? Scared?" JD taunted, grinning from ear to ear. He had a whole passel of new jokes and was just itching to share them. "I'll even go first," he volunteered, one hand slapping the slick wooden table.
"Gentlemen, I think perhaps..." Travis began only to be interrupted by a restraining hand on his forearm. He turned an inquiring gaze to the man beside him and subsided as Davies indicated that he was interested in the ongoing friendly debate.
"You're gonna love this one, Judge," JD predicted, his eyes glowing with excitement. "Here goes...A string walks into a bar and asks for a shot of whiskey. The bartender says ‘Sorry, we don't serve strings' so the string leaves. The same string comes back the next day and asks for a shot of whiskey. The bartender says ‘Sorry, we don't serve strings, you'll have to leave.' The next day, the string comes back and decides to try something different. So he ties himself in a knot and unravels one end. He goes in the bar and asks for a shot of whiskey. The bartender says ‘Hey, ain't you the same string that's been comin' in here all the time?' and the string replies...No, I'm a frayed knot!"
Silence spilled around the table as JD held his breath, waiting expectantly, obviously disappointed when not even a single one of them laughed.
"Get it? I'm a-frayed-knot... afraid not..." he encouraged, hazel eyes gleaming.
Feeling a bit awkward, Josiah harrumphed softly and then took a sip from his beer while Judge Travis' face remained absolutely impassive. The dark eyes gave no clue to what he was thinking, the man's expression completely unreadable.
"JD, son..." Buck began, shaking his head again, his exasperation obvious.
"Aw, come on...that's a great joke!" Frustration clouded JD's gaze and he seemed to deflate, sinking back into his chair with a loud and obvious sigh of disgust. Sticking out his lower lip in a pout, he muttered, "You guys just don't have a sense of humor."
"Actually," Josiah contradicted, his deep voice rumbling and smooth, "I've been told I have a great sense of humor...when I hear something funny."
JD shot him a dark look and would have made a scathing comeback except for the firm hand that landed on his forearm. "Mr. Dunne...JD, if I may," Arnold Davies interjected politely, "I happened to enjoy your little story, however, it's hardly fair to ask Orrin for his judicial opinion when he has yet to hear from the other side."
And as easy as that, JD's ruffled feathers were quickly soothed. He leaned forward in his chair, took up his mug of beer and crossed his arms on the table expectantly.
"All right, Buck," he nodded his head. "Let's hear what ya got!"
"JD, I dun tole ya..."
"Might as well put up or shut up, Buck." The big ex-preacher decided to play a bit of the Devil's advocate himself, his merriment showing in the wide grin that twisted his features. Leave it to JD to put a burr under Buck's thick hide and who was he to pass up the God-sent opportunity to watch the ladies' man squirm?
"All right," Buck finally nodded, one finger stroking his dark mustache thoughtfully. "All right, I got one...There's this Mexican bandit who was always crossing the Rio Grande an' robbin' banks down in Texas. He was pretty good at it fer awhile but then somebody got smart an' put a price on his head. Along comes this ol' bounty hunter who decides ta track him down. Now, it took awhile but he finally caught up with the fella at his favorite cantina havin' a shot of tequila. He sneaks up behind him an' puts his trusty six-shooter to the man's head and says, ‘Yer under arrest. Tell me where ya hid the loot or I'll blow yer brains out.'"
A loud snort interrupted his tale as JD exclaimed, "Shoot, Buck, that ain't even funny!"
"Hush up, kid," Buck ordered, his eyes narrowed. "I ain't done yet...Now the problem is that this bandit, see, he don't speak English an' the bounty hunter, well, he don't speak Spanish, so neither one of ‘em knows what the heck the other is sayin'." He edged forward in his chair, clearly warming to the story. "Now here's the good part. There's this judge passing through town an' he just happens to speak English *and* Spanish so he offers to help ‘em out. He tells the bandit what the bounty hunter said an' then the bandit gets so scared, he tells the judge the loot is buried under a tree out back of the cantina."
Smirking openly now, Buck paused and took a sip of his beer. He casually eyed his audience, making sure he had their full attention. "Well, after the bandit says something in Spanish, the bounty hunter asks the judge, ‘What'd he say?'...Well, the judge being a smart man ‘n all, he answers... ‘He said—Get lost, gringo. You ain't got th'balls ta shoot me!'"
The punch line delivered, Buck sat back and plastered a wide grin across his face, soft chuckles escaping from between his lips as he waited for their reaction. The twinkle in his blue eyes faded however, as one after one, the four other men failed to even crack a smile. Finally, it was JD who broke the pregnant silence.
"Is that it? That's your joke?" he quizzed, eyebrows raised. "It's not even funny, Buck."
"No, now wait, JD," Buck objected, one hand waving in the air. "You obviously don't get it. See, the judge speaks Spanish so he tricks..."
"I get it, Buck," JD assured him, his face twisted into a grimace of annoyance. "I get it and it ain't funny."
"Is too!" Buck shot back. "Josiah?"
The older man raised both his hands in protest. "I'm just an innocent bystander." He gave them a toothy grin and went back to enjoying his beer.
"Hah!" JD exploded. "See, I told you. My joke was better."
"Says who?" the other man challenged.
"Judge?"
All eyes at the table turned to regard Orrin Travis who, so far throughout this battle of wits, had kept his own counsel. They waited a bit impatiently as he appeared to ponder the matter. The keen eyes flicked from one man to the other then back again, weighing each in appearance as well as in words, finally reaching a decision as the wise head slowly nodded.
"Gentlemen, I think there is insufficient evidence for me to render a fair and impartial ruling. I, therefore, declare a mistrial and announce that this court is hereby adjourned." With that, he tapped his beer mug heavily on the table in a fairly good imitation of banging his judge's gavel on his desk. "Now, if you don't mind, I believe I'm going to go see my grandson and hear all about his day at school."
Having said that, Judge Orrin Travis set down his mug and pushed back from the table. The scrape of the chair legs seemed overly loud despite the noise still filling the saloon. A quick glance to the Judge's left showed him that Arnold Davies was in the process of doing the same, the two men moving to stand up as one. Travis anticipated the words of complaint that teetered on the edge of JD's tongue, silencing the younger man with an imperious wave of his hand.
"My decision is final," he stated firmly, straightening his shoulders and standing tall.
"Aw, come on...Mr. Davies?" the dark-headed youth implored even as Buck sniggered into his glass of beer, his broad shoulders shaking with mirth.
"I'm sorry," came the polite reply that accompanied a wide, gracious smile. "Like your friend, Mr. Sanchez here, I'm just an innocent bystander. I'm afraid I really can't afford to become involved in local territorial disputes."
JD frowned, his dark brows drawing together in confusion, while Josiah guffawed loudly behind his hand. What in the heck did territorial disputes have to do with who could tell the best joke? The young man's frown deepened, a touch of irritation mixed in with the hazel of his eyes as JD decided that once again, his friends were laughing at him and he wasn't sure why.
"I'll say good evening now, gentlemen," Judge Travis saluted. "And if you happen to see Mr. Larabee, would you please ask him to join me for dinner at the hotel. I have some business I'd like to discuss with him at his earliest possible convenience."
"Sure thing, Judge," Buck asserted, already mentally calculating the time since Vin had ridden out after the wayward gunslinger and reckoning it was pretty close to being long enough for both men to be returning some time soon. And as for the Judge's request for Chris to join him for dinner, Buck wasn't a fool. He knew better than to suppose it was anything less than an order. His mouth twitched slightly, wondering just how Chris would react to receiving such an order from the Judge, let alone one that was delivered secondhand. Larabee's temper was testy at best these days, he admitted silently, ever since Ella Gaines rode into town and sent Chris to hell and back again.
Quickly shrugging off those dark thoughts, Buck grinned and exchanged good nights with the Judge and his guest who then moved away towards the exit. JD, however, had to try one last time to win what he still considered the ongoing contest.
"Hey, Judge?" he called out, garnering more than his fair share of attention. "Why did the trail boss fire the bow-legged cowboy?"
Travis stopped and half turned in his direction, one eyebrow lifted, an indication that the older man was at the very least listening. Davies stood quietly beside him, brown eyes directed at the brash young man, an indulgent look upon his features.
When the Judge didn't answer, JD supplied, "Because he couldn't keep his calves together!"
There was a general chorus of loud hoots and catcalls as the two older men then turned to leave. But JD never saw them go. He was too busy ducking the large hand that swung across the table at him. Buck's palm slapped him on the side of the head and sent him reeling directly into Josiah's broad shoulder. JD's cry of protest was weak as he laughed and grinned good-naturedly while trying to regain his balance. He ran one hand over the dark strands of his hair to smooth them back into place, hazel eyes lifting from beneath the veil of his bangs to find blue eyes smiling fondly back at him.
The approval he saw written there warmed his heart and JD nodded, accepting Buck's silent thanks for keeping Judge Travis...and his friend...distracted while they waited for the errant Larabee to show.
At his customary table across the room, Ezra Standish watched as the two men left, a wisp of a smile on his lips at the clownish antics of his friends. Releasing a held breath, he slipped the deck of cards back into the pocket of his favorite red jacket. The gambler then downed the rest of his whiskey in one smooth swallow, rose to his feet and slipped quietly from the room. A slight grimace twisted his mouth as Ezra melted into the night, knowing Maude would be absolutely appalled by this sudden indulgence of his curiosity.
It was after dusk by the time Chris rode slowly into town and the night watch fires were burning softly. Dancing flames threw flickering shadows of orange and yellow light against the wooden walls and reflected warmly off smooth panes of leaded glass. A thick layer of gray haze hovered above the dusty street, the tangy smell of wood smoke carried and lifted by the hint of an evening breeze. The town itself lay silent, calm and sleepy, its sidewalks and alleys nearly deserted. It was the time of evening when most folks were having dinner or gathered in the saloon for drinks and a bit of friendly conversation.
The tall, dark figure on the black horse that appeared out of the shadows would have been cause for concern if the silhouette of the rider were not so immediately familiar, the black clothes, the long duster, the distinctive hat brim and the pale features hidden just beneath it. Sighing with obvious relief, Buck rose from his chair in front of the sheriff's office, stepping forward into the light to acknowledge his oldest friend. The two men exchanged a nod of greeting as Larabee approached, a quick grimace crossing Buck's face when he realized the gunslinger was alone.
Where in the hell was Vin?
He then shrugged mentally, just barely restraining the urge to shake his head, knowing the missing tracker would show up whenever and wherever the man chose. But lately, there was no way of telling exactly when that would be. Damn scrawny, long-haired cuss had a habit of just turning up, appearing out of thin air like something out of a magic show he'd once seen or maybe one of those Indian spirits Tanner was so fond of telling them all about. Damned if he knew how the sorry sonuvabitch did it too.
Pasting a small smile on his face, Buck answered Chris's question before the other man could even ask it. "Hotel...wants ya to join him for dinner...said it's business..."
Chris didn't speak, didn't even slow his horse; he merely nodded his head again and tapped his heels against the dark flanks. The gelding broke into a slow trot and moved off down the street, Buck's worried gaze following the stiff length of Chris's spine. This time, the ladies' man did allow himself a shake of his dark head, having seen all too clearly, in spite of the shadows, the gaunt features and the deep circles of exhaustion etched beneath Chris's eyes.
"And God said: It is not good that the man should be alone." Josiah's voice resonated in the quiet air as the large figure stepped up beside him. Buck turned to regard the older man, a curious light in his eyes at his choice of solemn words.
"More Bible philo-so-phizin', J'siah?"
"Yeah," the ex-preacher scoffed, his own gaze fixed on the solitary shadow moving down the street. "Genesis...Old Testament...when the good Lord first created Man and Woman..."
"Yeah, well," Buck intoned softly, "I don't reckon ol' Chris listens much to the good Lord these days. Reckon he figgers God has turned a deaf ear to him fer so long, he's just returning the favor."
A tempered disquiet was evident on Josiah's face as he replied, "Amen to that, brother. Amen to that." Sighing then, he stepped down into the street and headed across to the saloon, leaving Buck standing alone in the shifting light and play of shadows.
Reining in his horse beside the doors of the livery, Chris slowly dismounted, all the while aware of the watchful eyes following his progress. He knew his friends were worried about him, appreciated their concern, but some things...some burdens...were best carried alone. They weren't meant to be shared, didn't deserve to be shared. Especially when he had no one to blame but himself for the recent set of circumstances that had nearly gotten all of them killed. If only he hadn't...if he had just...
Swearing softly, Chris ruthlessly cut off the downward spiraling thoughts that had ruled his days and nights for the last three months. Three months since that bitch had ridden back into his life and...goddamn it! Why the hell couldn't he think of anything else? Why couldn't he let it go?
Why wouldn't she leave him be?
"Evenin', Mr. Larabee."
With a terse nod of his head, Chris handed the reins of his horse to the large bulk of a man who greeted him. As the hostler led the black gelding away, one of the gunslinger's hands snaked out and retrieved his saddlebags. Tossing them over his shoulder, he spun on one booted heel and stalked across the empty street towards the town's single restaurant. The chink of his spurs was muted in the thick gray air, small puffs of dry dust ghosting behind him as he walked.
Climbing the rough wooden steps, Chris slipped through the half open door of the boarding house and walked across the lobby to the desk. Virginia's rented out rooms to boarders but it also doubled as a hotel and boasted the only decent eating place left in town other than the saloon. Hefting his bags off his shoulder, the gunslinger deposited them on the polished mahogany surface, nodding a polite greeting to the clerk who took the leather bags even as he retrieved Chris's room key from its usual resting place.
"I'll take these upstairs for you, Mr. Larabee," the young man offered. "Judge Travis is in having dinner and asked that you please join him."
Frowning, the gunslinger turned away, sparing a brief thought for the trail dust covering his clothes and then deciding he didn't particularly care. If Orrin Travis was so all-fired anxious to see him that he'd told half the town his business, then who was he to keep the older man waiting?
Sighing, Chris stepped across the lobby, the rich smells of fried chicken and baked beans, homemade rolls and apple cobbler wafting in the air. His stomach rumbled noisily, but he didn't really feel like eating. Truth be told, he didn't have much of an appetite these days, not since...
Damn it.
Green eyes narrowed in irritation as Chris clenched his jaw, a muscle ticking in the side of his face. Shoulders squared, back straight, he fought to contain his errant thoughts.
"Chris, glad you could join us," the Judge called out as he spied the tall blond standing in the doorway. The older man was seated at a table on one side of the entrance, his daughter-in-law, Mary, beside him and another man sitting just opposite. Resigned to the inevitable, Chris pasted a slight smile on his face and moved to join them. Orrin Travis gained his feet as the gunman approached.
"Evenin', Judge." Chris extended his right hand and shook the one offered. "Mary," he nodded, not quite meeting her eyes.
"Arnold," the Judge continued. "This is the gentleman I was telling you about, Chris Larabee." The smaller man gained his feet as well, one hand extended to grip Chris's as introductions were made. "Chris, this is a friend of mine from Santa Fe, Arnold Davies."
"Mr. Davies," Larabee politely acknowledged.
"A pleasure, sir," the man returned. "Orrin has told me quite a bit about you. I've been looking forward to making your acquaintance."
Chris wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that and settled instead for pulling out the remaining chair. Removing his hat and duster, he set them aside and lowered his lanky frame into the seat. Grimacing slightly, he ran one hand through the length of his blond hair, unconsciously straightening the tousled strands. After they were all seated again, an empty plate was set before him and a platter of fried chicken inserted itself into his field of vision.
"It's good to see you again, Chris," Mary Travis murmured.
He could feel her pale blue eyes searching his face and was thankful that she added nothing more. However, Chris was certain he detected a note of censure in her voice. A bit embarrassed, he nodded his head, refusing to look up, not wanting to see the gentle reproach he knew resided in her gaze. It was bad enough he'd made a fool of himself in front of this woman, not to mention an entire town, but to be the object of her pity, her disappointment, was more than he could bear.
Even though he wasn't really hungry, Chris helped himself to a couple of pieces of chicken then took the platter from Mary and passed it to Arnold Davies. An awkward silence ensued while plates were refilled, dishes passed and coffee poured. Orrin Travis then cleared his throat, smiling slightly as he resumed their conversation.
"Arnold was just telling us about his trip to Washington. It seems there are certain parties there who are very interested in seeing this territory finally become a state."
Chris paused in taking a sip of coffee, a small frown quirking his lips, his brows slightly furrowed. Statehood, state's rights, cattlemen's rights, farmer's rights, becoming a part of the Union. Yeah, that was a pretty hot political topic at the moment and it was not that long ago that those very same issues had almost gotten Ezra Standish and Mary Travis killed. All compliments of one Governor Clayton Hopewell and his bid for re-election.
For himself, Chris couldn't have cared less. He had no feelings about the matter of statehood one way or the other. But when it threatened the lives of people he cared about, the fight became something a bit more important, more personal. And there was still the matter of the unclaimed ten thousand dollars that Judge Travis was holding in trust, all of it blood money paid to a hired assassin who had failed in the performance of his duty. An assassin Chris knew for a fact was hired by Clayton Hopewell though he had loudly denied it with all the braying confidence of a Missouri mule. It was just too bad they'd had no hard evidence against the man, proof positive that he was guilty of the crime of murder as well as murder for hire. Letting that one go still burned in Chris's gut, the battle left unfinished...much like his own even more personal battle with that lying, deceitful bitch, Ella Gaines.
What little appetite Chris had completely deserted him at the thought of the woman who had made his life a living hell. A heavy knot, more painful than any punch to the gut he'd ever endured, then settled in his stomach, the food on his plate turning to wet sawdust in his mouth. Chris chewed slowly and methodically, uncaring of what he ate, tasting little, simply going through the motions that were obviously expected of him.
"The capital is absolutely beautiful this time of year," Davies added, oblivious to the gunman's silent discomfort. "If I didn't love Santa Fe so much, I could probably be tempted to move back there."
The rest of the conversation then centered around the weather, the heat out west and the cooler temperatures back east, and all the wonderful and exciting places to see and visit in the thriving metropolis of Washington, D.C. Chris listened with only half an ear, responding just enough in all the right places to make it appear as if he was interested. Apparently, the Judge was content to discuss their business after the meal was through and Chris sighed internally, resolving himself to wait.
Finally, dessert was finished and another round of coffee poured and Chris glanced up in surprise as Mary Travis excused herself to put her son to bed. The three men stood, bade her goodnight and then resumed their respective seats. There was a moment of difficult silence before Judge Travis lightly cleared his throat.
"I think, gentlemen, that perhaps something stronger than coffee may be in order before we discuss our private business." Turning, he signaled to the proprietor and a bottle of good whiskey was swiftly procured. Hefting his full shot glass, Travis leaned back in his chair and continued, "A toast if I may...to good company, a fine meal...and an even better glass of whiskey."
Davies gave a hearty chuckle before touching his glass to Orrin's and tossing back his drink with a satisfying belch. And while Chris appreciated the fiery burn that made its way down into his gullet and warmed him from the inside, he was much less obvious in his enjoyment of the good liquor, sipping it slowly as he bided his time.
Travis's eyes appraised the younger man impassively, his dark gaze betraying nothing of his thoughts. "Arnold is a lawyer in Santa Fe, Chris. He's very interested in what you can tell him about that business with Clayton Hopewell a few months back."
Larabee was a bit startled by the request. Eyes narrowed, he very carefully set down his whiskey, all the while chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek. He eased back in his chair, one long leg crossing lazily over the other as his index finger scratched at the fabric of the tablecloth. A few moments passed before finally, Chris murmured, "Why is a lawyer from Santa Fe so interested in Clayton Hopewell?"
He didn't miss the silent exchange between the two men, suspicion tickling down the length of the gunslinger's spine, his gut telling him something more was going on here than met the eye. What was it that he didn't know? What weren't they telling him? Was Hopewell planning a second attempt on the life of Mary Travis? Or was something even more sinister going on? It gave Chris a decided feeling of unease, made him noticeably uncomfortable, something that not even Judge Travis' trusted presence could soothe.
Finally, Davies gave a short laugh. "An excellent question, Mr. Larabee—Chris—if I may?" then continued before the blond could answer. "Let's just say I have a vested interest in Governor's Hopewell's affairs and I'd like to hear your version of the events that transpired."
Pensive green eyes narrowed, measuring, before Chris softly replied, "Why not ask Mary? She was the intended target." There was also the fact that she was the daughter-in-law of his good and trusted friend, Orrin Travis.
A smile, clearly meant to pacify, appeared on the older man's narrow face. "Well, no insult intended to Mrs. Travis but..." The smile grew, pale gray eyes turning in Travis's direction, "...after all, she's just a woman. Last time I checked, this is still a man's world and I need to hear a man's point of view...from you."
Chris didn't much care for the condescending tone that Davies used when speaking of Mary Travis. After all, he considered the blond newspaper woman to be a friend. Mary was smart, bright, well-educated, with a quick intelligence and a keen sense of justice. And given how she'd ridden into the hellhole of Purgatorio to find him not all that long ago, she had more guts than just about any man Chris knew. To have her thoughts and feelings so easily discounted simply because she was a woman grated harshly on the gunslinger's nerves. It bothered him as well that Travis, her own father-in-law, said nothing in her defense. Chris chose his words carefully, keeping his account clear and concise.
"Hopewell wants to stay governor but he's dead set against statehood. He hired Long-Range Lucius Stutz to kill important people like Mary Travis who support it. Problem was, Stutz died before earning his blood money. His boy tried to finish the job but Hopewell's people killed him before we got proof. The Judge has the ten thousand dollars we found."
Davies thought for a moment before asking, "What about Hopewell himself? What were your impressions of him as a man?"
Chris thought the question a bit odd and the look on his face must have betrayed his thoughts.
"I'm asking, Chris, because like yourself, I don't believe in going into a fight without knowing what I'm up against. If I take on Clayton Hopewell for the job of territorial governor, then I need to know everything there is to know about the man and his private business *and* the people who work for him."
Quick green eyes flicked to Travis's face, searching, reading next to nothing behind the impenetrable granite features. The man might as well have been carved out of stone. Finally, Chris replied, "He's smart, ruthless, won't let nobody or nothin' stand in his way. You go up against him, you'll have to be quicker, smarter, slicker. And you'd better have somebody you trust to watch your back or he'll put a bullet right through you."
Arnold Davies seemed momentarily taken aback by the gunslinger's harsh assessment but the cold expression on the younger man's face gave truth to the bluntness of his words. Davies mulled them over, one hand rubbing absently back and forth beneath his nose. He reached for his glass of whiskey, scowled when he found it empty, his fingers noticeably trembling as he lifted the amber colored bottle. Pouring himself another drink, he sat back, deep in thought, weighing his options as he sipped the tepid liquor.
Finally, decision reached, he spoke in a somber tone. "Well, then...I guess I'll just have to do my best to be prepared, won't I?..." then glanced at the man to his right as Travis solemnly nodded his head.
A distinct, pungent smell then wafted over the three men, Larabee's nose wrinkling in disgust before a thickly accented voice said, "Excuse me, please...Mr. Larabee?"
The gunslinger looked up, noticing right away the disheveled appearance of the older man now standing beside their table. The newcomer's eyes switched back and forth between the trio, clearly not knowing which was the man he sought.
"That'd be me," the blond responded cautiously, doing his best not to back away from the man and the nauseating smell that emanated from him. The small amount of food in Larabee's stomach seemed to roll over in silent protest.
"De tell me you are da law, yah?"
Chris couldn't help the faint scowl that marred his features, aware of the curious looks from Davies and Travis. "Not a lawman," he replied evasively. "Just paid to keep the peace ‘round here. Somethin' I can do for you?"
"Yah," the man replied, his relief obvious. "My name is Gunter Larsen...and I need your help, please."
Outside beneath a heavenly body of softly glittering stars, Vin Tanner pulled out his battered harmonica and gently blew a tuneless melody. The easy notes soothed his nerves and brought a sense of peace to fill his restless soul. Perched atop the roof of Potter's Dry Goods store, the tracker sat relaxing his lanky frame against the painted wooden sign. From this spot, he could see the comings and goings of the entire town and yet still remain out of sight, all the while letting his keen eyes survey the street and mostly deserted sidewalks below.
Whether it was man, beast or Mother Earth, it never ceased to amaze Tanner just how much a man could learn by simply letting himself watch. His sharp gaze had seen Judge Travis heading for the town's only restaurant with his daughter-in-law, Mary, and another man beside him. He'd smiled to himself a few minutes later as Ezra slipped in unnoticed behind them, sparing a bit of curiosity as to why the fancy gambler wasn't at the saloon rustling up his usual evening game of poker.
The dark figure of Chris Larabee rode in not long after and Vin had watched the nearly wordless exchange with Buck, seen Josiah's larger presence step forward as Larabee moved on. The ex-preacher had then made his way across the street and into the brightly lit saloon. JD was already inside; he'd seen the younger man skitter across the street just before sundown, backing away from Buck while grinning and laughing at something the older man said. Vin also knew that Nathan was nowhere to be found. The former slave was still out at the village, tending to Tastanagi's people, spending time with the young woman who had so obviously captured his interest.
Sighing quietly, Vin couldn't help but wish for some time away himself. Things were getting too close, too crowded, too many folks pressing in on him. He was getting that itch to move on, the feeling of wanderlust growing, the urge to pack his things, climb on his horse and set out alone again building with each passing day.
So why did he stay? What was stopping him? What held him here?
But even as he'd thought it, Vin already knew. He had six reasons for staying, six very personal and important reasons. Six men he considered his blood brothers and closest friends in the entire world. Six men who depended on him to watch their backs and who in turn watched his. They didn't always all get along, an occasional fight or disagreement making for a bit of a bumpy road, but their loyalty to each other went far beyond words. It went far beyond what most folks could even understand.
And one of those men had become even more important to him than the others.
That man was his best friend, Chris Larabee.
Turning his head, Vin had let his gaze follow the progress of the solitary figure in black, watched the man dismount, take his saddlebags and then disappear through the doors of the hotel. There was no mistaking the slump of exhaustion to those broad shoulders or the harsh bend of the once proud neck. Chris moved like an old man, as if he had the weight of the world resting upon him, and it was obvious that the burden was becoming more than the gunslinger could bear.
Vin had never before dared to think of Chris as fragile but it looked as if the events of the last few months were dangerously close to breaking him. The other man's body had long since healed but Larabee's soul was obviously still wounded and bleeding. Ever since Ella Gaines rode into town, her sick obsession with the taciturn blond revealing the truth behind the murders of his wife and son, her twisted schemes to trick Chris into taking a permanent place in her life, at her side, controlling him, manipulating him...
...nearly getting him killed.
Vin still shuddered every time he remembered the cry of pain that fell from his friend's lips as Jack Averill's bullet found its mark inside of Larabee's chest. And his stomach churned with anger every time he remembered the look of self-loathing and naked grief in Chris's green eyes as he admitted what she'd done and why. The lying, deceitful bitch deserved to die and Vin was furious at himself for not finding Ella afterwards.
God, how he had wanted to be the one to put a bullet in her! To see the knowledge of her own death enter those crazed dark eyes, to know she was going to pay for what she'd done to Chris, for what she'd taken from him, that Sarah and Adam Larabee would finally have their justice...could finally rest in peace.
So that his best friend could finally find some peace.
Josiah had once told him that vengeance belonged to the Lord, but Vin had no problem with being the deliverer of a higher justice. He only wished he'd had the chance, only wished that he'd succeeded. He'd returned to town with a heavy heart, empty-handed and disappointed, feeling as though he'd somehow failed his friend. First, he'd been unable to convince Chris that the woman was lying, that she was using him to create her own perfect fantasy world with Larabee as the prize. Then, he'd failed to track her down, hadn't brought her back to pay for what she'd done, to face justice, to face Larabee's wrath. Instead, he'd been a silent witness to Chris's distress, to his deep-seated pain and unending torment as that damning letter fell from the gunman's numbed right hand.
Ella Gaines-Larabee.
Crazy, lying bitch.
Sighing, Vin had to admit that he was also disgusted with himself. What the hell kind of tracker was he that one small woman could simply slip away from him like that? No sign, no trace, not even a hoof print. It was like she'd simply sprouted wings and flown away.
And maybe she had. Maybe she was one of those shape shifters, a skin walker, like his Comanche grandfather used to tell him about. Vin could all too easily imagine her dark, beady eyes narrowing with malice as she shifted into the shape of a crow, the cruel line of her mouth twisted into a sharp, pointed beak, the long tresses of her hair smoothed out into layers of shiny, black feathers that glistened in the noonday sun. Her delicate hands would form a pair of wings, her small feet a set of claws complete with bloodied, razor-sharp talons. He shivered at the mental image, wondering briefly why he'd chosen that vision, knowing all too well that the People believed crows were a sign of death.
But then again, perhaps it was appropriate, for in her own right, Ella had represented a kind of death. The death of all Chris's hopes and dreams of finding justice for his family, for finding a reason behind their senseless killings, for finding a way to live with himself without feeling like he was responsible. All of that had come crashing to an end that day at Ella's ranch house, inside that locked upstairs room where she kept her secret shrine to the man she professed to love. God, what a sick and twisted bitch!
There had been other deaths that day too. All the hired gunmen who'd been shot and killed while carrying out her plan; the young woman, Hilda, who had died while trying to protect Buck. Larabee himself had nearly ended up dead and sometimes Vin wondered if that might not have been far kinder than this slow lingering death that Chris seemed intent on trying to court. As far as he could tell, the man hardly ate, never slept, talked even less than before and was drifting further and further away from them with every day that passed.
And that was something else the tracker had to thank Ella Gaines for, the destruction of his ‘family'. It had all started when Chris announced he was staying with her after the job was through. Things had gone downhill from there and now, well, now Vin was thinking about leaving himself, unsure of what the future held, not willing to wait until he wore out his welcome in this town or some bounty hunter came looking for him when he no longer had someone watching his back. Chris and Nathan were gone most of the time. Josiah was busy working on his church. Ezra frequently rode down to Eagle Bend in search of easier pickings. Only Buck and JD still seemed content to call this place their home.
Vin just wished he knew where in the hell that left him. Shit. Maybe it *was* time for him to be moving on.
Exhaling, the tracker blew another soft note through his harmonica, his pensive gaze turning once again to the dusty street below. A shadowed figure made its way up the far sidewalk, pausing here and there to glance about uncertainly. Blue eyes narrowed, Vin followed its progress, noting the tattered clothing and the tired, limping gait. A shaft of yellow light reflected off haggard features, silvered hair and searching eyes. The man slipped into the saloon only to reappear a moment later, heading up the deserted street with a more determined stride. Curiosity burned in Vin's gut as he watched the stranger enter the hotel.
Some instinct, or perhaps it was simply a need to watch his best friend's back, urged the tracker to give up his perch. A moment later, his lean form slipped quietly into the depths of a darkened alleyway, then just as silently disappeared into the deepening shadows of the night.
Chris Larabee's disposition had not improved any by the time he exited the hotel. In fact, it was decidedly worse. The scowl etched on the handsome face would have sent a wise man running for cover. His cold green eyes blazed with a furious light. Tightly controlled anger slashed the line of his nearly bloodless lips, his shadowed features seeming to be carved as if from solid stone. Long, black clad legs ate up the dusty ground as he strode rapidly up the street, his steps quick, sharp and determined. Tension vibrated throughout the length of his tall, slender frame, Larabee's spine set stiff and ramrod straight.
"Goddamn it all to hell anyways," the blond cursed silently. This was fucking bullshit and he really wasn't in the mood for any of this crap right now. What in the hell was Orrin Travis thinking when he'd offered to help this Gunter Larsen? And since when did any man this side of the Mississippi give a damn about a bunch of dirty, smelly, stinkin' sheep? Everybody knew this was cattle country, always had been, always would be. Men like Lucas James and Guy Royal ruled their spreads with an iron fist. Poachers, rustlers and trespassers were usually shot on sight. No questions asked. So then just what in the hell was a *sheep farmer* doing all the way out here?
Christ.
He'd hired on with this bunch of misfits to protect the people of this little backwater town, to keep the peace, maintain some semblance of law and order. Now, Travis was sending him to track down and kill whatever it was that had attacked the Dutchman's sheep. It slaughtered six of them, ripped their throats out from what the other man had described. And just what in the hell kind of a wild animal went on a killing spree like that, not even stopping to feed, leaving carcasses and blood scattered all over the place?
A wolf? A cougar perhaps? Maybe a bear?
Shit. How in the hell should he know? He might have been a rancher once but he'd never even heard of this kind of thing. Besides, he wasn't a goddamned tracker. That was Vin's job. He'd never signed on to chase down wild animals and protect a bunch of sheep, never hired his gun out for that. But Travis was insistent, absolutely adamant about it, claiming that whatever it was that had killed those sheep could easily bring down a calf, perhaps even move closer to town. Maybe attack a man or woman, kill a child, become a serious threat to the safety of the community.
And that fat weasel, Arnold Davies, just sat silently beside the Judge...grinning.
Bastards. Both of them.
"Aw, hell!" the gunslinger growled softly. He needed a good, stiff drink.
Shoving his way through the batwing doors of the saloon, Chris ignored the looks he received, sneering silently at those who wisely scurried out of his path. He stalked across the room to the bar and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. Nodding to the barkeep, he snatched a glass from behind the counter and poured himself a shot before quickly tossing it back. The fiery liquor burned its way downward and he grimaced, full lips curled back in a nearly silent hiss. His blond head whipped sharply around, seeking.
Spying JD at a table to his right, Chris snarled, "Where's Vin?"
The younger man was a bit startled by the dark expression on the gunslinger's face and the harshness of his words. He dropped his fork into his plate, wiped his mouth with a checkered napkin and stammered, "D-don't know...ain't seen him since this afternoon."
Chris turned to pour himself another drink. "Find ‘im," he ordered. When JD didn't move quite fast enough, Larabee looked back, eyes gleaming coldly. "NOW."
Under the gunslinger's icy glare, JD nearly tripped as he clambered to his feet, his gun belt catching the edge of the table and almost turning it over. The dishes rattled loudly and the young man's face colored with embarrassment at his clumsiness. Leaving his meal half-eaten, JD quickly snatched up his jacket and hat and hurried out the door. After he was gone, Chris berated himself for his churlish behavior, feeling a bit guilty for the unwarranted display of temper. JD was a good kid; he didn't deserve that. Sighing with resignation, the gunman went back to sipping his whiskey, eyeing his own reflection in the mirror and not liking what he saw.
A short time later, a large, familiar presence inserted itself beside him, bumping his left shoulder, invading his space. One big hand reached out and helped itself to the open bottle of redeye. Golden amber liquid filled a second shot glass.
"Somethin' goin' on I should know about?" Buck questioned, his worried gaze taking in the strain on his oldest friend's face. Having finished his evening meal, Buck had been sitting at a table in the far corner playing a game of cards with Josiah, flirting some with a pretty little thing named Darlene. He'd seen Chris's stormy entrance, heard the softly snarled command, had seen JD take off running like a scared little rabbit heading for its hidey-hole. What the heck was going on?
"Nothin' here in town," Chris replied, his voice rough with the burn of liquor. The blond continued to stare in the mirror, unwilling to meet the other man's eyes, not wanting to see the concern or the silent accusation that resided there. Buck had seen how he'd treated JD.
But Buck just nodded his dark head wisely, his elbows resting on the bar as he took a sip from his glass. "That's good," he answered evenly, clearly waiting for Chris to offer more, but Larabee was being his usual ornery, tight-lipped self. "What'd th'Judge want?" Buck prodded, all the while gauging just how far he dared to push the other man.
Larabee was silent for a long moment, and then finally he glanced down. Bowing his head, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion and he reached up with one hand to rub along the back of his neck. God, he was tired. Closing his eyes, Chris allowed himself to lean heavily into the bar, wanting nothing more at that moment than a hot bath, a bed and lots and lots of whiskey.
"His friend, Davies, wanted to know about that business with Hopewell a few months back," he explained.
One dark eyebrow lifted in surprise as the ladies man turned sideways, his left elbow now resting on the bar, his long frame propped against the edge. "Whatever for?"
"Don't know for sure," Chris admitted, opening his eyes and finally turning to look at his friend. "Seems the man has some ideas about running for governor himself. Guess he's just trying to find out what he's up against."
Buck snorted at that. "Hopewell ain't nothin' but a lowdown, no-good, filthy sidewinder. A man goin' up against him is like to get himself snakebit."
"Yep," Chris agreed as he turned to refill his drink, feeling the warmth from the alcohol moving through him, spreading heat to his arms and legs. He could also feel a slight buzz starting to dull his senses, relaxing him, helping him to unwind and take the edge off his anger and his irritation.
"And that's all the Judge wanted? Seems ta me like an awful lotta fuss ta go to when that Davies fella coulda just asked Ms. Travis."
Chris turned then, clearly annoyed, his mouth quirking in a bit of a derogatory smirk. "Seems Mr. Davies don't think much of the female opinion ‘round here," he supplied, cold green eyes conveying his contempt for the lawyer's ignorance.
Wilmington's blue eyes sparked, then began to twinkle merrily, his full lips twitching beneath the cover of his thick mustache. He couldn't hold back the chuckle that worked its way up from deep inside his chest. "Oh, I just bet that went over real well with Miss Mary," he stated, his voice filled with barely contained mirth.
The blonde newspaperwoman was one feisty lady, smart, sassy, independent, and Buck could easily imagine the light of battle in her pale blue eyes and the scathing words of disapproval flying from her pretty lips. A strong advocate for statehood and women's rights, that was one strong-minded woman who wouldn't stand for having her opinion ignored. No, sirree!
"Mary wasn't there," came Chris's unexpected rejoinder for Buck was certain he'd seen her headed to the restaurant with her father-in-law.
He frowned, obviously puzzled, then asked, "What'd the Judge have ta say?"
Chris took another swallow of whiskey, hissing once again as he replied, "Nothin'."
Turning, Buck slouched back down on the bar, standing shoulder to shoulder with Chris, their elbows pressed against the polished surface. Lost in thought, both men sipped their drinks in companionable silence, the noise and smoke of the saloon passing over them and failing to draw their notice. Finally, after a time, Chris spoke again.
"Gonna be leavin' early in the mornin'."
Buck looked up at that, his gaze questioning. Given the nature of his thoughts earlier that evening, he wasn't entirely sure just what Chris meant. "Where're ya goin'?"
"Huntin'."
That puzzled Buck even more and his frown grew deeper. "Huntin' what?"
Chris sighed, his disgust obvious. "Some sheep farmer named Larsen showed up at the hotel. Claimed a big wolf attacked his herd. Judge wants me an' Vin ta check it out."
"A sheep farmer?" Buck scoffed. "Around these parts? Hell, everyone knows this is cattle country. Prob'bly some of James' men just tryin' ta scare him off."
The blond head dipped once, turned, green gaze meeting blue. "Men don't go ‘round rippin' out an animal's throat an' leavin' it ta bleed ta death."
The words were spoken just barely above a whisper but Buck clearly heard every single one of them. He shuddered at the gruesome image they painted, feeling the revulsion race up and down his spine. "No, I guess not," he conceded after a moment. "How long ya gonna be gone?"
"Long as it takes," Chris answered with a shrug of one shoulder, turning to stare back into the mirror behind the bar. "You gonna be okay takin' care of things here?"
That got a laugh out of Buck, his lips twitching yet again. "Hell, Chris, things been so quiet ‘round here lately, I reckon one a' J'siah's funeral services might have a chance a' bein' more lively. ‘Sides," he continued, "Nathan's due back in the next day or two. I reckon ‘tween the five of us, we can handle it."
"Good."
And that was all Chris would say about it. He trusted Buck with his life, knew that he was leaving the town in good hands. Because when it came right down to it, the one thing he'd always been able to count on was Buck. Though God alone knew why and wasn't that a hell of an epitaph for a man he'd been prepared to walk away from? A man he'd nearly gotten killed, and just how many times did that make now? Chris had lost count some years ago. He only remembered the most recent one, the one out at Ella Gaines's ranch that had nearly killed them all.
Staring down into his drink, the gunman scowled, his mood darkening yet again. For a while there, he'd almost forgotten. Then, shaking his blond head, Chris exhaled heavily. He snorted softly in self-derision and felt the spike of inner hatred pierce him once again. No, he decided ruefully, he hadn't really forgotten. He'd simply allowed himself to not remember. There was a difference. He'd ignored the deep-seated feelings of guilt and shame, the self-loathing and silent recriminations. He'd pushed it all aside and that was wrong.
He needed to remember.
This whole business with Ella was another black mark on his conscience, something he couldn't allow himself to forget...just like Sarah and Adam's deaths.
Straightening, his spine stiff, Chris abruptly tossed back the last of his liquor, feeling the bite yet again as it worked its way southward to his gut. He put the now empty glass on the bar and turned, his face set and eyes determined. "Gonna turn in now," he advised, trying to hide his inner thoughts from the friend who knew him all too well.
Because Chris wanted nothing more at that moment than to just disappear through the floor and was actually surprised by how suddenly eager he was to leave this town behind, to leave his ghosts behind, to leave the accusing looks behind. Chris Larabee was running, knew he was running, and felt his inner shame deepen. His spine itched from the yellow streak that ran down it.
"See ya when I get back," he mumbled, dropping his gaze from Buck's and heading for the door. Chris ignored the looks, the turned faces, the knowing grins and silent laughter. It didn't matter that those same faces and same grins existed only inside his head; he could still feel them watching him. He was half way across the room, had almost made it, when JD's dark head popped over the top of the slatted wooden door. A huge smile and hazel eyes shone triumphantly back at him.
"Found him," JD chirped, his irrepressible nature still grating on Chris's nerves. The youth pushed his way through the entrance, Vin Tanner following closely behind, the lean shadow pausing to let his eyes sweep the interior. Longstanding habits were hard to shake despite the place he'd earned in this dusty town.
Moving then to stand just inside the door, Vin nodded to Buck and Josiah, watched as JD skirted his way towards his friend at the bar, saw Chris Larabee headed towards him, the lanky frame never pausing in its journey. Blue eyes narrowed as the tall dark figure approached, a frown of concern etching itself on his whiskered features when the green gaze never lifted, never even acknowledged him, remained fixed on the gray shadows in the street beyond.
What th'hell was wrong now?
Chris finally stopped beside him, one long-fingered hand resting on the top of the worn wood, staring out into the darkness.
"Be ready ta ride at dawn," the gunslinger rasped, his tight lips barely moving, his face unreadable.
In return, Vin kept his voice just as low, just as soft. "Where're we goin'?"
Chris did turn and look at him then, the once familiar green eyes now dark and cold, remote, withdrawn. "Huntin'," was all he replied, then shoved his way through the doors with a flurry of smoke-filled air. In his haste to abandon the crowded confines of the saloon, Chris didn't see the startled figure he bumped in to, the impact with his shoulder almost knocking the other man down.
There were no words of apology spoken.
The dark figure of the gunslinger strode off up the street, the solitary form dressed all in black clothing that blended seamlessly with his even blacker mood.
Staring after Chris Larabee's retreating back, Ezra Standish rubbed absently at his sore shoulder. Good Lord, the man hadn't even seen him, hadn't even acknowledged him and he certainly hadn't apologized. But then again, what had he expected? He'd known from the start what an uncivilized bunch he was getting himself involved with. And hadn't Maude warned him equally as well? Perhaps this was his due payment for ignoring his mother's advice. Sighing, the gambler pulled out his handkerchief, dusting absently at the point of impact on his previously unsoiled scarlet coat. Then, recognizing his own foolishness, he tucked it away once again, sighing at the inevitability of the dust that seemed to seep into every pore of his being.
It was just one more item to add to the list of things about this town that didn't agree with him. The dust, the food, the poor quality of the bedding at the hotel, the unkempt and unwashed bodies around him, the slender pickings at the poker table, not to mention the uneducated masses. It was a wonder he'd stayed here this long!
And it left him asking himself the question, why?
At first, it had been for the chance of a pardon, signing on to protect this town at a paltry sum of a dollar a day plus room and board. After that, he'd found himself cursed with what could only be some sort of conscience, perhaps even a sense of loyalty, lying to himself and to Maude when it came to giving reasons why he stayed. Then there had been that whole fiasco with the ten thousand dollars he'd been tempted to abscond with only to find himself cursed yet again and getting himself shot for his troubles. Mrs. Travis was, of course, appropriately grateful but the entire business still left Ezra questioning his somewhat dubious sanity.
And then Ella Gaines rode into town looking for Chris Larabee, the leader of their small band of misfits, and was there ever a more contemptible specimen to wear the female form? Good heavens! The gambler didn't even want to contemplate the horrible tragedy that followed her arrival. Three months had passed since the day of the fierce gun battle at her ranch house, the day Chris had been shot and the rest of them almost killed, and still their collective wounds had not even begun to heal.
A keen observer and a fervent student of human nature, it was apparent to him that their ‘band of brothers' had been broken, ripped apart by the events perpetrated by an insane woman obsessed with the reticent, blond gunslinger. It was also just as obvious that the damage went much further than simply skin deep. Vin and Chris were often gone, not to be found for days at a time. Nathan went to visit at the village with Tastanagi's people. Josiah could be counted on for only an infrequent game of cards. That left Buck and JD as his oftentimes companions.
Ezra grimaced, wondering just when he'd gotten so ridiculously desperate.
Still standing on the sidewalk outside the saloon, he sighed, his gaze lifting to the night sky above, taking note of the brilliant layer of stars. Overall, it was a sad and deplorable state of affairs and more and more often now, the gambler found himself wondering why he stayed, what it was that still held him here. The reasons he'd remained in the first place no longer seemed to even exist. All of which left Ezra with the unsettling question of what to do now? Should he stay or should he go? Should he remain in this provincial little hamlet or was it time to move on and look for ‘greener pastures' elsewhere?
Then, a sudden thought struck him, an idea beginning to take shape. Thinking back on the information he'd garnered at the hotel, Ezra found himself mulling over his potential options.
Arnold Davies, a lawyer from Santa Fe, contemplating a run for governor...?
There were definite possibilities there for a man such as himself. And after all, Ezra reasoned, why not? Why shouldn't he? He'd been a preacher, a lawyer, a gambler and many other things he'd never admitted to before. It was in his nature to be a chameleon, a changeling, something bred into him from his mother's side of the family, no doubt. Where others saw it as a flaw, to a man such as himself it was a decided advantage, allowing him to slip easily from one existence to the next. He could become whomever or whatever he needed whenever he so desired.
Grinning then like a cat with the proverbial nine lives, Ezra stepped inside the saloon, once again taking up residence in a chair at his favorite table. As the evening wore on, he chatted and smiled pleasantly, then enjoyed his favorite brandy while deftly playing cards. His silent thoughts of tomorrow were safely hidden and locked away behind the curtain of his enigmatic green eyes.