Warnings: Death of major character.
Comments: With thanks to Rachel A., Judy and Diana for their helpful comments. This story was inspired by a recent fic of Tiffany's and the discussion on the m7genfic list re canon - in particular, the post that reminded us that even the show turned out differently than the original script intended.
The black clad gunfighter purposefully strode across the saloon floor, ignoring the wild bullets that smashed through the windows from the street outside. He looked out before pushing his way through the batwing doors and took careful note of the near-riot occurring just a little further down the dusty street. There was an old timer sitting on a rickety chair watching the entertainment with a practiced eye. The gunfighter strolled past, stopping on the other side of the chair to lean against the wall and survey the entire street. He dragged in deeply on his cheroot."Town always this lively?" he asked the slouched man.
"Trail herd from Texas. All liquored up. Got in the mood for a lynchin'."
The trail hands were dragging a black man down some steps and over to a waiting wagon, yelling about how he'd let their boss die, not listening to his explanations that he was a healer not a proper doctor. They'd tied his hands with rope and held a gun to his head as the wagon jolted its way through town.
"Where's the law?" the gunfighter drawled.
The old timer pointed to two departing figures on horseback. "Marshall and his deputy. Ha! That isn't even his horse," was the amused reply.
The man in black moved slowly down the boardwalk, stopping to lean against a pole and watch when an angry woman strode out into the middle of the street to face the riled up Texans.
"I ain't lettin' you take him," the woman said, aiming a rifle at the men on horseback. The men laughed, kicked the woman out of their way and continued on. The gunfighter watched on, calmly smoking his cheroot, as the woman regained her feet and pleaded to the townfolk.
"Are you people just gonna let this happen?"
The town folk turned ashamed faces away. It seemed they were.
The man put the cheroot back between his lips and glanced across the dirt road to where a another man, a few years younger than himself, walked out of the store carrying a large rifle. Buffalo hunter. The man stopped to say a few words to the store owner. His face showed his determination to stop the lynching. The gunfighter caught the younger man's eye and inclined his head down the street toward the ruckus. A quick nod between them sealed an unspoken agreement of support and they both stepped out onto the street, meeting up in the middle and casually following along behind the trail herd. The gunfighter stole a glance at the stranger beside him, sizing him up with just one look in a way that had saved his hide more than once over the years. Neither spoke.
A crowd had formed outside the town cemetery, the people watching in morbid curiosity. The two men pushed their way sternly through till they broke out the other side to take their stand among the graves. One of the cowboys felt their forbidding presence and turned quickly. The man dressed all in black took the cheroot from between his teeth and let acrid smoke drift slowly from his mouth.
"What tha hell do you want?" the cowboy asked roughly.
The gunfighter's voice was emotionless, "Cut 'im loose."
The cowboy's reply was to spit a wad of saliva and tobacco juice on the ground.
"Reckon you'd all be happier if ya jus' rode away," the younger man added, his eyes glaring steadily at the drunken ranch hand.
"Not a chance, boys," the cowboy laughed.
"You shot a lot of holes in the clouds back there. Anyone stop to reload?" the black clad man asked in a low voice, his eyes flicking from man to man.
His lips drew back in a faint smile as the ranch hands began to reach for their guns. The click of the rifle beside him was loud as the other man also prepared for action. He pushed aside his long black coat and let his hand hover over his gun. The guns started blazing once more, the boom of the rifle exploded again and again. His own pistol grew hot as he fired at the ranch hands. The horses bolted, those saddled as well as those hitched to the wagon, and the black man was left dangling on the end of a rope tied to the branch of a tree. The barrage was heavy and the man swang for what must have seemed forever before the buffalo hunter could get a bead on the rope. The rifle boomed again and the rope snapped dropping the man heavily to the ground.
The cowboys began to retreat, not willing to risk their own hides any further.
"I got him. I got him," came a voice from behind the two men. They turned as one to see a boy running toward them the gun in his hand aimed at the retreating wranglers. The gunfighter fired a single shot into the ground at the boy's feet, pulling him up instantly.
"You don't shoot nobody in the back," he warned.
The dark-haired boy stared at the gunfighter in shock, humiliation and chagrin showing clearly in his face. The gunfighter and the buffalo hunter turned away and ignored him.
"Name's Chris," the gunfighter introduced himself at last.
"Vin Tanner," the younger man answered. "New in town?" he asked. His voice was husky and he breathed heavily.
"Yesterday. You?"
"Last week," Tanner nodded, roving his eyes over the dead and running ranch hands.
Chris glanced down at Tanner's rifle. "Buffalo hunter?"
"Among other things."
Neither man saw the cowboy slowly standing up from the hole in the ground he'd fallen into earlier. The cowboy raised his pistol. The black man had regained his senses after his near hanging and subsequent fall to the ground and reacted instantly throwing a knife he'd stolen from one of the lynchers. The knife left his hand just as the cowboy's finger pressed down on the trigger. It should have stopped the murderer dead, and perhaps in some other time and place it would have. In the cemetery though, with bodies laying spread around old tombstones and markers, blood soaking into the dry ground, the knife was too slow.
Larabee flinched at the unexpected gunfire. A quiet grunt and slow exhalation of air from beside him caused him to stare in disbelief at the buffalo hunter. Tanner's knees buckled and he sagged to the ground in one boneless movement."Shit!" muttered the gunslinger. He dropped to his knees beside the fallen man. The gunfighter's hands now hovered over the hole in the other man's gut. Blood had already soaked his clothes and formed a pool in the dirt below him.
"Tanner?" he called.
Vin Tanner turned pain-filled eyes to the gunslinger.
"Chris?" he reached a blood-stained hand up to the gunfighter's arm. Sweat beaded on his brow. "Wasn't meant to happen like this," he said, his jaw and hands clenching against the agony of his wound.
The black healer struggled to his feet and over to the two men who had just saved his life. With his hands still bound, the rope still around his neck, he pulled aside the bloodied shirt of the injured man.
"Damn," he whispered. He looked into the man's moist blue eyes. "I'm sorry."
The man coughed then shuddered as pain wracked his body. "Hell, ya ain't got nothin' to be sorry for. I'd do it again in a snake's eye," he told him through gritted teeth. His hand moved across his belt and came to rest on a hunting knife. He pulled it free and Chris took it from him to cut the ropes around the black man's wrists. Vin gasped and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before asking, "Ya got a name?"
"Nathan," the man replied. He grasped Tanner's other hand and reached up to push hair from the man's pale and sweating face.
"Can't you do anything?" Chris asked the healer.
Nathan shook his head. "Gut shot. Ain't nothin to do but wait."
Tanner groaned then laughed, a short bitter sound that brought no mirth to the men who waited with him.
"Reckon I don't have ta worry 'bout findin' a new job after all." His body bucked, his boot heels dug into the ground and fresh blood welled from his wound, flooding to the ground in a final gush. His eyes opened wide suddenly as he stared intently at something just beyond the men leaning over him.
Chris turned, almost expecting to see someone standing there, but there was no one and Chris felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
"Aw, hell," Tanner muttered.
Chris turned back. Vin was watching him, a wry grin curling his lips. His hands squeezed tightly to those that held them then slowly let go.
"Time to ride the wind," he whispered. A last breath escaped his lips. His pale blue eyes turned glassy, fixed once more on the unseen, and he died.
Chris hung his head, sorrow for the loss of a friendship that would never be filled him. A breeze gusted around them, catching the dead man's long hair in its wake, blowing it across his face. It pulled on the gunfighter's coat, tugged at his hat and cooled hot eyes. Chris's head came up as he caught the faint sound of words whispering to him in the wind.
" Reckon there's always next time, pard. "
The black garbed man, his countenance grim and hard, reached out his hand to close the unseeing eyes then stood searching the crowd of people still milling about for the undertaker. A tall, skinny man broke from the group and with long strides was by the side of the gunfighter. Chris flicked a coin into the man's hand. "His name's Vin Tanner. See he gets buried decent." The man nodded and left to get his wagon and more coffins.
The woman who'd tried to stop the drunken ranch hands came forward. "Sir, I run the Clarion News. Where did you come from?"
Chris's face was shuttered against the woman as he turned on his heel to walk away from the stench of death that seemed to haunt his every move. "Saloon."
Nathan touched the dead man's face one more time, pushing the hair away again and closing the parted lips. "Thank you," he said softly then stood and followed the gunfighter away.
"Hey! Wh .. I, I wanna talk to you," the persistent woman said. "Where are you going?"
"Saloon," the two men said simultaneously, brushing past her.
At the saloon, Chris and Nathan leaned against the bar sipping their whiskey.
"It don't feel right," Nathan said abruptly.
Chris turned his head to look at the healer and was just about to ask him what he meant when he happened to glance into the mirror behind the bar and saw two men approaching him. One was a black man with an unusual head band of what looked like teeth. The other was an Indian.
Chris sat down on the edge of the bluff that overlooked the Seminole village he, and four other men, had been hired to protect. He hung his legs over the rock and stared into the distance. From his vantage point he could see miles of flat, bare plains, an almost barren terrain for those unused to its stark beauty. A dry breeze blew up bringing with it the scent of the arid plains - a combination of hot sand, dry scrub and the merest trace of the now scarce buffalo herds.The lone man pulled a fresh cheroot from his shirt pocket, struck a match on the rock and lit it, sucking in the bitter smoke and exhaling it in one long stream through his nostrils. The cloud of grey-blue smoke caught in the growing wind and trailed away from him. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled a folded piece of paper out. Remembering, as he unfolded it, his conversation with the newspaperwoman that morning. He flicked ash from his cigar in annoyance. That woman had really pissed him off. Who the hell did she think she was, judging him - her condescending voice echoed in his ears.
~~~~~~~~~~
"I see you've read it," the owner of the Clarion news stated as the austere gunfighter walked into her office, paper in hand.
"As I recall, your quiet town was full of drunken scum lookin' to lynch a man," he replied, holding back the urge to throttle the woman for writing about him.
Her voice was prim and proper as she defended her actions, the superior tones grating on his nerves. "If I have to bend the facts a little to keep our town safe and if the next bunch of drunken scum decides to steer clear of here, then it was worth another black mark on your already less than stellar reputation, Mr Larabee."
Chris Larabee mentally considered his reputation and the effect shooting the woman would have on it.
"You see, I took the liberty of researching your past in my late husband's files."
"You read second hand trash and you think you know a man," he stated, leaning menacingly on her desk. "You don't know me."
"I was sorry that your friend died. Had you known him long?" she asked in an attempt to put some space between her and the imposing man in black.
"Not really," he answered, straightening up and feeling suddenly bereft again.
"Maybe you didn't know about this then?" she said, holding out a piece of paper.
He took the paper and glanced down at the face that stared back at him. It was a wanted notice, dead or alive, $500 for Vin Tanner. Chris folded the note up and pushed it into his coat pocket, not saying a word, his flinty glare more than making up for his silence. With a last icy glare, he turned to walk out of the office.
"I'm just trying to scare the bad element away from this town," she said in a last ditch attempt to defend her actions. Exasperating man. Can't he see that what I did was right?
The gunfighter paused in the doorway, looking at her as he reached for the door handle.
"Lady, I am the bad element," he finally said, walking out and pulling the door firmly closed behind him.
~~~~~~~~~~
The gunfighter scoffed at his own arrogance and drew his attention back to the paper in his hand. Nathan found him, just sitting there, a short time later, staring across the plains. He made a soft noise to let the man know he was there before walking forward to join him. Chris remained still, his only movement the occasional lifting of the cheroot to his lips then down again.
Nathan glanced at the set and brooding face. Eyes narrowed against the smoke and the wind. "Was he a good friend?" he quietly asked.
"He could have been, Nathan. He could have been."
Nathan nodded and tucked his hands inside his coat pockets, wrestling with his own thoughts awhile before getting to his feet to leave. With his back to the plains and his head lowered, the quiet healer spoke his final words to the memory of the young stranger.
"He saved my life," he stated simply." I didn't know him but I'll never forget him."
Chris looked up and their eyes met in the growing darkness. Two men sharing the grief of a life cut short. Nathan looked away first. Pulling his hat onto his head, he slowly walked back down to the village. Chris looked down to the paper in his hand. The words and the face blurring in the fading light. He looked into the ink-drawn eyes and saw again the knowing blue gaze he'd met across the street.
He sucked hard on the cheroot till its end glowed red then held it to the paper. It crackled with a sputtering flame that quickly spread till the name was gone and then the face. He heard the man's soft drawl again in his mind.
"Vin Tanner, new in town?"
The paper curled up and blackened, and still Chris held on, sparks flying around him in the wind.
"Time to ride the wind."
The flame reached his fingertips and he let go before he was burned. The wind caught the remaining cinders, taking them high into the sky.
"Reckon there's always next time, pard" the wind whispered to him.
Chris stared after the glowing cinders of the paper, watching them break up into ashes and be carried by the wind, out and across the plains. He stood, his coat flapping about his legs.
"Next time," the hardened gunfighter murmured to the night sky.
He dropped his cheroot to the rocky earth beneath him and ground it out with his boot heel. Touching the brim of his hat in salute to the wind, he repeated in a stronger voice," Next time."
The wind whistled around him as he turned away and headed down to the warm fire and a bottle of whiskey.
Do not stand
At my grave and weep.
I am not there.
I do not sleep.I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints of snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.When you awaken
In the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there;
I did not die.- Anonymous
THE END
