Dawn. The time of the morning when all was quiet and still and the first rosy blush of the day whispered on the edge of the distant horizon. The time of day when the deep purple of the night ever so slowly gave way to the waking sun. It was a time of day that Vin Tanner loved, and his poet's heart marveled at its glory almost as much as the blazing reds, oranges and golds of a fiery desert sunset.
An early riser by nature, Vin was used to having the dusty streets to himself, the hour being much too soon for anyone other than the large bulk of a man who ran the livery and the elderly Chinese lady down the way who owned the town laundry. No one else usually stirred until the first rays of soft yellow fingered their way between the buildings, casting morning shadows and dancing in streaks of light.
Unless it was Ezra sneaking out of the saloon after a long night of playing cards.
Vin laughed quietly, soft amusement coloring his features and wrinkling the corners of his eyes, remembering the number of times he'd seen the man just as he was slipping off to his room. Despite his claims of being a gentleman, the gambler could be as mean as a cornered grizzly when confronted that early in the day. It was definitely best to leave the southerner alone when he was headed off in search of a pillow and the comfort of his infamous feather bed.
Turning his head, Vin's sharp blue eyes scanned the street, eyeing the soft colors of the dawn sky. He inhaled, enjoying the fresh morning air, then released his breath on a long, quiet sigh and went back to saddling his horse. Across the street, Inez Recillos would be waking up soon. She'd make her way to the kitchen behind the saloon to start breakfast. He grinned as his stomach grumbled in protest and his mouth watered just thinking about the rich, hot coffee she'd brew and the lightly buttered biscuits he'd once again be forced to miss.
Nothing but hard tack and water this morning, one of the prices he paid for hitting the trail so early, but Vin shrugged philosophically. His full lips then quirked, admitting that if he wasn't careful, living in this town might just well make him soft. Hell, he reasoned, it wasn't like he hadn't done without before but he'd kind of gotten used to having his belly full before making the morning rounds. But he wasn't headed out to ride the countryside and check in on the nearby farms and ranches. No, last night Chris had said they were going hunting. Although hunting for what, Vin still had no clue.
Pulling his rifle from its scabbard, Vin carefully checked the weapon, making sure it was clean, well-oiled, loaded and in perfect working condition like always. Following such old habits had saved his life in the past and he reckoned it was a little late to change his ways now. Satisfied, he lifted it and slid it back into the leather casing with a sharp slap. He once more checked his saddle girth and back strap, grinning again as Peso grunted with irritation. Damn horse hated being pulled out of his nice warm stall almost as much as Ezra and his bed.
The sound of hinges squealing and wood creaking had Vin turning half way round to find the door of the livery swinging open behind him. He nodded his head in silent greeting as Chris appeared, two horses behind him, both saddled for the trail. Vin's frown of puzzlement deepened a moment later as an older man in tattered clothing stepped out from the shadows as well. The tracker watched as Chris checked the saddle on the second horse then passed the reins to the stranger. Stepping up alongside his own black gelding, the gunslinger repeated the process then mounted in one fluid and graceful motion. Following his lead, Vin took a deep breath, grabbed a hunk of mane and slapped leather.
Turning, the pair watched as the third man struggled awkwardly, unsure of himself, his trepidation and lack of experience obvious. The horse, a dappled gray mare, danced nervously, shying away as the man came closer, whickering uncertainly at the sudden tug on the reins as he stumbled against her. Finally, a look of irritation clearly etched on his face, Chris appeared to take pity on the man.
The gunslinger dismounted and strode over to the skittish horse. Taking the mare by the bridle, he held her still then motioned for the older man to put his foot into the stirrup. Once that was accomplished, a rough hand then shoved him upward, nearly tumbling the stranger across to the other side of the saddle before he somehow managed to right himself. Chris tossed the man the reins, nodded his head once, then strode quickly back to where his own horse waited patiently. He mounted up just as efficiently as before, green eyes flicking across to his partner, scowling at the amusement flashing at him in blue.
"Vin Tanner..." Chris jerked his head towards the other man. "Gunter Larsen," he said by way of introduction.
Vin's gaze shifted, taking in the weather-beaten features, the sun-baked lines, the faded eyes. He lifted two fingers to the brim of his hat, touched it and nodded his head, but the other man was too busy trying to stay on his horse to return the silent greeting. Curiosity filled the tracker but Vin waited patiently, knowing that Larabee would eventually explain. The big horse beneath him shifted, stomping its foot, the muffled thud echoing in the still morning air.
Looping his reins around the saddle horn, Chris reached for his hat, one hand settling it more firmly on his head while the other tightened the leather latigo. Then picking up his reins again, he added, "Mr. Larsen lost some livestock to what might be a wolf. Judge Travis wants us to check it out."
The tracker's eyes widened in surprise, not because the man had lost some livestock or that the Judge wanted them to go take a look. What surprised Vin was the possibility that a wolf might have been guilty of the attack. It had been a long time since he'd seen one in these parts, most of them having been hunted almost out of existence for their pelt or the price of a bounty placed on their heads. At one time, nearly as much as fifty dollars, if he recalled right.
Damn, but he hoped the man was wrong. Vin shuddered in horror at the memory of the layers of soft, silken fur that had covered the entire outside wall of the sheriff's office in Hico, Texas. It was a sight the tracker had never forgotten and one that always brought an ache to the center of his chest. Having spent time amongst the People, he had grown to respect and admire the wolf, not only for its keen intelligence, but for its proud spirit and complete devotion to its pack. For a lone wolf to be out hunting and killing stock...
Vin didn't even want to think about what that might mean. A single wolf in its right mind just didn't go around killing cattle...or sheep, he corrected himself silently as a pungent odor drifted to him from downwind. His nose wrinkled in obvious disgust and Vin shifted in the saddle, turning his horse away as he lifted one hand to cover his lower face. What the hell was it about sheep and sheep farmers that always made such a stink?
"Best be headin' out then," he mumbled, not daring to glance at Chris as he urged his horse into a walk. "We're burnin' daylight." A moment later, he felt the gunslinger ride up beside him, barely sparing a glance backward for the other man straggling along behind. "Where're we goin'?"
"Best ask him," Chris mimicked with a quick tip of his blond head.
Vin did turn and look then, his gaze taking in Larsen's strained features and the near panic in his eyes. "Ya know how ta ride, mister?" He wasn't surprised by the negative reply, and he'd only asked the question out of politeness anyways. "Aw, hell," Tanner then muttered under his breath, sparing an accusing glare in Larabee's direction. From the set expression on the gunman's face, it looked like it was going to be up to him to keep an eye on the struggling tenderfoot.
Riding back a few paces, Vin turned his horse alongside the mare, quickly gave the older man a few softly spoken words of advice, then once again asked, "Where're we goin'?" The tracker did his dead level best to ignore the offensive smell that permeated the air around him as they rode slowly down the street after Chris.
"I have...a small place...not so far." The hesitant words were accented, thick, strange sounding, and they landed harshly on Vin's ears. "It is...four hours may-be?"
"Which way?"
The Dutchman appeared to think hard for a moment. "It is vhat you say is vest, yah?"
"Four hours west a'here?" Vin confirmed, squinting briefly up at the sky more out of habit than a need to actually know the time. "Ya come a'foot?"
"Foot?" the older man repeatedly dumbly, confusion evident on his face.
"Walkin'?" the tracker asked, taking a moment to simulate the action with two fingers of his right hand. He could almost see Chris's shoulders shake with silent laughter.
"Ah, dat is word, yah! I valk to here...four hours," Larsen assured him with a solemn dip of his head.
Vin nodded in return, knowing their journey would be quicker on horseback and thankful he at least had some general sense of which direction they were headed. Spurring his horse, he caught up to Chris just as the small group passed the entrance of the hotel. A sharp snick preceded the opening of the door and Vin glanced over in surprise as the same man who'd accompanied Judge Travis the night before set foot onto the wooden boardwalk. The man was sharply dressed, his face clean shaven, his eyes quick to latch onto the trio making their way down the street, almost as if he'd been waiting for them.
"Mr. Larabee...Chris...?" Davies called out, one hand lifting to catch the gunman's attention. "A moment, if I may?"
There was no mistaking the irritation that stiffened the length of Larabee's spine as he reluctantly turned his black gelding and reined to a halt. Leaning forward, he let one arm rest on top of the saddle horn, pasted a blank look on his face and waited. Behind him, Vin stopped as well, one hand reaching out to snag the bridle of Larsen's horse and turn the mare to stand beside him. The tracker gave a sharp tug on his reins though when Peso tried to bite the other horse.
"Chris, could I have a few moments of your time?" Davies all too politely inquired. "I'd like to speak with you before you go."
"'Bout what?" Chris responded flatly, the tone of his voice indicating to Vin that he was clearly not interested in whatever the man had to say.
Davies' eyes flicked to the two men flanking Larabee before he replied, "It's a rather important matter that I'd prefer to discuss in private. Could I buy you a cup of coffee?" When there was no immediate answer, Davies added, "I promise not to keep you long. Just a few minutes is all I'm asking."
Larabee glanced down the street, chewing thoughtfully on his inner lip. He'd wanted to get on the trail, track down whatever had attacked Larsen's sheep and be done with it so he could head back to his cabin outside of town and have the peace and quiet he so desperately craved. Davies standing there wanting a few moments of his time was just another irritating thorn in his side. Still though, the man was a friend of Travis's and he supposed he owed it to the Judge to at least hear him out.
Sighing, Chris turned with poorly concealed resignation to his riding companions. "I'll catch up," he assured the tracker, the tone of his voice clearly indicating the other two men should ride on ahead. Larabee wouldn't be too far behind them.
Nodding his head, Vin wheeled his horse around, tapping his heels against the broad flanks. The gray mare beside him turned as well, following obediently along despite the passenger sitting like a sack of potatoes in the middle of her back. They made a strange pair, one so easy and sure in the saddle, his movements graceful and deft, while the other looked like a startled chicken, arms and legs flapping clumsily in all different directions at the same time. It was almost enough to make Chris laugh as he watched them ride away. Instead, he swung down from his horse, keeping the reins in one hand as he walked with Davies towards the saloon.
A moment later, the gunslinger tied his horse to the hitching post, stepped up onto the boardwalk and followed the older man inside. Inez had only just unlocked the doors for morning business and the room was otherwise empty. The dull yellow glow of several oil lamps provided a meager light as they settled themselves at a table. Leaning back in his chair, Chris removed his hat and tossed it into the center. Their arrival was duly noted by the young Hispanic woman who managed the town's only saloon.
"Good morning, Seņors," Inez greeted politely as she approached. She set a tin mug in front of each man, then poured hot, steaming coffee from the battered pot she carried. "Seņor Chris," she nodded, granting him a small smile. The seven men who protected the town held a special place in her heart and she considered them her friends. And as much as she might deny it, she enjoyed her ongoing battle of wits with Buck Wilmington. The handsome rogue had a way of making a woman feel special, as if she were the most important thing in his world. But Inez prided herself on knowing better than to fall for the ladies' man and his smooth, flirtatious manner.
"Would you like some breakfast?" she inquired, her warm gaze encompassing both men.
"Chris?"
"Just coffee, Inez," the gunslinger rasped, impatient to be on his way.
"Just coffee for now," Davies reiterated, his appreciative gaze following the woman as she nodded then walked away. He turned back to find Larabee frowning at him and was a bit unsettled by the light in those cold green eyes. To cover his discomfort, he reached for his coffee, blowing on it carefully before finally taking a sip. The lawyer then smiled with approval, enjoying the taste that flooded his mouth and the warmth that worked its way downward.
"What's on yer mind?" Normally, Chris Larabee could be a very patient man.
But not today.
Davies cleared his throat, set his mug down and regarded the other man carefully. "I've been thinking about what you told me regarding this business with Clayton Hopewell, about what a dangerous man you believe he is..."
Larabee made no response, just sipped steadily from his coffee, his face an unreadable mask.
"I also know that Orrin Travis seems to think quite highly of you. He greatly values your opinion. More importantly, you have his trust and his respect."
Chris almost snorted at that but remained silent.
Davies leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful, carefully choosing his words. "I haven't gotten where I am, achieved the success and the status that I have, by being stupid, Chris. It's taken a lot of hard work and sacrifice even for a smart man like myself. Only a fool would go up against Hopewell without having all the facts in hand and I am *certainly* no fool."
The lawyer paused, grinning in self-deprecation, almost as if he expected an argument.
"But a smart man also knows when he needs help. He knows when to surround himself with people who can help him achieve his goals. That's something that has always worked for me in the past and I don't intend to stop doing so now. If I decide to go up against Hopewell, then I have to surround myself with the best and the brightest, the toughest, the fastest...whatever it takes. I won't go into this with blinders on and my hands tied behind my back. If Hopewell wants to get nasty...if things turn ugly...well, let's just say that I intend to keep the odds even."
Chris's eyes narrowed speculatively, not sure he liked what the other man was implying. Not sure he liked knowing that a friend of Judge Travis's could be just as ruthless and cold-blooded, just as much a murdering son of a bitch, as Clayton Hopewell. It gave him a decidedly itchy feeling in his trigger finger.
"So what does all this have to do with me?" the gunslinger demanded to know. Just what did Davies want from him? His approval? His blessing? That thought almost *did* make Chris laugh. Since when did anybody need Chris Larabee's approval or his blessing?
Since when did he have them to give?
Davies leaned forward, crossed his arms and rested them on the table. His steady gaze breeched the distance between them.
"I want to hire you."
The words landed into a sudden silence, neither one deigning to speak, hardly daring to breathe. Unflinching, Chris returned the man's gaze with one of his own, his green eyes shuttered, his face set, giving away nothing of his inner thoughts or feelings. Then, long slender fingers began to play with the edge of his cup, tracing the rim, tapping lightly, the tip of his index slowly stroking the side of the cooling mug.
"What for?" the blond finally asked, his voice low and soft, lethal.
That question set Davies back in his chair, as if the answer was already obvious. "To be part of my staff...as head of my security detail," he replied.
A trace of relief made its way through the gunman's body, the tension ebbing from him slightly as he realized that Davies wasn't trying to hire him as an assassin. There had just been something so unsettling, so very cold-blooded, about that thought that Larabee had to admit to being half tempted to shoot the man himself...even if he was a friend of Orrin Travis's.
Chris dipped his head in acknowledgement and pushed back from the table. "Thanks, but I already got a job."
Davies laughed. "You call this a job? Protecting some little dusty town for a dollar a day plus room and board? And doing what? Getting yourself shot at for your troubles? Come now, Chris," he chided, "A man with your brains and talent was meant for better things. You could go far in my organization. You could have it all, money, power, prestige. You'd have the chance to travel all over this great country, meet important people, do great things, really make a difference with your life."
Larabee rose slowly from his chair, a troubled expression on his stony features.
"You're being wasted here, Chris," the lawyer pleaded. "You could earn twenty times as much money working for me, maybe even more. You'd be in a position to hire your own staff, name your own hours, sleep in a clean bed, eat a decent meal without anybody shooting at you. Why stay here when you could have it all?"
When he could have it all? Chris slanted his head, looked at the other man with one golden eyebrow raised, measuring, appraising, contemplating. What was it about wealth and power and the aura that surrounded them that seemed to make folks think that was all that was important? There were other things in this world besides the size of a man's bank account or how much land he owned, the number of cattle he ran or how many votes he'd garnered in some election.
More important things...like home...and family. Or at least there used to be.
"Like I said, I already got a job." The gunslinger picked up his hat, turned and walked away, but Davies wasn't giving up.
"Just promise me you'll think about it," he called after the departing figure. "That's all I'm asking, Chris. Just think about it."
Larabee paused in the open doorway of the saloon, his tall dark form silhouetted against the rising morning light. But Chris never turned, never glanced back, never offered an acknowledgment. Still though, the impact of Davies's words was there in the tight set of the gunman's broad shoulders, the grim line of his mouth. Then, lifting one hand, he shoved his way through the batwing doors. Once outside, he mounted his horse, reined the big gelding around and rode swiftly out of town.
But Davies's words...and his offer...followed after him, echoing to the steady beat of his horse's furious gait.
It was mid-morning by the time Vin Tanner and Gunter Larsen reached the older man's small holdings, the bleating of thirsty sheep and the overpowering smell greeting them from at least a half a mile away. He heard a dog barking in the distance as well, figuring out from Larsen's badly accented English that it was a large collie who kept watch over the Dutchman's flock. He wasn't surprised though when the dog didn't run out to greet them. Larsen said it was badly hurt by whatever had attacked his sheep.
Glancing around, Vin eyed the surrounding land, then turned to survey the ramshackle cabin and rickety wooden corral. Larsen had found himself a tiny desert oasis, a small area fed by a creek that flowed mostly underground from the distant Santa Catalina Mountains. The sandy soil flattened out here to form a shallow basin, a clear pool of water collecting in the center, trees and grasses growing in abundance beside its banks. He recognized cottonwood, palo verde, ocotillo and desert willow among them, could make out the tiny yellow flowers of brittlebush, some scattered bits of chuparosa, Devil's claw, desert lily and the fiery red of Indian paintbrush. Silently, he nodded his approval.
Gunter Larsen had chosen well.
Swinging down from his horse, Vin stood for a moment, absorbing the peaceful setting, letting the beauty of Earth Woman flow over him and through him. This small patch of land was vastly different from the heat and drier air of the surrounding desert, such a sharp contrast to the giant Saguaro cactus, the much smaller prickly pear and the scrubby thorns of the mesquite tree and the creosote bush. There were no thistle blooms or cockleburs to pierce a man's skin, no stinging nettles to rake over his flesh. Just fresh water, shade and a cooler breeze, a haven for the weary traveler.
Vin frowned though as he looked at the small herd of sheep inside the makeshift pen. It seemed to him that keeping them all together like that was just asking for trouble. But then he noticed the lines of string and tin cans surrounding the corral, the two rusted traps laid open and waiting. With his dog injured, Larsen had obviously hoped to frighten off any attackers with the noise. Vin's lips quirked in amusement and then he quietly sighed. The old man might know how to tend sheep but it was obvious he knew very little about predators in this part of the country.
He waited then as Larsen clambered down from the borrowed mare, quickly checked his sheep and then made his way over to the shack. Opening the door, the man gave a low whistle and the shaggy form of a large collie slowly appeared from inside. The dog was limping heavily, bloody bandages wrapped around one leg and shoulder. The right side of its mouth and face were also badly swollen. It whined softly, as if in pain, the thick tail wagging tiredly as it tried to greet its master. Seeing this, Vin immediately turned to get bandages and medicine from his saddlebags.
Taking the reins to both horses, the tracker tied them around the top rail of the pen. He'd water them in a little while, after they'd cooled off a bit. The dog needed tending first and then he had to search the area for tracks. It worried him now, more so than when they'd first ridden out. Attacking sheep was one thing, but a wild animal that could tear up a big dog like that could easily take down a child as well. Travis was right to ask him and Chris to check it out.
"Got some supplies here fer yer dog," he offered, catching the look of appreciation on the other man's face. Walking over to the shack, Vin followed Larsen and the wounded dog inside. They spent the next half hour cleaning its wounds before covering them with a healing salve and fresh bandages. Vin showed Larsen how to brew some of Nathan's teas, one for fever and another one for pain. Together, they fed them to the injured collie who was either too sick or in too much pain to care about the bitter taste.
Finally, with his faithful friend sleeping quietly, Larsen turned his grateful features to the young man beside him. "I show you now, yah?"
"Yeah," Vin nodded, wanting to get a look at the tracks and find out which direction this thing was headed. His stomach knotted with worry as he prayed that it wasn't back towards town.
Following Larsen out the door, the two men then made their way towards the pond. They skirted a couple of large boulders and took a small path down to a grassy area that held forage for the sheep. The smell of blood and death permeated the air and Vin could see scratch marks in the ground from where the carcasses had been dragged away to be burned and buried. He was grateful Larsen was at least smart enough to clear out the area. It made no sense to leave an open invitation for other scavengers to come sniffing around.
"Here," the older man indicated, extending his right hand. "Von...two...three...und three more over der..."
Vin whistled, soft and low, then shook his head. Six sheep and a dog. This couldn't be a wolf. It just couldn't be, he told himself. Not like this. Not killing simply for the sake of killing. Wolves hunted in packs for food and for survival. No lone wolf in its right mind would do something like this. There had to be another explanation. Walking towards the spot of the first kill, he squatted down on his haunches, keen eyes scanning the loose soil and bits of gravel, one arm draped across his buckskin covered thigh.
What the tracker found didn't tell much of a story. Sheep were stupid. There'd been no fight, no resistance; they hadn't run. They'd simply stood there or milled around, waiting to be ruthlessly slaughtered. He found a partial print half buried in the sand, most of it wiped out by the overlay of rounded hooves. He reached out and fingered the dark stain nearby, knew even before he sniffed it that it was blood soaked up by the thirsty ground.
The same tale was then repeated at each place he checked. A part of a print here or there, blood and hoof marks all about, the outline of Larsen's boots where he walked amongst the carnage. But there was nothing that gave the tracker a clearer picture of exactly what he was dealing with. Standing, Vin exhaled heavily, all the while chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his lip, determined to find what it was that he had missed.
Turning slowly in place, he scrutinized the silent earth. Then, lifting his head, he asked, "What about the dog?" But Larsen only stared at him in confusion. "Where'd it come after yer dog?" he asked again.
"I...I don't know," stammered the Dutchman. "It vas dark. I couldn't see. I take a lantern to go find him."
"Where?" Vin repeated, then followed Larsen as he turned and led the way.
A few moments later, the tracker was satisfied that he at least knew one thing for certain.
"Weren't no wolf that did this," he advised the older man, looking around at the torn up dirt and grass and then into the older man's faded eyes. "Tracks look more like a big dog, prob'bly wild...maybe one that's sick in th'head."
"I don't... vhat means dis? Sick in da head?" Gunter questioned.
The word alone was enough to lodge a knot of fear deep in Vin's gut.
"It's called...hydro-pho-bee."
The heat of the day was fast approaching and the sun beat down relentlessly even as Chris Larabee rode hard to catch up to Vin Tanner. The problem was that the frustrated gunslinger wasn't sure just where the other man was headed. Loosing another volley of soft curses, he was decidedly angry with himself for not getting more detailed directions from Gunter Larsen when the three men had parted company. Then again, Chris hadn't expected to need them.
But after being stopped that morning by Arnold Davies, it took him longer to get out of town than he'd wanted. His damned horse had thrown a shoe about two miles out and he'd had to walk the gelding back in and wait while the blacksmith fired up his forge to reset the errant shoe. Now, it was well onto morning and even hampered by Larsen's presence, Chris figured to be at least a good hour and a half behind the younger man.
Slowing his mount, Larabee scanned the countryside, then dropped his narrowed gaze to the dry dusty ground. He wasn't anywhere near the tracker that Vin was but at least he could make out two sets of hoof prints headed off in a generally westward direction. He occasionally lost them over the scattered slabs of thick rock only to pick them up further on in another patch of sandy desert soil. It was slow but steady going with only an occasional missed turn forcing him to backtrack, all of which, however, didn't do much for Chris's steadily increasing annoyance.
He halted his horse and let the reins fall loose across the gelding's thickly muscled neck. Pulling off his hat, Chris wiped the sweat from his brow with his arm, then replaced the flat-brimmed covering. As hot as the desert sun could get, he knew better than to go for too long without the protection it provided. The risk of death from heat stroke was an all too familiar danger. Lifting his canteen, the gunslinger uncorked it, took a single mouthful of tepid water, swallowed and replaced the cork. Rationing water was a way of life out here as well. A smart man heeded the lessons that the desert offered, heeded them and learned how to survive, how to stay alive. But God knew it was a harsh way for a man to live his life.
All of which brought Chris's thoughts tumbling back to Gunter Larsen.
There was precious little water and even less forage to be found in the desert. So why had the Dutchman chosen to make this place his home? What had ever possessed him to think he could raise a herd of sheep way out here? But even as he thought it, Chris reckoned that he already knew.
The cattlemen wouldn't take too kindly to having their grazing lands invaded by sheep. The wooly four-legged creatures were notorious for destroying the grasslands, pulling the rich forage out by the roots and leaving nothing behind but a vast field of dry dust. Then there was the fact that sheep smelled worse than buffalo or even a dead coyote, all of which made it more than likely that the ranchers would shoot Larsen first and then kill his entire herd. One man against so many would be like David versus Goliath.
Picking up his reins, his hands resting on the saddle horn, Chris shook his head. Some things just didn't make much sense but he could understand the older man's caution, his unwillingness to settle anywhere near the big outfits that ran such huge herds of cattle and guarded their lands so fiercely. Men like James and Royal were ruthless, without a conscience, and they would think nothing of killing off the smaller ranchers and claiming the surrounding homesteads for their own. They'd done it before, and while the seven regulators had won the last major skirmish, Chris knew both sides were in a temporary truce while they licked their collective wounds. A smart betting man would give favorable odds on one or the other of the rich cattleman setting up to try it all again, especially with the railroad continuing to build on through.
No, Gunter Larsen had chosen his desert home with an eye to keeping his herd alive and his head intact and Chris couldn't blame the man for that. Then there was also the additional advantage of all this solitude, all this peace and quiet, no one else for miles around. That thought though gave Chris pause, leading him to believe he had more in common with the Dutchman than he realized.
Peace and quiet. Solitude. The need to be alone. Weren't those the very same reasons he'd bought a small homestead several miles outside of town and gone to all the time, trouble and expense of building a small cabin on that patch of worthless ground? Not because he was settling down but because he'd wanted a place of his own, a place where he could find a bit of peace and quiet?
Chris snorted at his own foolishness even as he lifted his hands, touched his heels to his horse's flanks and urged the gelding into a trot.
Peace and quiet were all an illusion anyways. There was no peace and quiet these days, at least, not for him. It seemed like someone was always riding out from town to see him, to find him, to ask for his help, run an errand for the judge, transfer a prisoner, break up a fight, deal with another bunch of drunken trail hands, answer a telegram. Hell, these days it seemed as if everyone wanted a piece of him and Chris wasn't sure if there was enough of him left to go around anymore. Not now, not lately. Not since...not since Ella.
Shit.
He didn't want to think about her. Didn't want to think about that deceitful, murdering bitch. She'd cost him enough already. His family, his home, his reputation, his self-respect. When the others had hauled him back to town with that big fucking hole in his chest, when the story got out about what had happened, about what he'd done...what he'd planned to do...with her...
Shit.
Chris dropped his head, tugged the brim of his hat even lower, shielded his face from the hot sun. His conscience gnawed at him guiltily and his betrayal left a hole deep inside his gut. Because by his actions, he'd betrayed Sarah and Adam, betrayed his love for them, their memories and the life that they'd once shared. He'd also betrayed the six men who considered him to be a friend. Buck, Vin...all of them. He'd betrayed their trust and their confidence. Having to pick himself up afterwards and look each one of them in the face was one of the most difficult things he'd ever had to do.
And it wasn't getting any easier. Seeing the look in their eyes, the knowledge, the pity, having to face that every damned day...and it wasn't just his friends. There was Mary Travis and Gloria Potter, Inez, Tiny Wilkins at the livery, Joe Deacons over at the stage line and just about every other damned person who called that dusty town their home. It followed him around like a damned ghost, haunting his thoughts and his actions, wearing on him, dragging him down. His failure, his blindness and his stupidity, his dishonor was with him everywhere he went, twenty four hours a day, day in and day out. In the back of his mind, Chris had somehow always thought of himself as a strong man but now...well now, the weary gunslinger didn't know just how much more of this that he could take.
The urge to move on was strong, to just leave it all behind and ride out as if nothing and no one mattered, as if he had no commitments, no responsibilities, no one he was held accountable to. But again, his conscience wouldn't let him. Besides, Chris reasoned, where would he go anyways? It wasn't like there were a lot of job openings for a man such as himself. The ways of lawlessness and the hired gun were passing with the advance of civilization, with progress. More and more people were moving out west; towns were being settled, laws established and men of honor hired to back them up.
Somehow, Chris didn't think that he qualified to be among their number. He'd done too many things in his life, things he wasn't proud of, men he'd shot and killed both in anger and in haste, perhaps even in a drunken stupor. No, he shook his head, grimacing at what was inevitable. Chris Larabee had been the "bad element" for far too long, and as much as he might fight it, things were changing. Life was changing.
And more and more, Chris Larabee felt out of place.
Snarling savagely under his breath, the gunslinger jerked on his horse's reins, dug his heels into the sweaty flanks and sent the gelding off into the desert at a steady gallop. He rode to find Vin but the job offer from Arnold Davies still followed him, mocking him, taunting him, swirling about him on the hot and dusty wind.
Ezra Standish stared at his reflection in the mirror, a satisfied smile lighting his features as he straightened his black cravat and tugged on the sleeves of his coat one last time. Slicking one hand over his hair, he then settled his hat at a rakish angle and quickly saluted himself in the glass. There was nothing like an immaculate, well-groomed appearance to make a good first impression, and Ezra was a master at making a good impression. After all, his dear sainted mother had taught him from an early age that appearances were everything and the conman had learned that lesson exceedingly well.
Stepping out of his room a moment later, Ezra went down the stairs, exited the boarding house and then headed down the street to the saloon. He squinted upward at the bright sun, one hand tapping his pocket watch tucked inside his breast pocket, not needing to check it to know the hour was close to noon. He walked with a casual air, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world, smiling and greeting townsfolk, his gold tooth winking in the yellow sunlight. Just a man about town out for a morning stroll.
Shrewd green eyes narrowed as he approached the batwing doors, one elegant, well-manicured hand reaching up to push the portal open. Slipping inside, the gambler paused, casually surveying the interior, letting his practiced gaze sweep the room, seemingly interested in no one yet knowing in that single glance the location if not the names of each and every occupant. It was another lesson he'd learned from Maude, a certain degree of caution that was necessary given his chosen trade. Those who pursued a similar occupation called it ‘reading the room' and it was another lifelong habit that the conman studiously cultivated.
Granted, he'd lost some of his sharpness and his skills given his recent change in employment. After all, hiring himself out as a peacekeeper was certainly not something he'd ever aspired to, but at the time, the Honorable Judge Orrin Travis had left him little choice. It was either sign on with this bunch of unruly misfits or lose his freedom and go back to jail. But as a result, there was a very important piece of thick parchment paper tucked away in a secret compartment in Ezra's luggage, the pardon that he'd earned as precious to him as gold. For that alone, the temporary ‘loss' of some of his more selfish instincts and his competitive nature was exceedingly well worth the price.
Now however, it was time to sharpen those skills again, to hone them to a fine edge. It was time for him to move on, time to stop relying on six other men to watch his back and to once more start thinking of himself first and foremost. Maude had raised and trained him to be the best, the brightest, the smartest at what they did, second of course to only her. And as much as it might personally sadden him to leave this little backwater place behind, his instincts were telling him that it was time to once again become that person.
Locating his intended mark, the gambler took the two steps down into the saloon and casually made his way across the floor. Approaching the table in the far corner, he pasted a polite smile on his face, oozing charm and sophistication as he sidled closer.
"Good day, sir." The southerner's voice dripped with smooth, warm honey. "Might you be interested in some company perchance?" Ezra asked with a delicate wave of his hand. "I'm afraid this little hamlet doesn't always have the best to offer by way of stimulating conversation, so when I see a man of your apparent means and education, I try to avail myself of the opportunity."
Looking up from his lunch, Arnold Davies studied the dandy standing before him. He knew who the man was, would have recognized him anywhere from Orrin Travis's description. Ezra Standish. Gambler. Con man. Thief. Swindler. Convicted felon. One of the seven men hired to protect this town. And it piqued his curiosity as to why the man had apparently sought him out. For there was no mistaking that intention when he'd first entered the saloon despite his casual perusal of the occupants. But Davies was a smart man himself, shrewd, slick and not easily fooled. He recognized the same characteristics in the fancy gambler and with a nod of his gray head, he invited Ezra to join him.
"Thank you, my good sir," Ezra began as he settled into a chair. "The name is St..."
"Standish," Davies interrupted, startling the younger man. "Ezra Standish," he continued, amusement coloring his ruddy face at having the upper hand. "Or is it perhaps Ezra Smith or Ezra Simpson today?"
Green eyes widened but the face remained otherwise impassive. "I assure you..."
Davies took a bite of a tortilla, his words muffled slightly as he chewed. "Your reputation precedes you, son. You should know by now that there are no secrets in a small town like this. Everyone here knows everybody else's business." He winked conspiratorially, digging into the refried beans and rice with his fork. "Besides, Judge Travis is a friend of mine. You really think he would leave me defenseless against a man of your skills and reputation?"
Ezra leaned back in his chair, more than a bit perturbed, barely noticing when Inez brought him a cup of coffee. He mumbled his thanks as she walked away, his gaze riveted on the man across from him. He'd made a mistake, had seriously miscalculated. All this time he'd spent finding out everything he could about Arnold Davies, the lawyer and the man. Not once had he ever considered that Davies might be finding out about him as well. Ezra cursed himself silently for the misstep, barely refraining from shaking his head. Lord, he was getting slow.
But then something in the gray eyes across from him seemed to silently communicate itself, almost a recognition of sorts, as if the man knew who he was and what he was but wouldn't turn away. Ezra pondered on that a moment, thoughts tumbling rapidly through his mind on how to turn this to his advantage.
"It seems I may have underestimated you, sir," the gambler offered hesitantly, trying to feel his way through what was rapidly becoming a very disconcerting conversation.
"Don't make that mistake twice," Davies advised with a sly grin as he finished up the last of his meal. Settling back in his chair, he wiped his mouth on the checkered napkin before tossing it down on top of his plate. He signaled Inez for a refill on his coffee, then seemed content to relax, hands folded across his not inconsiderable girth.
"Seņor Ezra, may I bring you some lunch?" Inez inquired politely, her dark eyes flitting curiously between the two men.
"No, Inez, thank you," Ezra returned, granting her a small smile before sipping from his own mug. He waited until she moved back behind the bar before speaking once again. "I assure you, sir, I won't make that mistake again. After all," the gambler drawled, "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me." He silently toasted Davies with his coffee cup, the gleam returning to his eyes as the lawyer began to laugh.
When Davies could finally contain his mirth, he regarded the younger man across from him with a wide grin. "Travis warned me you were a smart one so why don't we cut through all this bullshit and tell me what you want?"
Setting down his mug, Ezra barely kept from choking on the hot liquid, his eyes widening with feigned innocence. "Some decent conversation and perhaps a game of cards?"
Davies chuckled once again. "I'm a lawyer, son. I've heard it all, seen it all and probably done it all as well. Men like you are a dime a dozen back in Santa Fe and they cost you even less once you make it to the capital. You're always working an angle, looking for some way to make a profit. You don't lift a finger unless it gets you what you want."
Ezra Standish was a bit nonplussed at having his character and his motives so shrewdly dissected. Much to his disgust, he found his palms were sweating and his heart was beating a bit too fast inside his chest. He licked absently at his lips, struggling to keep his poker face intact. The man was good. He'd give him that. But doubling his determination, Ezra decided the game wasn't over quite yet.
"You seem to have all the answers, Mr. Davies."
The lawyer snorted before reaching inside his breast pocket and extracting a long brown cigar. He sniffed at it appreciatively, bit off the tip and then casually spit it onto the floor. Pulling out a match, he scraped it along the edge of the table, the smell of sulfur sharp and acrid as the flame burst into life. A moment later, Davies settled more comfortably in his chair, puffing slowly in satisfaction as he exhaled clouds of fragrant blue-gray smoke.
"So, what do you want?"
Ezra leaned forward, arms folded in front of him as he rested them on the surface of the table. "What makes you think I *want* anything?" he inquired, one sandy-brown brow climbing up his forehead.
"You saying you don't?" the lawyer countered, the gleam in his eyes all too knowing.
Ezra's response was carefully measured. "Perhaps I have something to offer instead."
"And what would you have to offer me?" The words were sarcastic, biting, skeptical.
Ignoring the other man's tone, Ezra pressed on. "If the rumors I hear are correct and if perchance you should decide to run for governor of this great territory, I might be in a position to render my assistance."
That statement definitely got Davies' attention. Straightening his considerable bulk in the chair, he crushed out the cigar in the remains on his plate, a frown of irritation pulling at the corners of his mouth. At this stage, only a handful of people knew of his likely intentions and he didn't remember this fancy, smooth talking gambler as being one of them.
"Where did you hear that?" Davies demanded in a near growl, not liking this unexpected turn of events.
Ezra merely smirked as he replied, "I have my sources," but he refused to elaborate any further. A good conman never gave away his secrets.
Davies drummed his fingers on the table, his displeasure obvious. Finally, after a long moment of thought, he conceded. "All right, let's you and I suppose that I do decide to run for governor. Just what is it that you think that you can offer?"
Feeling as if he were on more familiar footing, Ezra allowed himself to relax as he elaborated. "I could be your front man, your ‘campaign manager' I believe is the proper terminology. Handle the crowds, the advance press, hotel accommodations, public relations, scheduling, that sort of thing."
Leaning forward even more, he looked intently into the older man's face, his accented voice dropping conspiratorially. "Together, we could create an image guaranteed to have you elected governor. We take advantage of the differences between yourself and Clayton Hopewell, vilify his character, attack his record and his reputation. In turn, we present *you* as the true ‘champion of the people' with only the best interests of this great nation at the heart of your crusade. Why, just think of the endless possibilities, Mr. Davies. Today, this great territory. Tomorrow, a state. Next year, the nation!"
It sounded good, even to Ezra. Now, if only Davies bought into it.
The older man sat for a moment, clearly thinking, his eyes reflective. He snorted again, then lifted his gaze to Ezra. "And what's in it for you?" he asked, a broad smirk growing at the cunning look in the gambler's eyes.
"Me?" Ezra affected innocently, his smile wide. "Who says there's anything in it for me?"
Davies did laugh then, a low dirty chuckle that spoke of greed and artifice. It erupted into a full out belly laugh that reverberated through the room. "Didn't anyone ever teach you never to con a con, son?" He pushed back his chair with a scrape and rose heavily to his feet. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out some coins and flipped them onto the table.
Ezra stared up at him, smiling, still believing the game was in full play.
"Let's get something straight, Standish. First off, I'm not about to hire a convicted felon and a thief as part of my personal staff and second, I sure as hell don't need that southern mouth of yours telling me what to say or do. You Confederate boys lost the war in case you haven't noticed."
Surprised by the vicious attack, Ezra sat there stunned, his mouth open, astonishment clearly written upon his features. Davies leaned over, placing both hands on the table, his voice low, his patience and good manners obviously at an end.
"Third, the only reason I let Orrin drag me to this godforsaken place is because I needed to find out the truth about what Hopewell was up to and fourth, because I wanted to hire the man who managed to beat that lying, murdering son of a bitch. Once I've collected Chris Larabee, I'll be on my way and then you and the rest of your friends can go back to playing your little games of keeping the peace and protecting this worthless town. You got me, boy?"
The last was snarled almost directly into Ezra's face, flying spittle just barely missing the gambler's skin but somehow landing with unerring accuracy on the crimson material of his coat sleeve. Arnold Davies then pushed himself upward with a soft huff, standing as tall as his portly frame would allow. He took his coat from the back of his chair, slipped his arms into the sleeves and straightened it even as his face once again resumed its usual mask of genial warmth.
Glancing one last time at the flabbergasted younger man, he offered smoothly, "Have a nice day now," then turned on his heel and left.
Still seated at the table, Ezra swallowed hard, his dazed green eyes following the other man's retreating back, and he continued to stare at the swinging doors until long after the lawyer disappeared. Ever so slowly though, he roused, becoming more aware of his surroundings and glancing about in obvious embarrassment. He avoided looking directly at any of the other patrons, avoided Inez' sympathetic gaze. The fine rosy blush coloring his features only added to the gambler's noticeable discomfort.
Shaking himself mentally, Ezra couldn't help but wonder how much of their exchange had actually been overheard? And what in the hell had just happened anyways?
Standish exhaled heavily. Good Lord, but he needed a whiskey.
Bad.
Crawling across the ground on his belly, Vin Tanner kept his head down, moving quietly and carefully further into the wash. Slithering around a patch of cholla, he eased closer to the back of the ledge he was on, pressing his lean frame into the shadows as much as possible, blending in, staying hidden. Tiny bits of gravel and rock dug into his hip and stomach but he ignored the discomfort, intent on reaching his goal.
For almost two hours now, Vin had been following the large paw prints leading away from Gunter Larsen's small holding, his worry growing as he found himself eventually circling back towards the town. A scattered number of various other animal tracks had joined in before he'd finally ended up here, a small arroyo tucked into an outcropping of rocks and boulders that bore the incongruous name of Sabino Canyon. Vin knew of the place from having hunted there before, knew of the small spring that fed the rocky ground and gave life to the myriad of desert creatures that called the canyon home.
It was the perfect place for his prey to hide and Vin chided himself mentally for not thinking of it before. But, he reasoned, he was here now and he was still undetected, moving cautiously along the narrow ledge that lay some twenty feet below the canyon rim. Approaching from downwind, the overlook he was headed for would afford him an excellent view from which he could scout the open area below. He dug in with his elbows and inched forward a bit more, the piercing cry of a red-tailed hawk briefly tilting his head upwards. Blue eyes narrowed against the sun as he tracked the path of its graceful flight, a tight grimace creasing his face even as the tracker knew he'd been spotted by the keen-eyed hunter.
Clutching his rifle tighter in his hand, Vin dropped his gaze and crept further along the ledge, his jaw clenched and his lips set in a determined line. He moved slowly, almost without sound, hardly daring to breathe, each stretch of his arm or slide of his leg carefully placed so as to cause the least amount of disturbance. It took a lot of time and patience to learn to track this way and Vin had perfected the technique in the time he'd spent amongst the People. Those very same lessons also allowed him to blend in with his surroundings, the earth, the rocks, the trees, to slip from place to place unnoticed and melt away in the night like a silent ghostly shadow.
A sudden grin tilted Vin's mouth as a flash of memory sliced through him. JD had been in the saloon having a beer and he'd slipped up behind the younger man unnoticed. When the dark-headed youth finally turned, he'd let loose with a startled yelp, surprised to find Vin standing directly behind him. The kid had spilled his beer all down the front of his shirt, but the look of irritation and disgust in those hazel eyes was followed almost immediately by a genuine admiration. Even as Vin had chuckled at JD's misfortune, the younger man was begging to know how he did it.
Vin had promised to teach him...one day...maybe...and then the tracker's smile faded away as other memories intruded upon his thoughts. JD was a good kid, a quick learner and he tried hard, sometimes almost too hard. Vin had already spent countless hours with him, teaching him how to track and to recognize the various animal footprints as well as what types of medicinal plants and sources of water could be found out in the harsh desert. But given the recent turn of events, Vin wasn't sure he was going to be around long enough to teach JD much of anything else except how to say goodbye.
There was too much that had happened, too much left unsaid, too much that had fallen apart, and Vin wasn't so sure that it wasn't time for him to be moving on. After all, he still had a price on his head and somewhere out there, the truth was waiting to be found. Either that or a Texas jury was likely at some point to put a noose around his neck. And while it would sadden him to leave their little town, Vin was a practical man. He knew that things changed. People changed. Life went on. That's just the way it was.
All of which led him to wondering yet again, just where in the hell was Chris? Vin hadn't seen hide nor hair of the man since leaving town that morning. They'd parted company after a stranger he'd first seen with Orrin Travis wanted to speak to Chris privately. But from all indications, it didn't look like the gunslinger had planned to be all that far behind him. So where was he and why hadn't Chris caught up with him? Had he changed his mind about going on Travis's little hunting expedition after all?
Vin shrugged, sighing philosophically. Unfortunately, Chris's absence was something he was getting used to, something he found he'd come to expect as opposed to the trusted friend who used to watch his back. Because Chris had changed. Life had changed him. He wasn't who he'd been before, wasn't the man Vin had come to know and respect, ever since the day that Ella Gaines showed up and sunk her claws deep into the older man's skin. And sometimes, Vin found himself wondering which had done the most damage, Jack Averill's bullet...or Ella Gaines's lies?
A small rock skittered from beneath his knee, bumping its way down the side of the wash, creating a tiny avalanche of loose gravel and Vin scowled with irritation. It wasn't like him to get so distracted that he made a mistake like that. One single misstep, one little noise out of place and it was liable to set the whole canyon off and alert every living creature in it to his presence. He waited, unmoving, tense, holding his breath, ears tuned for the slightest movement, relaxing only when everything below the rocky outcropping remained calm, quiet and still.
Moving forward once again, Vin eased further along the ledge, finally gaining his vantage point and settling into it with his rifle on the ground beside him. A fine sheen of sweat covered his features, the heat of the day bearing down on him as he pulled his spyglass from his coat. Easing his hat off of his head, he tucked it beside him and then carefully raised the glass, staying towards the shadows of the overhang and avoiding any flash from the direct rays of the bright afternoon sun. One eye closed, he squinted through the other, staring down the length of the brass tube and slowly sweeping the canyon floor below.
At first glance, there wasn't much moving about on the sandy salt flats beneath him and Vin bit into his lower lip, a frown of concentration pulling at the corners of his mouth. But even as he watched and waited, some of the smaller desert creatures began to make themselves known. He spied a pair of gray-coated rock squirrels playing amongst the shady branches of a Joshua tree, their lively chirps muted in deference to the hawk that hunted high above them. An elegant black-collared lizard pulled itself up onto a flat rock, sunning itself for a moment before slowly crawling into a shaded crevice. A roadrunner darted across the open ground, its progress tracked by a pair of turkey vultures sitting almost motionless on the branches of a long dead cottonwood tree. And down closer to the source of the hidden spring, Vin could see tracks he knew belonged to jack rabbits, coyotes and desert ring-necked pheasants.
There would be larger animal tracks scattered around the water supply as well, bobcat and gray fox, mule deer, mountain lion, probably some javelina and wild burros, but Vin doubted that he'd find any of those creatures moving about in the heat of the day. Still, it paid to be careful, and for many long, silent moments, he continued to search the sandy floor as well as the large boulders and rocky sides of the small isolated canyon. Finally, he found what he was looking for, a small overhang that hid the entrance to a den, just enough of a dark shadow beneath its ledge to give away the opening. An opening just big enough to provide a home to a Mexican gray wolf...or possibly a large wild dog.
Wanting to get a closer look, Vin slipped closed his spyglass, grabbed up his rifle and hat and backtracked along the ledge. He then swung down another seven feet or so to a second outcropping below him. The flat rocks there angled off into an easterly direction and the tracker moved carefully, silently, staying in the deepening shadows and once again checking the direction of the wind. Crawling the last few feet on his belly, he left his rifle and hat behind him, inching forward just enough to train his gaze on the opening of the den. The entrance was now some thirty feet below him and directly across the wash at about a four o'clock angle. Lifting his spying glass again, Vin peered through the magnifying lens.
Long moments passed, then finally, just when he'd almost given up, a hint of movement at the mouth of the den captured his attention.
"Well, now," he drawled on a silent breath of air. "Howdy there, little feller."
A small bundle of silver and black fur edged closer into the sunlight, the tiny tip of a wet nose poking upwards into the air. A moment later, a second tail appeared, also tipped with black but shadowed by the barest hint of red. A third tail followed and then the long sleek muzzle of a female wolf slipped out of the shadows beside them. Vin couldn't help but grin, enjoying the rare and precious gift he'd been chosen to receive. Usually wary of the presence of man and the abundance of other likely predators, it wasn't often that a she-wolf brought her young pups out like this in the middle of the day.
Settling in to enjoy the view, Vin watched through his glass as the young mother nudged her little family down towards the spring, nipping and biting gently in encouragement yet all the while keeping a watchful eye. Every now and then she would pause, lift her elegant head and scent the air around her. Vin held his breath at those moments, kept perfectly still, loath to even blink lest she should somehow detect his presence. Still innocent to the dangers around them, the three pups frolicked and played, tumbling over one another, wrestling and growling, their excited yips and yowls echoing sharply off the rocky walls. Vin couldn't help but grin as he watched, every now and then lifting his gaze to glance around, keeping a watchful eye out for the other members of her pack.
But so far, the she-wolf appeared to be alone and Vin watched for a while until finally she herded her little brood back towards the den. He smiled with undisguised pleasure at the small family's antics even as the now exhausted pups disappeared back up inside the rocks. Sighing with reluctance, he then admitted it was time for him to go as well. As much as he'd enjoyed the brief respite, Vin still had to find whatever it was that had attacked Larsen's herd and more than likely kill it. And lying here watching the she-wolf play with her pups wasn't getting the job done.
Crawling backwards along the lower ledge, Vin took his hat and rifle in one hand, staying low and quiet until he reached a point where he could turn and stand before climbing back up amongst the scattered rocks. As he approached the top, he reached up to pull himself over the rim and his booted foot slipped in the layer of shallow gravel. Cursing softly, the tracker eased his rifle and hat over the edge, then quickly used both hands to scale the last few feet. Standing, he glanced around, took a deep breath, then bent over to brush at the dust marks on his pants.
Without warning, a low snarl sounded behind him causing the hair on the back of Vin's neck to stand on end. His eyes darted quickly to both sides, his body stiff with sudden tension. The rifle lay on the ground a few feet away and his mare's leg was still securely holstered at his side. The closest and quickest thing he had for a weapon was the sharp hunting knife tucked into the side of his boot. He eased his hand downward, slender fingers reaching for the elk bone handle even as Vin realized he had no idea just what it was that he was facing.
Then, before he could take a breath, before he could even stand and turn, the sound of quickly running feet and a harsh panting growl heralded the arrival of the large body that abruptly slammed into his lower back. The tracker tumbled forward, losing his balance, the breath driven from his body as he was slammed into the ground. His knife clutched defensively in one hand, Vin rolled instinctively to the side.
And promptly fell twenty feet to the hard outcropping of rock below.
The fallen man moaned softly and then lay still, unmoving, unconscious, hidden from view, a trail of blood seeping from the gash cut into the back of his head by the sharp edges of the stone.
"JD, son...enough with the jokes, okay?" Standing on the porch of the sheriff's office, hands out in front of him, Buck was trying to ward off the next barrage of words. "Ya gotta face it, they just ain't that funny, kid." Dropping his arms, he then leaned into the doorjamb, his long frame draped casually against the wooden slats.
Drifting back in his chair, the front two legs lifted high off the ground, JD snickered. His hazel eyes danced with laughter as he replied, "Sure they are, Buck. You just ain't got a sense of humor." He ducked to miss the hand that reached out to swat him on the back of the head.
"I got a great sense of humor," Buck huffed defensively, then raked long fingers through the tangle of his dark, wavy hair. His words were quieter but no less intense as he continued, "Man's gotta have a sense of humor to ride with this bunch of stubborn knot heads." Rich blue eyes slid sideways, avoiding the younger man's turned head and direct gaze, sweeping the dusty street beyond, but somehow, the undercurrent of worry and frustration in his deep voice still managed to ring clear.
"Somethin' wrong, Buck?" JD asked after a moment, his dark brows pulling together in a puzzled frown. Easing his chair forward and down, he planted his feet on the wooden boards and let his hands rest on the twin butts of his guns. Taking a deep breath, he sighed at the initial silence, the tense set of Buck's shoulders, the hard set line of his jaw. Something was bothering the man and maybe he'd tell him and maybe he wouldn't. For all that Buck could talk the ears off a mule, sometimes he was as closemouthed as Chris or Vin.
A long moment passed and then finally, Buck snorted, his broad shoulders jerking with the motion before he turned back around. "Hell, no, JD. Ain't nothin' wrong. Leastways, not anything that a good kick in the pants won't cure." A broad grin split his mouth, the teasing light in his eyes trying and not quite succeeding in restoring his previous good humor.
Lips pursed, JD sighed again, barely refraining from shaking his head. Buck had once again avoided answering his question and sometimes JD just wished the other guys would quit trying so hard to protect him. He wasn't a kid anymore, for chrissakes! He wasn't that same wide-eyed greenhorn who'd stepped off the stage with saddle in hand and a gun on his hip and no notion of just what he'd gotten himself into. He was one of them now. He'd grown up. He was a man. So why couldn't they treat him as such?
But JD also knew that a man faced his problems. He didn't hide from them. A ‘real' man's code of honor wouldn't let him. Chris had taught him that. But for the last three months or so, that's all that the seven of them had done—hide from their problems, from what was really going on, and JD was tired of it, tired of all the uncertainty. Maybe now, maybe here with Buck, just one on one, if he pushed it just a bit then maybe, just maybe, they could start to solve it.
"I guess you're meanin' Chris," JD stated, his tone of voice carefully neutral. He felt it almost like a physical blow when Buck's eyes immediately pinned him where he sat.
"What makes you think that?" the ladies' man challenged.
Turning in his chair, JD looked up at him, a tiny smile on his face at the way Buck almost bristled in Chris's defense. "You sayin' it's not?"
"I'm not sayin' anything..." Buck began as he straightened the length of his tall frame, arms dropping to his sides. Anger kindled in his eyes and JD reacted quickly, attempting to soothe the other man's edgy temper.
"I'm sorry, Buck," the youth apologized, his dark eyes full of sadness. "I didn't mean nothin' by it, honest. It's just that...It's just..." He dropped his head and turned back in his seat, arms folded on his knees as he hunched forward. Behind him, he heard Buck let out a long sigh and felt rather than saw him settle back against the doorframe. Maybe starting this discussion with Buck wasn't such a good idea after all.
Silence filtered all around them.
Finally, JD could bear it no longer. "Buck? You ever think...about movin' on?"
There was the space of several heartbeats before Buck answered. "Now, why would I do that?" But his words didn't come out sounding near as certain as the older man intended and he flinched at the possibilities that JD's innocent enough question evoked. Had he thought about it? Hell, yeah. Many times before and many times since, especially after Ella Gaines crawled out of whatever hole she'd been spawned in. Did that mean he was going to saddle up and ride out? Well, not yet...probably not...if he was being honest. So why had JD asked? He looked at the younger man curiously and waited.
"Oh, I don't know," JD shrugged, lifting his head and then leaning back in the chair. "Just seems like there ain't nothin' much for us to do around here anymore. It's gotten kinda quiet. Chris and Vin and Nathan are hardly ever around. Ezra's always riding off to Eagle Bend and you can't hardly get Josiah down from the roof of the church. Just makes me wonder what the heck the Judge is payin' us for?"
A pause and then, "You want out?" came the nearly whispered reply.
"No," JD denied sharply, his head turning to glance at Buck. "I ain't sayin' that. It's just that I...it's just..." Well, shit. Just what in the hell *was* he trying to say? JD couldn't seem to find the words. It was just too hard to think past all the emotions swirling around inside of him trying to find a way to get out and all he'd managed to do was trip over his own damned tongue. Shit. Maybe he'd just better shut up. He felt stupid for starting this conversation with Buck in the first place. He ought to take Josiah's advice about letting ‘sleeping dogs lie.' Turning, JD sank back in his chair and stared morosely across the street.
But as always, Buck seemed to know what was on his young friend's mind.
"I'm worried about him too, JD."
It didn't take a genius to figure out Buck was talking about Chris. The subject of the lean, blond gunslinger and the events surrounding the appearance and later disappearance of Ella Gaines were never far from any of their minds. The fact that she was still out there, somewhere, was a constant thorn in their sides. She needed to be found, brought to justice, made to pay for what she'd done, for all those who had suffered at her hands. For all those who still suffered at her hands, JD admitted silently, for there was no doubt in his mind that Chris Larabee was definitely still suffering. Even though Nathan's medical skills had long ago helped to heal the gunman's outer wounds, the inner ones remained raw and open. They still bled from deep within Larabee's battered soul.
Oh, Chris tried to hide it. JD knew that. He tried to keep it all buried inside, tried to shut it all away. But it didn't take a blind man to see that something was wrong and he might be accused of being young, but JD certainly wasn't blind.
"You think he'll be okay?" he asked, never taking his eyes from the pane of shiny glass in the storefront across the way.
After a moment, Buck heaved a sigh, the sound laced through with sorrow. "I don't know, JD. I truly don't...but I hope so."
JD thought on that, chewing worriedly on his lower lip, feeling more unsettled by the fact that the man who'd known Chris longest, the man who'd seen him through the death of his wife and son and the Hell that followed after, the one man JD now admitted that he'd hoped would give him some assurance, really and truly didn't know. He wasn't quite sure just how that made him feel. Uneasy...maybe. Frightened...perhaps just a bit. Worried. Yeah, definitely worried. But what could he do about it?
Not a damn thing, JD admitted silently, a long sigh escaping him.
"He's just gotta get it all sorted out, JD," Buck continued, trying to soothe his younger friend. "Chris just needs some time is all..."
*How much longer?* JD wanted to ask. It had been three months already. But instead, he offered, "Ezra says he's just being...narci...what's that word?...narcissistic?" He turned to glance at Buck, to see if he understood what that meant. "It means selfish or self-absorbed..."
Buck couldn't help but chuckle. "Yeah, I know what it means, JD, and let's just say that comin' from Ezra, that's a bit like the pot callin' the kettle black."
He unfolded the length of his frame from the door and moved to the top step, settling down onto it with a slight grunt, then stretched his legs out before him. Buck knew he'd been avoiding having this conversation with JD but some things just couldn't be put off any longer and now seemed like as good a time as any. Easing back on his elbows, his expression became pensive, his eyes and thoughts lost somewhere between the past, the present and the future.
"I've known Chris a lot of years," he began softly. "Good times and bad. The man's got a code of honor, a sense of responsibility that he carries around, wears it like most folks do their skin. That's just the way he is. Ain't never seen ‘im do without it neither, not even durin' them long awful years that he was drinkin' and losin' the best part of himself in the bottom of a whiskey bottle. That's just who he is, what he does, how he survives...and it's an awful hard way for any man ta have ta live."
JD already knew all of that. He'd seen it for himself, but he wisely kept his mouth shut, letting Buck speak.
"The day he lost Sarah and Adam...the day we rode back and found ‘em...well, Chris blamed himself for not being there, for not protecting them, and that guilt just ate him all up inside. It liked to almost tore him apart." Buck sighed sadly at the difficult memories, resolutely pushing some of the more painful ones aside. "Afterward, he never said as much but I always knew there was still just that tiny bit of hope, that little teensiest wish that maybe, just maybe, somehow...that it wasn't his fault, ya know? That he could lay that burden of guilt down and not have to carry it by his self. And even after we caught up with Fowler, even after all that, I knew that he was still hoping."
JD shuddered in remembered horror of that fiery night and the shadowed figure that had turned and deliberately walked back into the burning barn. The echo of Chris's tortured scream had haunted his sleep for weeks.
"Then Ella Gaines rode into town." Buck's voice hardened at the mere mention of the woman's name. "And now...now Chris ain't got any hope left at all. Any chance, any doubt he had of being able to lay that down, of being able to find peace, all that's gone. Shot to hell and back by that lyin' murderin' bitch and it's eatin' Chris up inside. He ain't been able to get past what she done, the lies she told, the people she killed...all of it so's she could get her hands on him. Ain't a day goes by he don't look in the mirror and see that, don't think on it or feel it, not one single moment he don't live with that regret, with all that guilt." A heavy sigh lifted into the air, the dark head shaking sadly as Buck added, "I just wish I knew how in the hell I'm supposed to help him get through this."
JD frowned, thinking, then proceeded to state what was so obvious to him. "But it ain't Chris's fault, Buck. The woman's crazy!"
Buck turned, a sad grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Try tellin' that ta Chris."
"But it's true," JD protested. "She's insane! She belongs in one of those hospitals they have back East for crazy people." He leaned forward in the chair, his face earnest, the light in his hazel eyes burning brightly, "...or maybe jail for what she's done!"
Buck exhaled, then turned his head away. "JD, I ain't no doctor and I for damned sure ain't no judge and jury. I ain't gonna sit here arguin' with you over a piece of trash like Ella Gaines. For what it's worth, I'd like to see her staked out on an ant hill the old-fashioned Injun way for what she done ta Chris. But you and I both know we gotta find her first and it's a long way between findin' her and puttin' a hangman's noose around her scrawny neck."
Silence followed that declaration before JD eased back in his chair and Buck returned to contemplating the street. A wagon rolled past, filled with supplies from Potter's dry goods store and Buck and JD waved half-heartedly at the driver.
Finally, the younger man asked another question on the subject that was bothering him. "Why do you think Chris was gonna stay with her? I mean, couldn't he see what she was like? How she was using him? Why did he want to stay?"
Buck's shoulders dropped and he sat up, easing forward so his elbows now rested on his knees, his legs bent. He'd wondered the same thing himself. Now, for JD's sake, he tried to feel his way through an answer. "You can't hardly blame a man for wantin' ta find a little bit of happiness in this world and maybe have another chance at love. You can't fault Chris for wantin' ta get back everything he thought he'd lost. Ella was offerin' him all of that, the ranch, the horses, a pretty woman by his side, in his bed, maybe even children again. Everything Chris ever wanted, she was offerin' it to him on a silver platter. Seems ta me that'd be enough to turn just about any man's head."
"Yeah, but Vin saw through her," JD protested. "He knew what she was like."
The dark head nodded. "Yeah, he did...Vin's pretty sharp that way...and he tried to tell Chris but Chris wouldn't listen. I reckon that's got a lot to do with the way things stand between them," which was uncomfortable at best from what Buck had recently seen, although he did have cause to hope seeing as how the two men had ridden out of town together that morning on a hunting expedition at Judge Travis's request.
But JD was still obviously puzzled. "So you're sayin' then that it's not Chris's fault and that you don't blame him for wantin' to stay? I mean...before he found out..."
Buck's answer took a long time in coming and when it did, his words were weighted in sorrow. "No, I don't blame him for wantin' ta stay...but I reckon Chris blames himself and that's a heavy enough burden for any man." He paused, his voice softer now, blue eyes lost in thought. "I'm not sure Chris can live with that...I'm not sure he knows *how* to live with that...and that's what scares me most of all."
Chris Larabee was riding hard, pushing his black gelding as much as he dared in the desert heat. Both man and horse were covered in sweat and the gunslinger had long since shed his duster, tying it on behind his saddle. Out of sheer dogged persistence and a keen sense of smell, he'd managed to locate Larsen's small holdings, the tiny desert oasis as much a surprise to him as it had been earlier to Vin.
Pausing only to rest for a few minutes and water his horse, Chris had taken directions from the old man and then headed out after his missing friend. It wasn't easy, the irony of him trying to track a tracker not escaping the gunman's sense of humor. The man and his horse could move faster than the wind leaving little behind but ripples of shifting sand in their wake. Luckily, Vin had made no effort to hide his tracks, the rounded imprints of the iron horseshoes leaving a path even a blind man could have followed.
Cresting a slight ridge, he reined in his horse and paused, keen eyes sketching the land spread out before him, eyeing it intently for the slightest hint of movement. Seeing none, he returned his gaze to the ground, found what he was looking for and then tugged the reins sharply, cursing as the black shifted and pranced nervously beneath him. The gelding was blowing hard, salt and dirt crusted around its nostrils, caked along the sleek neck, the steady gallop and intense heat combining to take its toll. He'd have to stop and rest soon or risk the animal going down beneath him. And Chris cared too much about his horse, had too much pride in the animal, to let that sort of thing happen. He dropped a hand to the heaving withers in apology, his palm coming away wet with sweat and lined with dirt and mud.
"Soon, boy," he offered in a murmured promise before digging in his heels again and setting off after Vin.
Some twenty minutes later, he was forced to slow to a trot, hearing the deep grunts of effort that escaped the gelding's mouth. Then the trot gradually slowed to a walk as Chris cast his eyes heavenward, cursing the fierce heat and the harsh, burning sun. Turning his exhausted horse aside, he headed for the sparse shade of a cottonwood, dismounting with his own sigh of relief even as frustration tightened the line of his mouth.
So much for catching up to Vin and that ‘mountain goat' that he rode.
Dropping the reins so that his horse stood ground tied, Chris moved beside the gelding and loosened the cinch strap to give the animal rest. He took off his hat, filled it with water from the canteen, then removed the bandana from around his neck and soaked it in the tepid liquid. He murmured soft, gentle words of apology as he cleaned the sweat-crusted face, the rounded muzzle, the soft, velvety nose. A few minutes later, he tossed out the filthy water and refilled his hat with more. Holding it beneath the gelding's mouth, he let the animal drink a small amount, feeding it to him slowly despite the impatient hoof that demanded more.
Only after his horse was cared for did Chris tend to his own needs. He rinsed the cloth and then used it to wipe his face and neck before tying it back in place. Long fingers then carded through his sweat-matted hair, shoving it back off of his brow before he tilted his head back and drank deeply from the canteen. Settling his hat back on his head, green eyes narrowed in contemplation of the lonely vista before him.
The land was different here, more spread out and open, harsh, untamed, unforgiving. Not as flat or as deserted as it would seem to be at first glance. Tumbling rock formations broke the ground at various places, trees and cacti and other plant life scattered about. He'd never paid much attention to it before, never spent much time out here but Chris had a pretty good idea of where to find shelter, food and water.
All the more reason for him to find Vin, he reasoned, then turned to check his tack.
Chris replaced the canteen, wrapping the strap securely around the saddle horn. His hands then automatically moved under the thick blanket and the dusty leather, checking for places that could pinch or possibly rub. The sound of a horse whinnying, lonely, singular, not so distant, swiftly brought Chris's head up and swinging around. His own horse's ears pricked as the brown eyes were instantly alert. A soft whicker of breath was then followed by a loud answering neigh that shook the muscular frame. The echoing trumpet was just as insistent, just as swift, just as familiar. Quickly tightening the cinch strap, Chris gathered his reins and once more swung up into the saddle. This time, however, he let his horse lead the way.
It didn't take him long to find Vin's gelding, the big black tied up beneath an outcropping of rock that provided shade from the worst of the sun's harsh rays. Vin himself, however, was nowhere to be seen. Knowing the man's talent for blending into the landscape, Chris gave him a few moments to appear, dismounting again and standing patiently beside the horses. He watched and waited, sharp eyes narrowed, ears tuned to the slightest sound, the smallest misstep of boot upon stone, anything to give him a clue to the quiet tracker's whereabouts.
But after several long minutes of silence, Chris began to feel uneasy.
"Vin?"
Surely Vin had heard him coming. There was no way his keen ears would have missed the whinnied greetings, the cadence of approaching hooves, the strike of iron shoe upon rock. A frown pulled at the corners of the gunslinger's mouth, his hand going instinctively to the butt of his gun, his fingers stroking the grip by longstanding habit. His feeling of disquiet increased.
"...VIN?..."
There was no reply from the echoing rocks.
Easing the pearl-handled Colt from its holster, Chris moved away from the horses as he scanned the surrounding dirt. Squatting down on his haunches, gun held loosely at his side, he used his free hand to brush across the gravel and scattered sticks, searching for the slight imprint he prayed he'd be able to find. Tracking Vin Tanner wasn't easy, the man having long ago learned the Indian trick of appearing to walk on air. And it was with a grim smile of triumph that Chris found what he was looking for, the rounded curve of a boot heel making a slender impression in the softer ground.
Straightening, Chris moved cautiously, following the faint set of tracks as they headed off towards the north. Vin wouldn't be far, but Chris's worry eased a bit at finding just the single set of prints, the price on Vin's head and the ever present threat of bounty hunters never far from any of their thoughts. Eyes and ears alert, the gunslinger worked his way over the ground, rounding the side of a pair of large boulders, surprised when the earth fell away to reveal the opening of a small canyon. It was hidden beneath the lay of the land and a man could ride right by it without even noticing it was there.
He started to call out again, then thought better of it. If Vin was tracking, hunting, he didn't want to scare off his prey. Creeping silently closer to the edge, Chris paused, eyes narrowed in concentration. His frown deepened as the fragile footprints became more indistinct, shaded and blurred, almost as if someone or something had tried to wipe them away. Almost as if...
A shiver of foreboding traveled up his spine when Chris spied Vin's hat and rifle lying on the ground and he forced himself to look over the edge. His breath caught in the back of his throat, then left him on a sudden rush, as he took in the sight that greeted his eyes.
Vin Tanner lay on a small ledge some twenty feet below him, still and unmoving, limbs sprawled, his body looking like a broken china doll on the bed of scattered rocks. Chris's heart constricted tightly in fear, his mouth going dry, his body numb even as he quickly holstered his gun and searched for the path leading downward. His boots slipped in the loose gravel more than once, nearly tumbling him into the canyon, muttered curses and prayers underlying the very real terror that had him in its grip. Reaching the small shelf, Chris righted himself and collected his balance, going quickly to the injured man's side and kneeling in the dirt.
One hand snaked out to touch the pale skin of the tracker's throat, a near sob of relief escaping Chris's lips at the steady pulse that throbbed beneath his fingers.
"Christ, Vin!"
The gunman was finally able to draw a decent breath, unaware of the tight constriction in his chest until the air left him in a gathered rush. A light tap to the still face elicited a soft moan, a glance upward telling Chris that Vin had somehow fallen from the ledge. Hands gently but efficiently checked the length of the tracker's limbs, prodded at his torso and beneath his lower back. Finding nothing to indicate broken bones or serious injury, Chris moved aside rocks and gravel to straighten the slender body upon the dusty ground. Taking the bandana from Vin's neck, he slid the fingers of one hand around the back of the tracker's head, intending to hold him still while he wiped at the dirt and grime that covered the handsome features.
Chris growled a savage curse when his hand came away wet and stained with blood.
Probing gently, he found the large-sized gash on the back of Vin's skull, then wiped the warm liquid from his hands with the sweat and dirt-stained bandana. He tapped the silent face once more, quietly calling the younger man's name, worried by the lack of response. Chris grimaced, lips narrowed in a thin line, his eyes lifting to the rim above as he pondered their predicament. At the very least, Vin had a concussion and Chris didn't know how long he'd been down. Regardless though, he needed to get him out of the canyon and back to the horses, needed to get him back to town, back to Nathan...
...who was still out at the reservation visiting Tastanagi and his people.
Shit.
Easing his hat off, Chris laid it on the ground beside him. His fingers then raked through his sweat-soaked hair before he wiped across his mouth with the back of one wrist. He stared a moment longer at the unmoving features before deciding on a course of action. One hand reached out to cup the other man's square jaw as he urged, "Hold on, Vin. I'll be right back."
And then Chris was up and moving, heading back for the horses, intending to gather bandages, water and supplies. First, he'd do what he could for Vin here and worry later about getting him off the ledge and back to town. He climbed quickly, scrabbling the last bit upward, swinging his long legs over the rim and rolling to gain his feet. Dusting off his hands, he turned with a determined stride and headed back down the hill.
A low, feral growl brought the hairs rising up on the back of the gunslinger's neck. He stopped in his tracks, eyes sweeping left and right, body tense, cursing himself silently against the breath held deep inside his chest. In his quest to find Vin, he'd forgotten all about the reason they were here in the first place. The wolf or beast or whatever it was that had savagely attacked Gunter Larsen's flock.
His hand inched slowly upward, sliding along his thigh, easing towards his Colt. The deep growl sounded again as his fingers wrapped around the ivory handle. Ever so cautiously, he turned towards the sound, narrowed green eyes seeking and searching, trying to locate the source. Suddenly, a flash of brown fur exploded from a nearby growth of bushes and Chris barely had time to clear leather before he was knocked backwards on his ass. His breath tore painfully from his chest in a sudden rush as he hit the ground hard, the heavy weight bearing him down, snapping rows of teeth slashing at his face and throat while deep snarls erupted in a storm of fury.
Instinct took over and he rolled, taking the large form with him, digging his heels into the ground in an effort to find some leverage. His gun hand slammed repeatedly into the large head while the other pushed against the massive chest. There was a brief moment of separation and his attacker backed away, the small respite allowing Chris to gain his knees. He gasped for air, his ragged breath coming hard and fast. Turning, gun in hand, he tried to draw a bead and found himself falling backwards once again, grunting with the heavy blow. The teeth moved closer and his arm came up instinctively to protect his throat. Chris screamed in pain as those powerful jaws closed about his forearm.
"Sonuvabitch!" he snarled into the crazed and glittering black eyes of the beast.
Sweat from fear and exertion poured from his body, his fingers slick on the trigger and around the grip as he struggled to fire his gun. The searing pain in his lower arm was almost unbearable, skin and muscle and tendon giving way beneath the slashing and tearing of teeth. Blood poured freely from his wounds, oozing down his arm, between his fingers, into the dirt, the earthy scent of it filling the air and adding to the bloodlust of the kill. Mind-numbing panic tore at him, threatened to steal his sanity, the urge to vomit nearly as overpowering as Chris's instinct for survival.
The animal twisted its massive head, the force of its bite, the movement, causing Chris's fingers to clench in helpless response. The Colt discharged forcefully, loudly, the scent of gunpowder and sulfur filling his nostrils, the blast ringing in his tender ears. The sharp percussion from the shot caused the beast to jerk sideways, jaws tightening, loathe to release its hold as it sensed the kill was near. Chris screamed again, the sound tearing harshly from his abused throat when he felt the bones of his forearm break beneath the crushing grip.
He kicked and fought and cursed even as the gun then slipped from his numbed fingers, knowing that to give into the threatening darkness would mean a sure and certain death, not just for himself but also for Vin as well. Thoughts of his injured friend gave him strength, gave him courage, and Chris doubled his efforts despite the sharp claws tearing into his chest and belly, slashing through his clothes and into his skin. Rolling yet again, the wounded gunslinger slammed his left fist into one dark eye socket, felt the big animal flinch in surprise at the unexpected pain.
But there was no relief from the massive jaws of death, the dark head swinging above him, dragging him back and forth along the bloodied ground. One booted foot caught the beast in the ribs but Chris could feel himself weakening, shock and pain and blood loss all combining for his defeat. Scrabbling desperately with his other hand for a rock, a weapon, anything he could use, he felt the bite of slick metal beneath his fingers, had presence of mind enough to grab his gun even as the muscles and tendons of his abused shoulder gave way and his right arm then went limp.
Agonizing moments passed before he brought his left hand to bear, his breath whistling harshly in and out of his abused and battered chest, barely able to see past the pain and the veil of gray shadows that now obscured his vision. Chris aimed the gun and fired point-blank into the monstrous head. He watched in almost curious detachment as the animal jerked, then staggered backwards, the huge jaws finally releasing his damaged arm so that it fell uselessly to his side. He heard a soft whine, caught the questioning gaze, the confusion, the dark stare, saw the massive form stumble sideways before disappearing into the sheltering bushes.
Then, pain-darkened green eyes rolled upwards and the injured man collapsed back upon the ground, his body broken and defeated, his life's blood spilling out onto the silent, thirsty earth.
Overhead, the red hawk circled lazily, a piercing, lone cry escaping it as the desert claimed yet another victim.
TBC
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