Chris Larabee strode along the boardwalk in the direction of ‘The Clarion’ newspaper office, touching his hat and nodding in acknowledgement as he passed several ladies ostensibly browsing in Gloria Potter’s store window. The town was extremely busy, considering the early hour. The perceptive gunslinger could sense the air of excitement permeating through the local inhabitants as they waited to hear the outcome of the important meeting that had been arranged for that morning. It was the arrival of the area’s newest immigrants that had sparked off a flurry of activity by the town’s business owners, and had also attracted an influx of people seeking to be employed by the wealthy new landowners.

The Cummings’ were an ancient and titled family, originating from the Strathclyde area of Scotland, and had purchased a ranch, plus a substantial tract of land, with the aim of breeding a new line of cattle. They had received State and Territorial approval to instigate the project and were importing Highland Galloway stock to be crossbred with Native American cattle. This would eventually culminate in a disease tolerant animal with a high quality and quantitative meat yield. Meat from this superior hybrid would provide a vital commodity for the rapidly burgeoning population, which was the main reason for the US Government’s support and sanction of the ambitious scheme.

Whilst the townsfolk of Four Corners were eagerly expectant about the newcomers, and the likely monetary gain to the community, the existing ranch owners in the district did not share their anticipation. Guy Royal, Stuart James and Bryce Kehoe had openly stated their disapproval of another ranch being operated in the area. But it was obvious that the three prominent businessmen were not so much worried about competition, as concerned by the concessionary rate that Lord Robert Cummings had been given when buying the prime acreage.

The old Jefferson estate was in a central position, surrounded almost equally by land owned by the three cattle barons, although Kehoe was probably in a worse situation than his rivals, inasmuch as his Lazy K cattle accessed fresh water via a narrow pass on Cummings property. There was another way to reach the Chaipas River, but that involved a longer trail, skirting perilously rocky land. The amicable arrangement to use the short-cut had never been a problem when Jefferson had owned the land, but Kehoe had ranted on about how the greenhorn Scotsman would view his previously convenient right of passage, and he’d come into town that morning to speak to the new landowner.

Chris had arranged to escort Mary Travis to the meeting and, on reaching the newspaper office, the gunslinger went into the small print room, nodding in greeting to the woman inside.

Mary was sitting at the desk. Judging by the numerous sheets of paper spread out before her, she had been busy preparing for the important conference that would soon commence. Smiling up at the peacekeeper, Mary shuffled the papers into a neat pile before tucking them into a large envelope.

"Good morning, Chris. You’re early! Would you like some coffee?" she asked.

The gunslinger nodded, pulling a chair over to the desk as he gestured to the brown envelope. "Yeah, thanks, Mary. Looks like you’ve got a few questions t’ask them new folks. Reckon this gathering ain’t gonna be short an’ sweet," he stated wryly.

The blonde woman went to pour two cups of coffee and, placing the drinks on the desk, she sat down next to the gunman. Mary was chairperson of the town’s Ladies Guild. On learning of the arrival of three additional women – Abigail and Fiona, wife and younger sister to Lord Robert Cummings plus Lizzie, the household cook married to the foreman Jim Fielding – she’d been instructed by the members to invite the newcomers to join the group. The newspaperwoman was also part of the welcoming committee representing Four Corners businesses. Following a town vote, Mary, Virgil Watson, bank manager Hubert Frost, hotelier Fitz Heidegger and Ezra Standish, had put together a list of proposals and incentives to encourage the Scottish settlers to trade with the local establishments.

"No, it won’t be. There are so many things we need to know, although Mr Partridge from the Land Agency has confirmed that Mr Cummings will be hiring ranch hands and other staff from the area. Apparently they have already appointed an American, who will be in charge of security and advising them on normal customs and practices," Mary replied, sipping her coffee thoughtfully as she considered the situation.

The entire town could gain financially, if they received the beneficial patronage of the wealthy Scottish family.

"Yeah. I met Will Henry yesterday."

Chris’ tone was neutrally bland, but Mary got the impression that something was bothering the gunslinger - although she knew better than to attempt to find out what the problem was.

"Chris, this is such a wonderful opportunity for the town, particularly as Mr Cummings has got the endorsement of our Government. I think that Four Corners will be clearly put on the map, and more people may want to come here to live or visit. Who knows, we may even get our own railroad spur line!" Mary exclaimed enthusiastically.

The gunman drained his cup, his face pensive as he thought of what could happen to the town if a substantial injection of new money and prosperity altered things radically. Chris had seen boomtowns before and, many years previously, Buck Wilmington had been a lawman in one such town in Texas. Money changed everything. Even the most non-acquisitive folk got greedy and trouble was always just around the corner as more shady and unscrupulous people took up residence to milk the pickings as far as they possibly could. The gunslinger was sure he wouldn’t want to stay if that happened in Four Corners, and he was certain Vin Tanner would share that viewpoint; both men disliked being surrounded by masses of people.

It wasn’t that the two men were against anyone making an honest profit from a situation, but their personal positions would become untenable as the town expanded. The known gunfighter Chris Larabee would become a target for every firebrand toting a gun and seeking to build a fast reputation as a killer. For Vin the danger was similar, but for a different reason.

The outstanding bounty on the tracker’s head was a constant threat to the young Texan’s existence, but in an ever-growing town the fear of recognition increased manifold. Of course, if things did change drastically, then the seven peacekeepers would probably all be casualties of the new regime, as a more formalised system of law enforcement would need to be put into place to protect the inhabitants.

Chris shook his head to dispel his speculative musings. No one could predict what impact on the community the Scottish newcomers would have, so it was pointless worrying about anything until all the cards were laid out on the table. The gunslinger just hoped that Mary Travis wasn’t being too optimistic about the financial contribution the Cummings’ family would make to the town’s businesses and residents.

"Well, we won’t find out nuthin’ sitting here all day. Are you ready to go, Mary?"

Chris opened the door, noticing the small crowd of townsfolk intermingled with ranch hands who had gathered outside the Grain Exchange. The meeting with the Scottish family and retainers was due to start in half an hour and it would evidently be well attended.

Mary wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and, picking up her notes, she followed the man outside. The possibility of a new era for the town was an exciting prospect and one that she relished, more for Billy than herself, although the feeling of doubt that she detected in Chris had given her cause for some apprehension. With a heavy sigh, she closed her office door and hastily caught up with the silent gunslinger. It was going to be an interesting morning and she hoped that everyone came out of the meeting with what they expected.

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

It was approaching midday when Buck Wilmington pushed open the batwing doors and scanned the crowded saloon, hoping to find some of his colleagues. On spotting Chris seated at a table and hunched over a glass of beer, the ladies’ man signalled to the bartender for two drinks before crossing to join his oldest friend.

The tall peacekeeper had just returned from escorting cowhands back to a large herd of longhorns assembled several miles away from Four Corners and, after talking to the trail boss, he had learned why the town had had some trouble the previous evening with men fighting.

This was the first herd of the year going north, but the boss was waiting for several of the smaller homesteads in the vicinity to deliver their cattle to him, before the drive could resume its journey to Kansas. After spending weeks on the trail, some of the younger and more impatient trail hands had sneaked into town in search of amusement and alcohol, and had been promptly tossed into jail for drunken behaviour.

The ladies’ man had got the experienced trail boss’s word that there would be no more trouble from his crew, and Buck had duly left the man to mete out his own brand of punishment to the few troublemakers.

"Hey, Chris. Where is everyone?" Buck asked, as he sat down next to the gunslinger.

"I left JD at the jail, Nathan’s been up at the Armstrong place all morning, and I dunno where Ezra slithered off to after the meeting. Did y’speak to the trail boss?" Chris enquired as he sipped his beer.

"Yeah. They’ll be pulling out in a few days, but he’s gonna restrict his crew from coming in t’town, so we shouldn’t have any more fuss. I guess Vin and Josiah ain’t back yet, huh?" Buck grinned as he wondered how the two absent peacekeepers were getting on.

The pair had ridden out to the Seminole village three days ago, after learning that the young Indian woman Querida, whom Vin had rescued from the clutches of two brutal men, was about to marry. Tastanagi had sent word that the girl was keen to have the tracker attend the ceremony and the ex-preacher had decided to accompany the younger man to give his own blessing to the happy couple.

"Nope. Reckon they’ll stay a few days, ‘specially knowing about all the extra folks that’ve swarmed in here," Chris stated succinctly.

"Yep. The town sure looks like it’s bursting at the seams, so I can’t argue with that! How did the meeting go?" Buck wanted to know.

"Waal…I don’t think it went quite how Mary and the other businessmen thought it would. Seems to me, the only one gaining in the long run will be Ezra!" Chris grinned, as he thought back to the morning’s assembly.

"Why? I thought them Scottish folk would be hiring people and spending money like it was going outta fashion!" Buck stared in confusion at his friend.

"Hiring, mebbe. But Robert Cummings shot all the other ideas about supplies an’ such, right down in flames! He’s told ‘em he’ll be shipping all his goods in by railroad, direct to Ridge City, and even be using the First National Bank there too, although he’ll be getting food and hardware supplies from here to start with."

Chris pursed his lips, as he thought of the angry reaction from the majority of the town’s businessmen. Even Mary Travis had expressed her indignation, and had promptly gone to wire Orrin Travis, seeking his legal and commercial advice.

"They’re gonna cut out the town completely! Damn! So ole Ezra’ll be a mite better off, because all those extra workers will want t’drink or gamble, and it’ll probably mean we’ll be busier too. But that’s all!" Buck exclaimed. He gulped more of his beer, as his mind turned over the implications of the decision.

"Yeah. They want quite a few people as workers or hands, ‘cause apparently there’s a fair amount of repairs to be done around the property. Cummings is also paying to build a small hospital close to the ranch. Guess they won’t have much need t’come into town," Chris remarked dryly.

Buck frowned as he digested this startling piece of information. "A hospital? Does Nathan know?"

The gunslinger nodded slowly. "Henry told him yesterday, but he didn’t seem that worried. Guess he’s looking forward t’meeting a real doctor, an’ at the end o’ the day the townsfolk will still come to him for help, because he’s closer."

"What’re they like then, these Cummings’? I heard there’s a younger sister, who’s as pretty as a peach. And unmarried! Did you meet her, Chris?" Buck asked eagerly, his blue eyes alight with interest.

"Jeez, Buck! You must be part bloodhound! Seems to me, y’could be lost in the desert, but you’d still sniff out the nearest gal!"

The tall peacekeeper wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Hell, Chris! Can I help it if I was first in the queue when God gave out the looks and charm?"

"Nope. But that must explain why you were so far down the line when He handed out the brains!" Chris drawled sarcastically, throwing a crooked smile at the unconcerned ladies’ man.

"So…what did y’think of these Scots?" Buck asked again.

Chris shifted in his chair, glancing around the crowded saloon. "Robert and Abigail Cummings were real friendly, but the younger brother John is a mite arrogant. He didn’t want t’make much conversation with us ‘working’ folk, although I caught him trying to sweet talk Mary. Mind, she was that annoyed at how things’d gone, she soon sent him on his way! Lady Fiona…" the gunslinger cocked his head towards the avidly listening Buck, and fluttered his eyelashes coyly at his friend before continuing, "she’s quite attractive, I s’pose. Not shy though, and she certainly knows what she wants from life. I saw Ezra talking to her, and I believe he’s asked her to have dinner with him tonight."

"Ezra! Dinner! That sly, conniving fox! And you talk about me! That cunning gambler don’t waste any time, does he?" Buck snorted.

"Can’t take the competition, eh Buck? Anyhow, the rest of ‘em appear t’be good, honest people. The doc is much younger than I’d’ve thought, but Cummings and his right-hand man Fielding seem to be fair men, and very knowledgeable about cattle and horses. There’re two … trackers I guess you’d call ‘em, but I didn’t meet Davey Mason and his young nephew. Jim Fielding said they were both experienced ghillies, who’d bin with the family for years. And then there’s Henry."

Chris’ eyes narrowed as he thought about the Texan who’d been hired to provide security and local advice to the family.

One of the first things the gunslinger had noticed about the older man after meeting him the previous day, was his well cared for, fast draw gun belt. On being introduced by Charles Partridge at the Land Registry Office, Will Henry had scrutinised the black-dressed gunslinger and it was obvious to Chris’ experienced eye that the other also recognised him for what he was. The two men were skilled gunfighters, experts at the deadly art of gunplay and, at that initial contact, both saw and accepted this fact. From Chris’ point of view though, there was more to it than the casual encounter of another seasoned gunman.

Chris felt a niggling sense of familiarity about the other man, although he couldn’t recall ever hearing the Texan’s name before. Of course, many men had personal reasons to change their names, or conceal their identity, but Chris didn’t like to leave things to chance. Paying close attention to the warning bells ringing in his head, Larabee had immediately gone to the jailhouse to check through the wanted posters. If the man had a price on his head, then it was the peacekeeper’s business to find out as much as he could, especially when he felt such a high degree of distrust for Henry.

It had surprised the gunslinger, not to actually find an outstanding warrant against the blond Texan, but it still didn’t dispel the uneasy feeling he had for the man. All he could do for the moment was sit back, observe Henry and hope that his instincts were wrong.

Buck knew that his friend was troubled by the presence of the Cummings’ security boss, although he himself thought the man was amiable and sincere. However, having known Chris for more than twelve years he was aware how well honed the gunslinger’s sixth sense was and, while he didn’t always fully understand his friend’s hunches, he had a healthy respect for them.

"I take it you ain’t had a telegraph back from Graham yet?"

The ladies’ man was referring to his long time friend, Graham Hollis, who was sheriff in the town of Stockley, near San Antone.

Chris shook his head. "Nope. Hopefully I’ll get a reply tomorrow."

The gunslinger had asked Hollis to check thoroughly all warrants, specifically in Texas, going back twenty years and Chris knew that the tedious exercise would take some time to complete. The Cummings’ family plus their entourage would be staying in town for a few days, holding interviews and hiring workers, so it would be easy to keep an eye on Henry while waiting for a response from Stockley.

The tall peacekeeper nodded, and picked up his glass to finish his drink. "Well, I think I’ll go get the kid, and then have a bite to eat at the restaurant. Catch up with y’later, Chris."

Chris nodded to his friend as Buck got up to leave, relieved to have some privacy while going over the events of the morning. The gunman didn’t really understand why he had such a strong feeling of unease, although he admitted that it was most likely connected to that morning’s meeting.

Expectations had been running high, but Robert Cummings had soon brought the town’s businessmen back to reality, and the gathering had then deteriorated into an indignant shouting match against the new arrivals, with a few of the more vocal detractors making veiled threats to the Scotsman. It would take time for things to return to normal and Chris just hoped that he and his fellow peacekeepers could keep a tight hold on the unsettling situation.

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

The town had quietened down by mid afternoon, as Dr Andrew MacIntyre strolled along the boardwalk. Having spent much of his childhood and early teens living in the bustling city of Edinburgh, and then residing several years in London whilst working as a trainee surgeon, this small western town did not have a great deal to offer his more cosmopolitan tastes.

When the Cummings’ party had stopped for several weeks in Boston and New York, the doctor had enjoyed the stimulus of the American cities, and had even managed to wangle his way into the large hospitals in both places to witness this country’s medical practices and operation techniques.

Now that the family and their employees had arrived at their destination, the doctor realised that his continuing endeavour to attain greater medical knowledge would be in abeyance for some considerable time, as the nearest hospital with surgical theatres was hundreds of miles away.

In addition, many of the small western towns they had stopped in when making the long journey south-west, did not even have the benefit of a resident qualified doctor. The inhabitants’ medical care was left to men who merely sold useless tonics for a profit or, worse still, they only had the hit and miss ministrations of a barber.

As he continued walking MacIntyre saw a large livery stable on the corner of a block and, peering intently at an old weathered sign swinging on a bracket, he was surprised to read the inscription, ‘Bones set. Wounds healed.’

When he’d spoken to Will Henry earlier that day, the Texan had informed the inquisitive doctor that the town did actually have the benefit of a skilled healer. MacIntyre discovered the incumbent man had a good reputation for rendering medical aid, although he was unqualified. It had then come as a shock to the rather insular thinking physician that this local practitioner was also engaged as one of the town’s law enforcement officers.

On reaching the stairs leading to an outer balcony, the doctor decided to make the acquaintance of the healer about whom he’d heard so many good things. With a hasty look around the deserted livery area, he began to climb the steps.

Nathan was busily grinding herbs, when he heard the sound of footsteps outside, and opening the clinic door he gazed at the suited and immaculately dressed man who stood on the threshold. The healer had been told that the Scottish doctor was in his early thirties and the peacekeeper guessed that he was about to make the acquaintance of the newly arrived physician.

"Oh! H… h… hallo," MacIntyre stammered. His brown eyes conveyed his surprise on seeing the man in front of him.

This couldn’t be Nathan Jackson, could it? Of all the things that he had been told about the skilful healer, the fact that the man was a Negro had never been mentioned. Not only that, he was of an age where he must have once been a slave and, from the little MacIntyre knew about American history, it seemed unlikely that a man born into servitude would have managed to gain any formal education.

Nathan smiled at his astonished-looking visitor and, holding the door open a little wider, he beckoned the man inside.

"Howdy. Can I help ya?"

Glancing around the small but clean room, the Scotsman looked at the mortar and pestle in the other’s hand and, taking a deep breath, he caught the pungent scent of the crushed camphor leaves. There was an air of familiarity about the well-stocked, orderly clinic that suddenly dispelled MacIntyre’s bafflement. With a beaming smile, he held out his right hand to the man who could only be the town’s much-lauded healer.

"I’m Dr Andrew MacIntyre, and I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr Jackson."

Nathan casually wiped his hand on his shirt before shaking the newcomer’s hand. "Nathan. Reckon I’m real happy t’meet ya ‘n’all, doctor. When I found out that the Cummings’ family would be travelling here with a fully qualified physician – an’ a surgeon t’boot! - waal…let’s jes’ say I was a mite excited t’meet a fellow healer."

"Please, call me Andrew. That smell of camphor takes me back many years. My father was also a doctor and, as a boy, I can recall seeing him in his study doing precisely the same thing as you’re engaged in at the moment. Are you using it for an ointment, or to inhale?"

"I use it both ways, but this batch is gonna be mixed with hyssop as a balm for the chest. Winter was hard on the young ‘n’ old this year, an’ ‘though spring is jes’ ‘round the corner, folks are still getting coughs and such." Nathan gestured to the larger mixing basin on his dresser waiting for the final ingredient of the pungent herb to be added. The tall healer had a fleeting impression that he had just passed some type of test from the seemingly skilled practitioner, but he was relieved to see no sign of cynicism in the other man’s interested gaze.

Wandering over to the large dresser, MacIntyre ran a knowledgeable eye over the collection of bottles and jars on the shelves. Spotting a small leather case, he pointed a finger at it before turning back to the healer.

"May I?"

With a quick nod, Nathan went back to the grinding and, seeing that the leaves now resembled paste, he carefully scraped the herb into the basin and began the long process of combining the ingredients. Watching the doctor open the case, Nathan couldn’t help but smile when he saw the incredulous look on the Scotsman’s face.

"You have a syringe!"

It was the healer’s newest and most coveted piece of medical equipment and he was not at all surprised by the doctor’s reaction.

"Yeah. I may not be qualified or as skilled as you probably are, but I read as much as I can, an’ try and learn from other doctors. So if I can get hold of any new medical tools, then I use ‘em to the best of my abilities." There was no hint of envy in the healer’s words, just acceptance of what he believed to be true.

"I’m sorry, Nathan. I didn’t mean to imply that you wouldn’t have the capabilities to use this, I was just a little taken aback to see it, especially with some of the health practices that I’ve witnessed in other towns we’ve visited on our way here."

As he spoke, MacIntyre delicately closed the lid and carefully replaced the case back on the shelf.

"Yup, I know what y’mean. Unfortunately, there ain’t much proper medical help t’be had out here so, often as not, folks turn to whomever they can when they’re sick or injured. I guess mebbe one day, everyone will have easy access to a real doctor or hospital, but I reckon that’s a long way off yet," Nathan said regretfully.

The Scotsman could see that he had quite a lot in common with this talented medical man and, although Nathan Jackson had no formalised training, he looked to be as skilled as many small town doctors that MacIntyre had met in his homeland. If anything, the healer might even have a greater level of experience, as he was obviously prepared to use as many of the medicinal plants available to him, in conjunction with processed drugs and more up to date treatments.

"Aye, it probably is. Of course, medical science is moving extremely fast, and there are new discoveries being made virtually every day so, like you, I pray that change will happen in the foreseeable future." MacIntyre smiled as the other man nodded sagely.

Nathan continued with his chore, deftly spooning the thick, unctuous ointment into the clean, labelled jars. With a satisfied sigh, he finally stored the new supplies in his dresser, and then went to wash and tidy up.

"Would ya care fer a coffee, Andrew?" the peacekeeper asked, as he dried his hands.

"Well…yes, why not! The family are…"

Whatever MacIntyre was about to say was cut off by the pounding of heavy feet on the outer steps.

"Doc! Doc! I need help! M’brother’s bin caught in a stampede, an’ his legs hurt real bad! Y’gotta help him, doc!" A young cowhand burst through the clinic door, his red face and breathlessness a testimony to his frantic dash for aid.

"Whoa! Slow down, son. Where’s yer brother?" Nathan flung the towel down and followed the agitated youngster out of the door.

At the bottom of the steps stood two horses and, slouching precariously in the saddle of one of the animals was another young man. His right leg was hanging loosely down, and a wide blood-soaked bandage was wrapped around his thigh from the groin to the knee.

Nathan hurried down the steps and, with the young cowhand’s help, he eased the wounded man off of his horse before the two carried him up to the clinic.

Watching from the doorway, MacIntyre had seen the tall healer’s immediate response to the injured man and, going back into the clinic, he hurriedly prepared a cot before pouring fresh boiling water into a basin.

With a grateful glance at the other man, Nathan laid the semi-conscious cowhand on the bed and, crossing to wash his hands, he began to get some information from the injured man’s companion.

"What’re yer names, son? An’ can ya tell me what happened, and when."

The younger man had sunk down on a stool close to the cot, and his worried eyes scanned the white-faced cowhand’s slack features. With a gulp, he looked across to where Nathan was gathering cloths, bandages and several bottles in his arms.

"I’m Lenny Clarkin, an’ this’ m’brother Pete. We’s workin’ as drive hands on that herd camped outside town. Them cows’ve bin a mite restless, scared by a pack o’ wolves we reckon, an’ me’n’ Pete had t’go after some steers that got spooked this mornin’. Pete was riding sweep, an’ got caught by a horn," the man explained.

"The chuck wagon boss’s done a bit o’ doctorin’, but he couldn’t stop the bleedin’. So I brought him here. Don’t let ‘im die, doc! He’s all I got now." Clarkin turned a fearful face to Nathan, as the healer began cutting away the bandages.

"Take it easy, son," the peacekeeper soothed, slicing along the seam of the injured man’s pants. "He ain’t gonna die if I can help it. Why don’t ya go care fer yer hosses, while I see to yer brother’s hurts, eh?"

The confident, reassuring tone of the healer’s voice immediately calmed the flustered youngster. Giving his brother’s arm a gentle squeeze he nodded wordlessly and quickly left the clinic.

"Can I do anything to help, Nathan?"

Andrew MacIntyre had stood watching as the healer had carefully washed the gaping, jagged wound, and his professional gaze noted the generous amount of carbolic that Nathan was using to clean the dirty injury.

"Hmm? Yeah, can ya get me another towel from the cupboard and my medical kit on the dresser, please?" Nathan gestured vaguely with his head, but his concentration was fixed on inspecting the bleeding leg.

MacIntyre went to thoroughly scrub his own hands, and then gathered the requested items, glancing occasionally at the bent over form of Nathan. Everything that the doctor had seen thus far only confirmed what he was already starting to suspect of the medical abilities of the tall peacekeeper. The healer was scrupulous about hygiene in his clinic and was unruffled during an emergency, able to deal not only with his patient, but also having a calming influence on the panic-stricken and worried companions of the injured. The man had a rare and talented gift for healing and the Scot could see why the townsfolk held him in such high regard.

It took Nathan nearly half an hour to clean, suture and re-bandage the serious wound and, after giving the dazed young man a mild sleeping draught, he then started to check Pete Clarkin’s general condition.

"How is he?" MacIntyre had made fresh coffee, and he placed a cup next to the healer as he asked his question.

"Thanks, Andrew. Lost a fair amount of blood, an’ he’s a mite shocked, but I reckon he’ll be fine. Won’t be ridin’ fer a spell though, so I’ll need to speak to his brother when he gits back. I’ll keep him here for a day or two jes’ to make sure there’s no infection, but then he can be moved to the boarding house, ‘til he’s fit to travel." Nathan unhooked his stethoscope and took a grateful sip of his drink.

"I’m very impressed that you recognise the need for cleanliness, and maintain a good sterile environment around your patients, with the liberal use of carbolic acid." The doctor picked up the large bottle that Nathan had left on the side table.

Picking up a damp cloth, the healer carefully wiped Clarkin’s face and, placing a hand on his patient’s forehead, he checked the drowsy man for any sign of fever. "Yeah, waal, I saw many a man die in the war ‘cause gangrene set in when a wound was left dirty, or if a careless surgeon used filthy operating tools. Reckon boiled water, an’ soap or carbolic ain’t gonna hurt none, so I jes’ do the best I can."

"I believe it was one of my own countrymen who recently began urging other physicians to employ thorough controls on hygiene. Have you read about Joseph Lister’s theories on micro organisms and antisepsis?" MacIntyre asked.

"Nope, can’t say that I have."

Nathan frowned. He tried to get hold of as many published medical journals as possible but, if Lister was English, then it might take time for his papers to be distributed in America.

"Hmm. Well, my father knew Lister when the man was a young doctor working at the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary but, more recently, he was promoted to surgeon at the Glasgow Royal Infirmary where he has the hospital board’s full support to experiment and write a thesis on germ control. He has had success in the use of sterile operating conditions, coupled with the idea of creating a carbolic barrier between the patient and the air, which has cut the post-operative mortality rate."

"Waal, sounds like I must be doing something right, Andrew. I must remember t’tell the fellas all about this Doc Lister the next time one o’ ‘em gets hurt. Ya’ll should hear the cussin’ an’ moans when I pour carbolic on an open wound! Reckon ya should brace yerself fer some of that too!"

Nathan could have listened all day to this brilliant young doctor and he hoped they would get a chance to exchange information at a more convenient time.

Watching as the healer checked the cowhand’s bandaged leg, MacIntyre put his hand to the sleeping man’s wrist, as he looked at Nathan. "Do you mind?" he asked of the tall peacekeeper.

The healer smiled and nodded in agreement, gratified that the man had the courtesy to ask his permission. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to be sharing medical care of a patient with a fellow physician, and he sensed that it was professional curiosity that was motivating the other man, not reservations about Nathan’s own abilities.

"Ah, yes. He’s young and strong so he should make a full recovery. My friend, you are a very skilful practitioner. I hope we get the opportunity to work together at some other point in time, although" - he gave a wry smile, at the incongruous statement - "I hope it doesn’t happen because of an unfortunate accident to any of the Cummings’ family or staff, nor your own friends and colleagues."

Nathan chuckled quietly, as he rubbed his face. "I hope not too! I do know what yer sayin’ though, Andrew, an’ it pleases me that you’d want to work wit’ an unqualified man."

"Well, I had best try and find the rest of my colleagues, or no doubt Will Henry will organise a search party to look for me. It has been a delight to meet you, Nathan, and you must let me know how that young man progresses."

MacIntyre stood up, and with a broad smile, he warmly shook the hand the other proffered.

Nathan smiled to himself as he watched the man leave. The healer had been eager to meet the doctor but an inner fear had nagged at him, regarding how he thought the qualified man would view him and his methods of treatment. This incident had banished Nathan’s concerns completely and he was relieved that there did not appear to be any sense of competition between the two medical men, which boded well for future co-operation.

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

The following morning dawned bright but chilly as JD Dunne left the boarding house to begin his turn of patrol in the still busy town. There had been several fights the previous evening as ranch hands vied with one another over the prospective jobs being offered by Robert Cummings, and Chris had increased the duties of the remaining five peacekeepers to prevent any further problems or incidents.

It was still early, so the young sheriff was surprised to see two men hurrying along the boardwalk and something about their bearing made JD discreetly follow behind them. The two men had reached an alley by the undertakers and, pausing momentarily as if checking something, they then loped down the side street, disappearing from view.

Howard Fraser had risen early and, after checking on the Cummings’ horses, particularly the highly-strung English thoroughbreds, the Scottish youngster had wandered around town browsing in the few stores and businesses. The handsome young man was slim and of average height, with a fair complexion and sapphire blue eyes.

However, it was the style of Fraser’s almost white blond hair that had caught the notice of the two surly Americans. The ghillie wore his shoulder length hair in a ponytail tied back neatly with a colourful tartan band, which proclaimed his ancestry to his Scottish clan. Perched jauntily on his head was a small brim-less cap with a feather attached to the side.

The object of the ranch hands’ attention was peering intently through the window of the dentist office, and failed to see the approach of the two men.

"Waal, lookee what we’ve got here, Jeb! If it ain’t that Scotch ghillie!"

"Nah, yer wrong, Ian. Look at her hair! Don’t y’mean a Scotch ‘girlie’?" the man’s companion sneered viciously.

Ian Martin and Jeb Randall had been in town several days, with the hope of being taken on as Cummings’ hands. The men had met Jim Fielding the previous afternoon, but the astute foreman had rejected the pair as suitable employees, and the disgruntled duo had stalked out of the interview angrily stating that they would get even with the newcomers. Now the opportunity for revenge had presented itself in the form of the un-accompanied younger ghillie, and the belligerent ranch hands were not about to let Fraser escape lightly.

On seeing the two men close in on him, Fraser spun around in alarm, biting back an angry retort at the snide comments. Apart from a medium weight utility knife at his belt, the Scotsman was unarmed although, despite his wiry build, he was experienced at bare hand knuckle fighting and well able to take care of himself in a brawl. Undeterred by the overwhelming odds the ghillie took up a fighter’s stance as he prepared to defend himself.

JD sprinted down the alley just as the ranch hands pounced on the Scotsman and, skidding to a halt as the three rolled around in the dirt, the peacekeeper shouted out a warning to the grappling men.

"Hey there! Quit fooling around! Hey! Stop it, or I’ll toss ya in jail for a spell!"

As JD hauled the smaller Ian Martin off the blond Scotsman, Fraser swung his fist upwards, sending the other assailant sprawling in the dirt.

Wiping a dirty sleeve over his bloodied nose, Randall scrambled to his feet. His right hand slid down to his gun butt and, with an enraged cry, he began lifting the revolver clear of its holster.

The young sheriff had seen the move and, shoving the other ranch hand away from him, JD swiftly drew his own guns, aiming each of the twin revolvers at both of the American trouble-makers.

Fraser gasped in disbelief. He had never seen anyone draw a brace of guns as fast as the dark-haired youngster and, although he was still reeling from the shock of his own narrow escape, he was in awe at the mastery of the man before him. The ghillie glanced up as he saw the tall figure of Will Henry striding down the alley from the main street, and was relieved to see that the Cummings’ security boss also held his own revolver in readiness.

"Y’alright, Howard?" The older Texan didn’t waste any time on courtesies, immediately making his own correct assessment of the situation.

The ghillie nodded, giving a quirky grin to the still armed and alert JD. "Aye, m’fine, Will. The lads just got a bit o’ the devil in ‘em, but this fellow helped bring ‘em to their senses."

JD returned the grin, instantly warming to the affable young man. Gesturing with his guns to the two ranch hands, the peacekeeper issued a warning to the angrily muttering men. "I suggest you fellas get outta town. If I catch y’causing trouble again, you’ll be spending the next few days in a cell and, seeing as how the jail needs a good cleaning, you won’t have the time or energy t’start a’fussin’ again!"

Bending down to pick up their discarded hats, Martin and Randall shot a final irate glare at Fraser, before jogging past the angry-looking Henry.

The Texan relaxed a little as the two departing men turned the corner of the alley and, watching JD as he twirled and re-holstered his twin guns, he then held out his hand to the young sheriff.

"Howdy, I’m Will Henry. Thanks fer lookin’ out fer Howard. That’s a mighty quick draw y’have there, son, an’ if yer interested in well paid work, then I could use someone with yer skills."

This was the first time that JD had met the Cummings’ security boss, although he’d heard Buck and Chris talking about the man the previous day and, as his dark eyes locked with the other’s steady blue gaze, he experienced a brief feeling of recognition for the man.

Henry was in his early fifties, with short dark blond hair greying at the sides, and he was slighter taller than Chris Larabee, but of similar build, although he looked to be more muscular than the gunslinger. The Bostonian had never been to Texas and, in fact, the area where Four Corners was situated was the furthest south that JD had ventured so, quickly dismissing the sensation of familiarity, he shook hands with the other man.

"Nah. I’ve got a job already, and I like working here in town. The name’s John Dunne, but m’friends call me JD."

"Waal, JD, if I can’t entice ya’ll away from town, d’ya think any o’ yer friends might be looking fer a new line of work? I keep hearing what a good shot Vin Tanner is, and I’m real keen t’meet a fellow Texan. Ya got any idea when he’ll be back?"

Henry’s query was casual, but the young peacekeeper couldn’t help but feel a fleeting sense of alarm at the innocent seeming comment.

"Erm… no, I don’t know. Sorry, Will."

JD hastily turned his attention back to the Scotsman, tapping his right hand gun butt as he spoke to the other. "Glad t’be of help, mister, but I reckon you should consider wearing a gun, if you’re gonna be coming into town on a regular basis."

"Howard Fraser. Ach, I think ye have a good point there, man. Maybe I should go buy one o’ those fancy rigs at the store." The ghillie held out his hand to the younger man and smiled broadly as the pair firmly shook.

"Well, I’d best carry on with m’patrol, or Chris’ll have m’hide for slackin’. See you both around, huh?" JD asked hopefully, pleased to have met someone of his own age and suddenly keen to get to know the man a little better.

"I’ll be in the saloon later, JD. The least I can do is buy ye a beer – or two – to show my appreciation," Fraser stated earnestly.

"That sounds mighty fine t’me, Howard! I’ll definitely be there!" JD enthused with a grin.

Henry rubbed his chin thoughtfully and sidled closer to the young peacekeeper. "Waal, don’t ya be forgettin’ m’offer, son. Mr Cummings is payin’ sixty dollars a month, including keep, an’ that’s a tolerable good wage to miss out on," he coaxed, giving JD a lopsided smile.

"It’s really tempting, Will, but I’m happy with what I’m doing at the moment. Folks rely on me to help keep the peace, and I like working with my friends. Thanks anyway. I should get back to my duties now, so I’ll see you later, Howard."

JD grinned, and with a final nod to the two Cummings’ men, he hurried back to the main street to continue his patrol.

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

Lord Robert Cummings and Jim Fielding crossed the town’s main street and headed for the saloon. It was late afternoon and they were on their way to a meeting with the three most important ranchers in the area to discuss land borders, rights of passage and water agreements.

The two Scots had been busy all day, occupied with hiring workers, and also making arrangements for the delivery to Ridge City of the Galloway bulls and cows that had now arrived by ship in New York. Cummings had left the organisation of the household in the capable hands of his wife Abigail, with his younger sister Fiona and the experienced steward, Bruce Soames, assisting where necessary. It would take many months for the ranch to be fully operational but the whole family seemed to be relishing the enterprise, and were keen to make a new home in their adopted country. However, there was one exception to this eagerly awaited ideal.

Lord John Cummings had been heavily involved in an illicit gambling ring, which was based in the seedy area of Glasgow. After the mysterious death of a young prostitute in his Glasgow apartment, it was agreed that the youngest brother should leave the country rather than risk an investigation into his shady, personal affairs. This alone may not have convinced the insolent Lord John to leave Scotland, but his mounting debts with members of the Glasgow crime syndicates, meant that he had also become a target to the villains. The idea of a fresh start in a new country, suddenly became a much safer option for the selfish bounder.

On reaching New York, the reluctant traveller had enjoyed the varied pleasures and pursuits of the bustling city but, since arriving in the west, he had become argumentative and increasingly sullen, constantly sniping at his family as he realised he was effectively trapped in a sedate livestock community. Four Corners offered the arrogant gambler and womaniser a few distractions, but it wouldn’t be long before he tired of the limited entertainment, and he had already lost not an inconsiderable amount of money to Ezra Standish, when playing poker.

It was this pursuit that John Cummings was taking part in at the moment although, with his back to the saloon door, he had not seen the arrival of his fellow Scotsmen. As Robert Cummings and Jim Fielding entered the saloon, Ezra looked up from his cards, glancing across the table to his opponent.

"Do you have to go somewhere, John? It appears as if your brother is looking for someone, and I would not like him to think that I am delaying you by engaging you in this tantalising game," the gambler drawled softly, before fanning his cards out again to study them intently.

John Cummings picked his drink up and took a large gulp of whiskey, twisting his head around momentarily as he answered Ezra. "No. Robert has no need of me, and I find all that talk of land and cattle tedious at the best of times. My brother revels in all of this, but it sickens me to see that common underling Fielding act as though he were an equal partner in the business."

Ezra arched an eyebrow in feigned surprise at the other man’s supercilious comment. "I take it you do not think much of Mr Fielding?"

"The man is getting above himself, Ezra. He even calls Robert by his Christian name now, and my brother appears to be lowering himself to the same level as the servants. Our father must be turning in his grave!" The Scotsman gave an exaggerated shudder at the horrific situation.

"I see," said the gambler smoothly, his schooled features hiding his distaste for the snobbish man.

The two players continued with the poker game, but Ezra’s interest was roused when he saw three middle-aged men enter the saloon.

Guy Royal, Stuart James and Bryce Kehoe strode into the room as if they owned the place and, after a quick look around the busy saloon, they headed to the corner table occupied by Robert Cummings and Fielding.

The gambler watched in idle curiosity as the Scottish rancher gestured for the cattle barons to sit down and, as Fielding poured drinks for the three Americans, the five men began to have an earnest discussion.

Ezra was too far away to hear what was being said but the shrewd gambler was an expert in reading body language and, while he still concentrated on his game, he kept a surreptitious eye on the proceedings across the room. He was aware of the overt warnings that the ranchers or, more specifically, Kehoe had made against the Scottish newcomers, and it was part of his obligation as a peacekeeper to keep abreast of any new developments in the tense situation. Additionally, after his dinner engagement the previous evening with the beautiful Fiona Cummings, he had begun to feel a liking for the family. Seeing that neither Robert Cummings nor Jim Fielding was armed, Ezra felt compelled to keep a close watch on the two Scotsmen.

The five men had talked for nearly half an hour when suddenly Kehoe surged to his feet, his features contorted with rage.

"Dammit! That ain’t the way we do things here! You’ve got a nerve, Cummings!"

Cummings shook his head in bemusement, spreading his hands in a conciliatory manner. "Look Mr Kehoe, I know it’s probably not what you’re used to, but I must have that area fenced off to accommodate my Galloway stock. It won’t fundamentally affect your access to that river, and I have no other option."

"Jefferson promised I’d always be able t’run m’steers through that pass, ‘cause it’s the easiest and safest route. I never had problems before you damned foreigners arrived!" the man blustered indignantly.

The Scottish rancher also got to his feet and, placing his hands flat on the table, he squarely faced the outraged American.

"Well, I’m sorry for the inconvenience but that is my land now and, if I choose to use it in a different way to the previous owner, then that is your misfortune. I have no other suitable place for those cows and I will fence off that perimeter. My decision is not open to negotiation, as I believe I have been more than fair in accommodating your other demands."

"Fair! Mebbe ya have bin with m’neighbours," Kehoe stabbed an angry finger at the silent Royal and James, before continuing, "but they ain’t the ones suffering. Call yerself a stockman? What the hell do you know about our ways! I’ll make ya pay for this, Cummings!"

Ezra quietly placed his cards on the table and, giving his playing partner an apologetic smile, he got to his feet and made his way over to the arguing men.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen. Please! We are all grown men, and I’m sure that you must be able to settle this dispute in an amicable way," the gambler said in a placating voice.

"Amicable! I might’a known you bunch would poke yer noses inter this! Keep yer damned face outta my business, Standish!" Kehoe raged.

The irate rancher had his back to the saloon door and failed to see the arrival of Chris Larabee and Buck Wilmington.

The gunslinger had been passing the saloon and, hearing the loud exchange from within had signalled to the ladies’ man across the street. The pair quietly entered the premises and, making an instant appraisal of the situation, Chris and Buck strolled over to flank Ezra Standish.

"Was that a threat, Mr Kehoe?"

The gunslinger’s quiet tone was deceptively mild, but his unwavering look made the American rancher back warily away from the table.

"No. I ain’t got nuthin’ against yer gambler friend, Larabee. This is a private conversation, and you ain’t got any right to interfere," Kehoe shot back heatedly.

"Didn’t sound that private, Kehoe. I distinctly heard you warn off Mr Cummings though, and I was outside," Chris pointed out.

Guy Royal and Stuart James had sat quietly listening to the conversation but, on seeing the gunslinger get involved, the two men slowly got to their feet.

"Can we assume that you’re taking sides in this matter, Larabee?" James asked coldly.

He had never forgotten, nor forgiven the peacekeepers for bringing about the imprisonment of his nephew Lucas. His brother’s son now languished in prison, after being convicted and sentenced to thirty years’ hard labour for the cold-blooded murder of storekeeper Ned Potter, and James constantly looked for the opportunity to get even with the seven men.

"What you do in business is your affair, Mr James, but when I hear threats being made against an unarmed man, then I take sides." Chris ran a scathing glance over the three older ranchers, almost daring them to make an aggressive move.

"Well, Mr Cummings, I believe we have concluded our meeting and as we no longer have the privacy to continue our discussion, then we will bid you good day."

James gestured to his two colleagues as he spoke, picking up his silver-tipped cane as he prepared to leave. It was abundantly clear that the three peacekeepers were not going to leave the saloon whilst the ranchers talked and the more pragmatic James could see that the Scotsman was not a man to be easily swayed from his decisions. The American ranchers needed to regroup and consider their alternatives, now they had all the facts.

Kehoe glared at the two Scotsmen as he turned on his heel and strode out of the saloon but Royal put his mouth close to Robert Cummings’ ear, whispering a cryptic warning.

"This ain’t Scotland, Cummings. The open range is a lonely place and there are hidden dangers everywhere. A man needs to keep careful watch, or accidents happen. Y’got a pretty wife with a babe on the way, but look around – there’s plenty of young widows ‘n’ orphans in the west!"

The younger man’s grey eyes glittered angrily at the menacing comments and his hands clutched spasmodically with controlled fury, as he fought the desire to smash the mouth of the sneering rancher. "We Cummings are made of sterner stuff than you think, Royal! Bullying tactics won’t change my mind, and I have a commitment to my people and your Government to make this scheme work. I will carry out my business plans as I see fit and no amount of threats will alter the way I run my ranch. I have nothing else to say to you three gentlemen. Good afternoon."

The two Scotsman turned dismissively away from the older men, heading purposefully to the bar for a drink.

The three peacekeepers relaxed as the older ranchers left the saloon and, when Ezra returned to his table to continue his poker game, Chris and Buck ambled across to join Robert Cummings and Fielding.

"Thank you for intervening, Mr Larabee," Cummings said, holding out his right hand to the black-dressed man.

"Chris, and this is Buck Wilmington. I’m just doing m’job, Mr Cummings. Unfortunately, those three ranchers think they run the territory and don’t take kindly to folks who won’t let ‘em get their own way."

"I’m Robert to my friends and I believe you have already met Jim. I sincerely regret that my grandiose scheme has met with such strong opposition, but I really have no choice in this instance."

"Waal, I guess they all get a mite worked up when you talk about fencing off the range. It’s not something to be done lightly," Chris said softly, signalling to the bartender for some drinks.

The Scottish rancher gave the peacekeeper a puzzled look and, taking a gulp of the foaming beer that was placed in front of him, he shook his head at the gunslinger. "I’m not fencing off the range, Chris. Good Lord! That would be far too costly! I am a Scot after all and we’re canny with our money! No, I merely intend to fence off that narrow entrance to Coyote Pass on my neighbour’s end, but it means that Mr Kehoe will have to use the longer route to get his cattle to water. I can’t risk my prize breeding stock being in contact with his animals and that valley is ideal for my needs. There are several serviceable cabins down there for my key workers to use and it is close enough to the ranch to allow me to control things fairly easily."

The gunslinger took a deep breath, as he carefully considered what he’d been told. It appeared on the face of it that the three existing ranchers wanted to make as much fuss as possible for the new landowner, without having reasonable cause. That fitted in with the self-serving attitudes displayed by the cattle barons, inasmuch as all three men detested change, particularly if they felt their own businesses would not benefit from any shift in the local power balance.

"Unfortunately, Robert, you’re locking horns with three of the greediest men in these parts, and I suggest you increase your security when you get out to your ranch. Our jurisdiction technically ends at the town limits but I’m more than happy t’give you any advice I can. Obviously, if trouble happens in town then I’ll help, but you might have to keep a watchful eye on your stock and borders." Chris took a long swallow of his beer, glancing at Buck who was nodding in silent agreement.

The rancher ran a hand through his dark hair, letting out a sigh of exasperation. "Ach! I thought I had left behind all disputes about borders! The English were bad enough, but now I have to contend with this!"

"The English? Y’had problems in Scotland then?" Chris asked curiously.

He had met a few Englishman and Irishman in his time, but the Cummings’ were the first Scottish folk he’d encountered and the gunslinger admitted that he knew little about the country, or their way of life.

"Only in a general sense, Chris. You see, the English usurped our Scottish throne, and annexed us in joint sovereignty, stealing our most sacred relic, the Stone of Scone."

Cummings fairly spat out the word English, and the gunslinger realised he had inadvertently roused the sleeping lion in the fervently loyal Scotsman.

Buck had been quietly listening to the conversation, but his interest was piqued and he leaned a little closer to the rancher. "What is this Stone of Scone? Some type of jewel or something?" he asked.

"No. In reality it is just a large flat stone that the true king of Scotland sits upon, which indicates his right of rule. There is a prophecy connected to the stone that translates into this ode. ‘Unless the fates be faulty grown, And prophets voice be vain, Where’er is found this sacred stone, The Scottish race shall reign,’" Robert Cummings quoted from memory.

"So where is this stone?" Chris asked.

"Stolen by the English dogs and now residing in London! Our lands and borders may have been commandeered, but one day we will claim back our ancient right of Kingship from the heathen Sassenachs!" the Scotsman stated passionately, as Jim Fielding nodded solemnly in concurrence.

The two peacekeepers couldn’t hide their astonishment. Neither had much knowledge about sovereign rule, nor did they understand the mechanics of a monarchy. America had shaken off all ties to Great Britain after the War of Independence, but Chris and Buck had never fully appreciated the political nature of their own country, taking for granted the true freedom of democracy. The only time the American constitution had been in any doubt was during the War Between the States. Although that violent conflict had ended many years previously, both men still had painful memories of those horrific times.

"I thought it was only the US that had dissension’s because of internal borders but it seems I was wrong," the gunslinger remarked eventually.

"The world is a much smaller place than most people believe, Chris," Cummings commented with a wry grin.

His own family’s future was now thoroughly ensconced within this new country and the next generation of Cummings’ would be American, but he was enough of a patriot to hope that one day his beloved Scotland would revert to independent rule.

"Reckon you could be right," Chris grinned, glancing over to where Ezra still sat playing poker with John Cummings. Evidently the younger Cummings brother had no interest in how the organisation of the ranch was faring, unless the older man deliberately excluded him for some unknown reason.

Buck pushed his empty glass away, and tapped the gunslinger on the arm. "I’d best get back to the jailhouse. Robert, Jim, I hope y’manage to resolve your differences with your neighbours. Although, with spring now approaching, things should settle down some. Once them new calves start a’coming thick ‘n’ fast, James, Royal and Kehoe may not get any spare time to cause you problems."

"We can only hope, Buck. I’m just sorry that we seem to have made so many enemies, although I guessed we would have a small amount of opposition, but we seem to be accruing more foes than friends at present." Cummings couldn’t disguise the bitterness in his voice, as he toyed with his glass.

"Waal, it ain’t for me to say how you should do things, but I know the townsfolk would come around if you just put some trade their way." Chris raised his eyebrows meaningfully at the Scotsman.

"A small gesture of goodwill you mean? Hmm. Well, I will certainly consider it, Chris. Maybe a social gathering might help to break the ice."

"A party! Woo-hoo! That’s a mighty fine idea, Robert. Count me in for that!" Buck enthused.

Chris adjusted his hat, and nudging the tall ladies’ man, he shook his head in amusement. "Trust you to invite yourself to a social event, Buck! Robert, Jim, we’ll see you around most likely. C’mon, pard, we’d best get back."

With a final look around the saloon, the two peacekeepers strolled out of the door and headed for the jailhouse. With the continued absence of Vin and Josiah, the remaining five friends would have another busy evening. The Cummings’ party was also staying in town for the next few days, so it probably meant there would be further incident’s of unrest.

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

"He offered you a job as a ….GUN HAND!"

Buck’s angry bellow rang out in the jailhouse and he leapt out of his chair in outraged indignation as he faced the youngest peacekeeper.

"I ain’t accepted, Buck! He didn’t know I was part of the law here and probably thought he was doin’ me a favour by trying to hire me," JD replied defensively.

"A favour! More likely signing y’death warrant, kid! Them Scottish folk seem to be stirring up all kinds of trouble an’ if you start acting like a killer, then you’ll have the real bad ‘uns seeking y’out to boost their own reputations."

The ladies’ man felt a brotherly protectiveness to the youngest peacekeeper and this strong emotion had kicked in on hearing this latest piece of information from JD. Glancing across at Chris, Buck sank back down in his chair.

"You tell him what it’s like, Chris," the tall peacekeeper stated, looking to the gunslinger for support.

Chris had sat silently listening to the heated exchange between his two friends and frowned at Buck, as the other made his last comment.

"JD knows the risks, Buck. The kid’s got a right to do what he wants," the gunslinger drawled noncommittally.

"Dammit! Am I the only one seeing the danger here?" Buck bristled angrily, glaring at his oldest friend.

Chris paid no attention to the hostile look his oldest friend threw at him, and merely continued thumbing through the stack of wanted posters in front of him.

"Buck, why don’t you ever listen to me? I said no to Will Henry! You ain’t my ma or pa, so stop treating me like a child!" JD was getting annoyed and beginning to wish he hadn’t told his friend of his conversation with the Texan that morning.

The ladies’ man visibly relaxed, and gave the younger man a wide disarming grin. "No, kid, I ain’t your pa, but if I were I’d most likely go and plant my fist right in Will Henry’s mouth! Hell, I was just getting to like the fella, and then he goes and does somethin' stupid like this!"

"Well, it was sure nice to be appreciated for m’skills, Buck! Anyhow, he wasn’t just interested in me. He asked if any of us would be looking to sign on with Mr Cummings, and he seemed especially eager to meet Vin."

Chris Larabee’s head shot up, and his hazel eyes glinted dangerously as he stared at his friend.

"Henry wanted to know about Vin? What was he asking, kid?" the gunslinger growled coldly.

JD swallowed hard. When their leader’s voice took on that tone, that was usually a good time to head for cover and keep as low a profile as possible. However, the youngest peacekeeper was going to be denied that luxury this evening, and both Chris and Buck now waited expectantly for his reply.

"W… well he just mentioned that he’d heard Vin was a good shot and looked forward t’meeting another Texan. He asked when Vin would be back in town, but I said I didn’t know, and that was it." JD’s eyes widened in horror, as he realised what his older friends were concerned about.

"Oh Lord!" the dark-haired youngster groaned. "You think he might be after Vin for the bounty!"

Buck leaned across the table, and tapped the pile of posters in front of the gunslinger. "Maybe you’ve been looking at Henry from the wrong angle, Chris. P’rhaps he’s a hunter or something t’do with the law in Texas, which could explain why Graham had no outstanding warrants or any other information on the man."

Chris leaned back in his chair, as he considered what to do next. The Cummings’ family and their workers would be staying in town for the next few days, but he felt sure that Vin and Josiah would most likely return sometime tomorrow, or possibly the following day. It would be prudent to warn the tracker that he might have a bounty hunter on his trail and the best option in the short term would be to ensure that Vin stayed away. Coming to a decision, Chris’ eyes locked with his oldest friend’s perturbed gaze.

"What?"

Buck could almost hear the thoughts running through the gunslinger’s mind, and years of riding with Chris told him that his friend had a plan.

"Buck, I want ya to head out to the Seminole village at first light and tell Vin t’keep away from here for the time being. I reckon it’d be best if he stayed out at m’cabin for a coupla days – at least ‘til these Scottish folk go out to their ranch."

Buck rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It ain’t in Vin’s nature to hide out, Chris, and I can’t imagine he’ll be too happy with your suggestion. Don’t y’think it might be better for him to confront Henry? After all, we could be jumping at shadows!"

"Yeah, we could be coming to the wrong conclusion but, until we know for sure, I’d rather not take any chances. Buck, Vin’ll listen to you and Josiah, so tell him to stay put for a spell and I’ll keep an eye on things here. JD, I’ll speak to Nathan and Ezra about this but, if Henry or any of the Cummings’ workers asks after Vin again, I want to know of it," Chris instructed firmly. Seeing the younger man nod in agreement, the gunslinger picked up his hat and then, without another word, he strode out of the jailhouse.

JD went and poured himself a cup of coffee before taking the seat that the gunslinger had just vacated. The younger man could see that Buck was concerned by this unforeseen development and, although they had no hard proof of Henry’s intent, the Cummings’ security boss did appear to be making subtle inquiries into the tracker’s movements.

"D’ya think Chris’ll go an’ speak to Henry, Buck?" JD wanted to know.

The older man scooped up the bundle of wanted posters, tucking them back into the desk drawer as he nodded to his friend. "Probably. Chris had already made up his mind that Henry needed watching and the fella ain’t done much to disprove that theory neither. Course, he could be genuine and just a mite keen to get the best workers for his boss. Convincing Chris of that is something else, though! We’ll have to wait an’ see what happens."

With a heavy sigh, JD sipped his coffee. While it was nice to meet new people and have something exciting happen in town, the young man suddenly wished that things would return to some semblance of normality. The current situation was extremely uncomfortable and some of the townsfolk that JD had previously admired and respected had gone down in his estimation, due to the heated comments they had directed at the newcomers. It would take time for the dust to settle but out of sight out of mind was an accurate and relevant adage and things would probably calm down once the Cummings’ had left for their ranch. JD fervently hoped that was the case.

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

Chris could feel the tension in his shoulders as he left the jailhouse, and he knew that he needed some privacy to think through what he had just been told by JD. There was something about the blond Texan’s attitude that made the gunslinger uneasy, and Chris didn’t like mysteries. But it appeared that both Robert Cummings and Jim Fielding had complete confidence in the man and readily accepted his judgement, particularly when taking on ranch hands.

Chris had learned that Henry had been hired in Kansas City on the recommendation of another Scottish landowner whom Cummings knew and trusted and the Texan had quickly become an important member of the entourage, particularly when out on the open trail. The gunslinger had also been told by Fielding that Henry had worked on cattle drives, although his most recent job was with one of the main cattle buyers in Kansas City, as head of security. However, that didn’t mean that the Texan wasn’t aware of the bounty on the tracker’s head and could merely be biding his time whilst checking the validity of his suspicions. It wasn’t in the gunslinger’s nature to accept anything on face value, so he decided to seek out Henry to try and discover if the man was a threat to Tanner.

Stopping in a shadowy doorway to light a cheroot Chris caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and, showing the caution of a gunman, he hugged closer into the alcove, quietly watching the approach of the person who had occupied his thoughts for the last hour.

Will Henry sauntered along the dark boardwalk, heading for the saloon where he had arranged to meet several of his work colleagues but, as the Texan reached Watson’s store, he spotted the dark figure lounging in the doorway.

"I want a word with you, Henry."

The Texan’s hand had stabbed down to rest on his gun butt at the softly spoken words but, on seeing the nonchalant stance of Chris Larabee, he immediately relaxed.

"I’m on m’way to get a beer. Care to join me, Larabee?" The older man knew he would get a refusal from the peacekeeper, but he couldn’t resist playing devils advocate for a while.

"Nope. I won’t keep you long, Henry. I reckon JD was a mite flattered t’be offered a job as a gun hand, but the kid’s young and don’t always appreciate the dangers like you an’ me do," Chris commented.

"Waal, I made the offer in good faith. That boy’s fast, real fast, an’ Mr Cummings is gonna need men like that if things don’t settle down fer him. JD’s a growed man, an’ I didn’t reckon he’d need your say so t’do as he pleases, Larabee," Henry retorted scornfully, raking his blue eyes over the younger man.

Chris drew on his cheroot thoughtfully, exhaling a grey plume of smoke into the air. "He don’t, but the kid’s got principles and he’s given his word to Judge Travis that he’ll stay on as the law here. JD may have been tempted but he’ll stick with this; the boy’s more man then some twice his age, Henry."

The Texan’s eyes narrowed at Chris’ implied insult but the older man’s voice betrayed no hint of irritation. "I respect loyalty. It’s a rare quality, although I can see that it’s something all yer friends possess. Y’can’t blame me fer trying to get top hands fer Mr Cummings, but I’ll take this as the friendly warning that ya obviously meant it t’be an’ I won’t be asking after y’friends again."

"I’d appreciate that."

"Yeah, I thought y’might. Anyhow, I can almost smell that cold beer with m’name on it, so I reckon I’ll see ya around, Larabee," Henry drawled.

"Count on it, Henry." Chris threw his cheroot into the dirt and, with a curt nod to the other man he headed in the direction of Nathan’s clinic to update the healer on the events of that evening.

Henry frowned as he glanced over his shoulder at the departing peacekeeper, hoping that the other would not pose any problem to him in his future business. The astute Texan realised that Larabee didn’t trust him and he’d felt the hostility emanating from the gunslinger from their very first meeting. Henry was used to dealing with wary gunman, so he resolved to steer well clear of the younger man while he concluded his duties in town. With a heavy sigh, the blond security boss dismissed the peacekeeper’s veiled warnings as he made his way to the noisy saloon.