Driven by SueN.

PART 1

Buck Wilmington hunkered down behind the wagon as yet another hail of bullets whizzed and whined about him, accompanied by the sounds of lead slamming into wood, shattering glass or tearing through canvas. "Shit!" he hollered to any of his friends who could hear him. "One'a you fellas wanta get that bastard up on the roof yonder?"

Moments later, he heard the sharp, heavy bark of a Winchester – also from a rooftop – and eased his head just far enough around the wagon to see the man who'd been targeting him fall with a dust-raising thud to the ground. "Thanks, Vin!" he called to the sharpshooter.

"Didn't do it fer you!" Tanner shouted. "'At's my wagon yer hidin' behind! Now, git the hell away, 'fore these sonsabitches shoot it all ta pieces!"

"Thanks for your concern, pard!" Buck shot back. "Goddamn touchy tracker," he grumbled as he hurriedly reloaded his guns. "Wouldn't have this problem if he lived indoors like regular folks. But, no, he's gotta live outside, with the wind and the rain and the goddamn bugs! Cover me, boys!" he shouted, snapping the cylinder shut and rising to a crouch. "I'm on the move!" And he dashed out from behind the wagon, wincing and cursing at the bullets that whipped about him, some of them much too close for comfort.

Shit, Chris would have to be in Purgatorio just now!

In the alley at the end of the saloon, Josiah Sanchez spotted Buck, then sighted one of the men who was firing on him. "Gotcha, brother!" he shouted, raising his gun and taking aim. "‘For, lo, thine enemies, O Lord, for, lo, thine enemies shall perish...'" His deep voice rumbled out the words of the 92nd Psalm as he fired, sending his man diving once more for cover. "‘All the workers of iniquity shall be scattered!'"

Shielding himself with the hardware store's sign, Tanner peered through his rifle's sight and laid down a stinging barrage of fire to cover Buck's progress. The big man, he could see, was going to the aid of Ezra Standish, who had gotten pinned down in front of the hotel and was taking heavy fire from the outlaws still determined to get away with the money they had stolen from the bank.

Or were trying to steal. No one had successfully robbed the bank in Four Corners since the town had acquired its seven regulators, and those regulators were now working hard to make sure this latest bunch of desperadoes did not become the first.

"Well, good mornin', Buck," Ezra drawled amiably as Wilmington dived to join him behind the upturned wagon that provided his cover. "Out for your daily constitutional?"

"Hell, Ezra, you know what they say," Buck answered, grinning broadly as he rose to return the outlaws' fire. "A little exercise keeps a man young forever."

"And so will a bullet," the gambler groused as one whipped past his ear. "For the life of me, I cannot fathom which part of ‘throw down your guns and come out with your hands up' these low-browed cretins failed to comprehend. I thought the demand was voiced with remarkable clarity, myself."

"They don't seem too bright, do they?" Buck asked as he watched Standish drop a man who, for some unknown reason, had decided to break cover and run out into the street with guns blazing. "'Course, I guess if they had any brains at all, they'd'a just gone on ta Eagle Bend. Hell, that bank there's been robbed so many times I hear they just keep the damn safe open at night and have the money already bagged up!"

"Perhaps we should have Mrs. Travis put a notice to that effect in the next edition of the Clarion," Ezra suggested as he fired. "Thereby diverting the attention of other nefariously intentioned malefactors in the area to those beckoning environs and away from our own far more conscientiously guarded financial institution."

"Yeah, Ezra, sure," Buck muttered in complete confusion, "whatever you say."

While Standish and Wilmington concentrated on holding down and holding off the outlaws in their vicinity, JD Dunne, crouching behind the barrel that served as the checkers table outside the jail, and Nathan Jackson, sheltered in the alley across the street, fought to hold at bay those near them. They knew they had to keep their bunch separated from the others, and knew they had to keep any of them from reaching the horses in the livery, else they'd all be looking at yet another cross-country chase.

And JD had discovered that those damn things weren't nearly as exciting as the dimestore novels made them out to be.

"Nathan, down!" the young sheriff shouted, lunging to his feet and firing both Colts in rapid succession at the man who'd suddenly appeared behind the healer. He dropped that man, then whirled and sent another shot into the figure he'd glimpsed from the corner of his eye. Bullets whipped by him, so close he could feel the wind from their passing, and he dropped with a yelp back down behind the barrel. "Jeez!"

"Goddamn it, JD, stay down!" Tanner shouted hoarsely, alarmed by the close call. The boy had grit, Vin would give him that, but, shit, he'd make a man old before his time!

Nathan was thinking the same thing about the tracker. Since the battle had begun, he'd watched in horrified amazement as Tanner, as usual, defended them from the heights, moving from rooftop to rooftop with the sure-footed ease and agility of a damn mountain cat prowling its rocky lair. And more than once he'd looked on in gut-wrenching anxiety as Vin had leapt, rifle in hand, from one building to another, defying both bullets and gravity.

Damn fool! Nathan cursed the younger man in mingled fury and fear. Thinks them goddamn fringes on his coat is feathers, and's convinced hisse'f he can fly!

Vin thought no such thing, but could not deny the exhilaration rushing through him. Such fights as these brought something wild and fierce surging up from the depths of his soul, sent a powerful force coursing through him that made his blood sing in his veins. He knew it was the hunter in him, the predatory part that marked all who opposed or threatened him as prey, the hawk in his nature that, when freed, exulted in the chase. He did not enjoy killing, took no pleasure in taking life, but neither would he shrink from it once convinced it had to be done. And once turned to it, his every instinct was primed for the kill.

And that instinct now screamed a warning at him. Some flicker of movement down on the street, some shadow lurking where none should have been, caught his attention and brought him to his feet, rifle snapping to his shoulder. With hawk-sharp sight he saw him, the man creeping up on JD's blind side, his gun drawn and ready to take the shot as soon as he could make it. The bastard thought he was safe, thought he was covered, and so he was, from the street. But the man on the roof saw him, and smiled in grim humor at the target presented to him.

You don't shoot nobody in the back! Chris Larabee had snapped that day, now so long ago.

"Like hell ya don't," Tanner rasped, pumping two deadly shots into the man who threatened his young friend. "Goddamn gunfighter 'n yer goddamn code!"

JD heard the shots and turned just in time to see the outlaw spin and fall, his chest torn open by the escaping rifle slugs. "Well, damn, Vin!" he yelped in wide-eyed shock, knowing any bullets that came out the front had to have gone in through the back.

The tracker never did seem to fight by anybody's rules but his own.

Josiah looked up the street to Buck and Ezra, and down it to Nathan and JD, and tried to decide which two were most in need of his help. He had dispatched the last of the would-be robbers in his part of the street, his bullets accompanied by more Psalms, and could not abide his current inaction. And he had no fear of moving, knew he would be protected by that guardian angel who watched over them all from up on high.

Though doubtless Vin Tanner would scoff at the notion of himself as any sort of "angel"....

His decision made, he took off running up the boardwalk toward the gambler and the scoundrel, knowing they faced the larger group of outlaws. Bullets whined and sang past him, flew by his head and splintered the wood at his feet, but this day his crows were absent, and no lead came nearer than to tear a hole through the flapping tail of his coat.

"‘For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways,'" he thundered as he ran, as he heard that Winchester forcing outlaws back into cover. "‘They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone!' I'm comin' in, boys!" he bellowed, taking cover behind a stack of crates outside the grocery across the street from Buck and Ezra. "We got 'em in a crossfire now!"

The outlaws, too, recognized the change in their situation, knew it was becoming desperate. There were but four of them left here, near the bank, out of the seven that had started, and the only one left on the roofs seemed to be that damned sharpshooter. Six bodies lay in the dust further up the street, and not one of them belonged to a regulator.

"We gotta git up there with Hanks 'n Ross," the leader, a lean, scar-faced killer named Carlton, spat bitterly, his dark eyes glittering with rage. "Gotta git ta th' hosses 'n git th' hell outta here!"

"'N how'n th' hell we s'posed ta do that?" gasped the man to his left, his shirt stained and sodden with the blood that welled from the hole in his shoulder. More blood darkened his pants from the wound in his right thigh. "Them sonsabitches got this street sewed up, 'n that bastard up on th' roofs c'n damn near fly!"

Carlton looked around wildly, his mind working furiously but coming up with nothing useful. "Side streets," he finally rasped in desperation. "Gotta git behind 'em, go 'round– Shit!" he yelled as a sudden burst of fire from the two regulators behind that damned wagon took out another of his men.

Three left now, and Reeves wasn't goin' nowhere with that leg'a his....

"Hold 'em fer us, Reeves," he rapped out the order, rising to a crouch. "Nash, yer with me."

Before the wounded Reeves could protest, his two remaining compadres were gone, slipping away with the aim of getting down the nearest side street and making their escape, abandoning him to whatever his fate would be.

"Ezra, Buck, they're on the move!" Josiah shouted, seeing two of the men slinking away. "Down the alley!"

Never taking time to think – or to talk himself out of it – Standish was on his feet and in pursuit, racing down the boardwalk in an attempt to cut off the escaping men. He could hear Wilmington's boots thundering against the planks behind him, but did not look back. He was wholly focused on stopping the two who had just slipped into the alley and seeing them brought to justice.

Wouldn't Mother be horrified to see her "darlin' baby boy" now?

Made desperate by wounds and abandonment, Reeves lurched to his feet, saw the red-coated regulator and, snarling out a stream of vile curses, fired frantically. But his fusillade was cut short by the bullets that tore into him from above and dropped him to the ground, dead.

Between one step and the next, Ezra felt the hot, heavy lead slice into him, felt himself stumble helplessly and drop to the boardwalk as his legs refused any longer to support the weight of his body. For a moment, confusion gripped him, until he recognized the burning, throbbing torment spreading downward from his shoulder and upward from his right leg.

"Oh, hell," he muttered as his gun slipped from suddenly useless fingers. Yet another suit of clothing ruined...

"EZRA!" Buck shouted as the gambler fell before him. Racing toward the fallen man, he looked around and spotted Sanchez rushing across the street to join them. "Josiah, get them two in the alley!" he ordered, waving the big man on. "I'll see ta Ezra!"

Sanchez growled low and murderously in his throat, but forced himself to leave Ezra to Buck and go after the retreating outlaws. Fury burned within him and pounded through him, giving speed to his feet and a grim purpose to his movements. He hated to leave a wounded friend, wanted nothing more than to make sure Ezra was still alive, but knew he could not. His first duty was to the town, and that duty now drove him after the men who would prey upon the people he was paid to protect.

Still, he let the rage come, let it burn and grow stronger, fanning its fire until it consumed him. These two would never live to see the gallows...

Vin watched in horror as Ezra fell. He had cut down the man who had risen and fired, but not before the bastard had downed Standish. For long moments Tanner stood there, heedless of his own safety, and watched as Wilmington knelt at the gambler's side.

"Buck?" he shouted hoarsely. Lord God, let him be alive! He should'a gotten here sooner, should'a fired sooner...

Buck looked across the street and up at that shout, and scowled in fury as he saw Tanner standing like a statue on that roof. "Goddamn it, Vin, get down!" he yelled. "He's alive! Now get th' hell behind some cover!"

Goddamn tracker thought he was invisible!

Up the street, the firing intensified as the remaining five outlaws there recognized how quickly and completely to hell this day was going. Eighteen men had come into town, in three bunches, and Carlton had assured them their numbers would overwhelm the seven peacekeepers. Eighteen men to rob one bank. It had seemed like easy pickings. Carlton had taken his bunch to the bank, the men of the second group had positioned themselves in side streets and on roofs, and the third bunch had been waiting with the horses, ready to cover their partners as they ran from the bank with the money so they could all get the hell away.

But those damned peacekeepers had more than lived up to their reputation.

"Wallace, git up ta them roofs, take out that damn sharpshooter!" the small, wiry outlaw named Simpson ordered tersely. "We gotta git rid'a that kid sheriff 'n that goddamn darkie–"

"What about the money?" Wallace protested, easily able to see it all slipping away.

"Fergit the fuckin' money!" Simpson snapped. "It's our necks we're tryin' ta save now. There'll always be another town, but I ain't got but one life!"

Wallace swallowed, considering, then nodded and raced off. He darted into an alley and ran around behind the buildings lining the main street, seeking a set of stairs that would give him access to the rooftops.

But, Lord, he didn't wanta face that sharpshooter and the rifle that'd been spittin' death all mornin'!

"JD, watch out!" Nathan called, seeing a new burst of activity among the remaining robbers. "They's up ta somethin'! We cain't let 'em git ta the horses!"

JD nodded, then rose slightly, cautiously, and peered around, trying to get a sense of what was happening. He had last counted five, and didn't think any had fallen since then. But he could only hear four guns, and they were spreading out as the outlaws took up new positions...

"Well, they ain't gettin' away from me!" the boy spat with determination, looking about for a new place for himself. He was in the wrong position here, couldn't draw a proper bead on them, wouldn't be able to reach them if they ran for the livery and the horses... "Aw, hell!" he shouted, shooting to his feet and making a mad dash across the street.

"Goddamn it, JD, git the hell outta there!" Nathan shouted, watching the young sheriff's wild race in horror. "Vin!" he yelled desperately, searching the heights frantically for the sharpshooter. "Cover im!"

Tanner heard Jackson's shout, and turned to see JD running a zigzag pattern across the street. "Shit!" he shouted, gripping his rifle tightly and running along the roofline, too concerned – and too angry at the boy – to seek cover for himself. Bullets began singing about him, and one even whipped his hat back from his head as he leapt across an alley, but he paid them no mind, other than to wonder at their source.

Thought I done cleared all them sonsabitches from up here...

Fire slammed into his head, tearing a sharp cry from him and knocking him off his feet. Pain exploded through him, blinding him, sickening him. He felt himself falling for what seemed forever, his whole world gone black and silent. Then he landed, hard, and felt nothing but the hideous pain pounding against his skull and the dreadful heaviness of his body.

But, God, there was somethin' he was s'posed t' be doin'...

Bullets flew around Nathan, forcing him to keep down, and he never saw Vin fall. He also lost sight of JD and knew a moment of blood-chilling terror, then exhaled sharply as he heard the roar of the boy's Colts.

If he could shoot, he was alive...

Then the outlaws were making their break, and Nathan knew he had to act. He broke from his current cover and ran, firing as he went, then dived behind a water trough, unharmed but thoroughly tired of this. With a curse, he rose and began firing over the trough, just wanting this to end.

Using his bandana and his and Ezra's handkerchiefs, Buck managed to stanch the bleeding from Standish's wounds, and was greatly relieved to see they were not as bad as he had feared. The bullet had gone through the gambler's right thigh a few inches above his knee, apparently missing the bone, and, while painful and messy, was probably not crippling. The wound in the gambler's left shoulder was more serious, and the bullet was still within, but Buck had seen worse.

Hell, he'd had worse!

"Go... help them," Ezra rasped, his face a white mask of pain. He felt as if his shoulder and leg were on fire, feared he would be sick at any moment, but knew the big gunfighter was needed elsewhere. "I will not... succumb... in the near future..." He stiffened and drew a hissing breath of pain, but fought through it and fixed glittering green eyes upon Wilmington. "Our comrades... require... your assistance," he murmured harshly.

Buck grimaced and bowed his head, but knew Ezra was right. He could still hear shooting, knew it was not over yet. "All right," he said grudgingly, "I'll go. But you stay here."

Ezra managed a tight-lipped smile. "I assure you... a stroll is... quite out of the question."

Buck smiled at him, and handed him his gun. "Watch yer back, pard," he said softly, laying a brotherly hand on Standish's good shoulder and squeezing briefly. When the gambler winked and nodded, Buck rose to his feet and hurried to rejoin the fray up the street.

Josiah, panting and gasping for breath, wished mightily he had his rifle. He could see the two outlaws, but did not yet trust that he was close enough to shoot both. So he continued his dogged pursuit, determined that they would not escape him.

At last, he got his chance. One of the two men stumbled and lurched into his comrade, knocking them both off balance. Seeing them struggle to right themselves, Josiah hastened his pace, raised his gun, and called out.

"Stop!" he thundered. "There's no escape!"

But the two refused to believe that. Immediately they both turned, but were not fast enough. Even as their guns came up, Josiah fired, taking out first one, then the other. A bullet grazed his arm through his coat, but he never felt it. Satisfaction at seeing the two men sprawled dead before him numbed all pain.

"‘Let them be confounded and troubled for ever; yea, then be put to shame, and perish,'" he said with grim finality. But the sound of gunfire still reached his ears, and he heaved his thick shoulders in a heavy sigh. "Never any rest for the wicked," he breathed resignedly, going to help his friends.

Vin struggled to swim up through the darkness engulfing him, but was hampered by the hideous pain in his head. He vaguely felt himself being sick, wondered why he could not hear and see any more than he could, wondered who was stabbing that damn blade through his skull. From a great distance, faint bursts of... something... came to him, stirring a dim, unclear memory of...

Of what?

But something gnawed at him, worried him, urged him to get up and... and do... something. The feeling was insistent, unrelenting, and he forced himself to move, certain that whatever he was supposed to be doing, he couldn't do lying here. So, gathering what remained of his strength, battling the splitting pain in his head and the heavy nausea in his gut, he pushed himself onto his hands and knees, trembling and swaying as violent dizziness rocked him.

Oh, shit...

Gunfire. He heard it, recognized it, but couldn't react to it. His body simply wouldn't let him. Even so, some instinct for survival was still intact, and, never knowing why, he dragged a leaden, shaking hand to the mare's leg strapped to his thigh and struggled to pull it from the holster. The weight and solidness of the sawed-off steadied him, gave him something on which to focus.

His gun. He needed it, needed to have it out and ready...

Still not quite understanding why, he primed the gun with numb, heavy hands, levering a round into the chamber. Then he frowned, staring down at the weapon that was only now taking shape before his eyes. Lord, what was happenin'?

He sat back and looked around, trying to remember, willing his eyes to focus. But the world about him remained blurry and dark, as if he were peering into murky water, and his mind would not concentrate. He was staring at something, and only gradually recognized it as his rifle, lying below him on an overhang. Then he realized he was on the roof, and that a gunfight was being waged on the street below him.

Oh, shit, JD!

The memory came to him then, the terrible memory of the boy running across the street amidst a shower of bullets. He was supposed to be protecting JD! But from whom?

So intent was he on trying to recover the memory that he did not hear the footsteps clattering on the roof behind him. The image of JD racing through those bullets held him fast, and blinded him to any realization of his own danger. But even as a gun was sighted on him, instinct again prodded him, a sound that shouldn't have been there reached him, and with only a vague understanding of what he was doing, he rolled aside at the last moment, brought up his mare's leg and fired into the featureless shape that loomed above him.

Below, Buck heard the deep crack of the sawed-off and gave silent thanks as a wave of relief swept through him. He hadn't heard Vin's rifle in far too long, and had begun to fret at the silence. But hearing the mare's leg allowed him now to concentrate on the outlaws still trying to reach their horses.

"Gotta cut 'em off, Nathan!" he yelled. "If they get to the livery, we'll never be able ta stop 'em!"

Simpson and his three remaining men had spread out, and were working to keep the regulators pinned down while they slowly fought to reach their horses. They no longer cared about the money, wanted only to get out of this town alive.

JD looked up, saw Tanner half-sliding, half-falling down the roof to the overhang to retrieve his fallen rifle, and seized his chance. "Vin!" he yelled, rising to a crouch. "Cover me!" And he was off, dashing up the boardwalk toward the livery stable.

"JD!" Buck bellowed in rage and terror as the boy ran. "Goddamnit, kid, get down! Get behind cover! JD, you listenin' ta me?"

"I hear ya, Buck!" the boy shouted back. And he did hear the big man; he just wasn't worried. After all, Vin would cover him; Vin always covered them. The sharpshooter was their guardian angel.

Tanner stumbled the last few feet and fell onto the overhang, clutching weakly at his rifle even as the sickness took him again. For long moments he retched violently, all but blind, his head pounding mercilessly, his mind refusing to work. But, again, there was that nagging, driving, urgent sense that he was supposed to be doing something.

JD...

Buck glanced up at the roof, saw Tanner, and knew instinctively that something was wrong. The tracker wasn't behind cover, wasn't aiming... hell, he wasn't doing anything, except crouching on hands and knees, his head down. And he was awful damn close to the edge...

But his attention was snatched from the tracker by a wild confusion of movement up ahead. Two outlaws broke loose, and JD went after them, shouting and racing into the street, his Colts out and firing...

"JD!" Nathan saw it, too, and was horrified. Hardly knowing he did it, he rose from behind the water trough and ran as fast as he could toward the young sheriff and two outlaws, raising his gun to fire as he did so. But the hammer fell on an empty chamber, and then another... "Shit!" Desperately, Nathan flung the gun away and reached for the knives sheathed at his back.

"Goddamn it!" Buck roared, rushing forward to help. The two remaining outlaws raced for the livery stable and made it, but Wilmington had eyes only for the two with JD. "Don't do this to me, kid!" He glanced over his shoulder and bellowed, "Goddamn it, Vin, give us some fuckin' cover!"

Tanner vaguely heard the shout and, his retching finished, fell back onto his haunches and raised the rifle with shaking hands, trying to sight down the barrel. But his vision remained dark, blurred; nothing down there made any sense. He couldn't shoot, wouldn't take the chance of hitting one of his friends

by mistake.

"Hold it!" JD shouted, closing the distance between himself and the two outlaws. "Throw down your guns, it's over!"

But they refused to accept that. Swearing foully, both Simpson and his partner turned and fired at the sheriff, refusing to be taken. They'd made it this far...

"JD!" Buck screamed, watching in horror as the boy went down. Without consciously aiming he fired, shooting at the two men until his gun was empty.

Nathan hurled two knives, one with each hand, at the same time Buck fired, and the two outlaws went down, each with a blade and several bullets in him. But Jackson and Wilmington never so much as glanced at the two, their whole attention riveted to JD.

Josiah came racing upon the scene just as JD fell, and saw two horsemen burst out of the livery stable, their mounts flying as if chased by all the devils of hell. Sanchez snapped off his last two shots, thought he might have hit one, then ran forward to join Buck and Nathan at the fallen sheriff's side.

Vin could vaguely make out the forms of the retreating horsemen, but couldn't make his mind function enough to get off a shot at them. Unable even to hold up the rifle, he simply let it fall, staring dazedly at the scene in the street below him.

"God, JD!" Buck groaned, dropping to his knees in the dust and gathering the boy into his arms. JD's shirtfront was dark with blood, and the hideous stain was rapidly growing wider. The boy's breathing was harsh and labored, his face white and twisted into a mask of agony. Worst of all were the wide, glittering eyes that fixed themselves on Buck's face. "Easy, son," he soothed, forcing himself to smile into those eyes and holding the boy tightly to him. "You just rest easy. We got 'em. That ol' bank still ain't been robbed."

Nathan tore open the shirt, glanced briefly at the wound, then looked up at Buck. "Git him up ta the clinic, now. Josiah–"

"I gotta go back for Ezra," Sanchez said gravely. "He was hit, too. Don't know how bad–"

"Shoulder and leg," Buck answered tightly. "Bullet's still in his shoulder, but the other went through his thigh. He was bleedin' pretty good, but I got it slowed."

"Best go git him, then," Nathan directed. "An' don' let the damn fool walk! Where's Vin?"

Buck glanced up, saw Tanner perched precariously near the edge of the overhang, looking as if he would topple off at any moment. "Up there. Don't look quite right, but he's sittin' up. Can't be too bad, whatever it is."

Nathan nodded. "All right. Git JD on up. Josiah, bring Ezra. Then you c'n go after Vin."

"Ain't I the lucky one," Sanchez quipped, turning on his heel to leave.

Nathan helped Buck get JD securely in his arms, then rose to his feet and hurried to his clinic with Wilmington and his precious burden close behind.

Bad as this day had been already, he knew it was about to get a whole lot worse.

=======

Vin dragged himself into the shadows beneath the sloping roof and collapsed back against the building, his strength gone. Pain drummed through his head in a hard, heavy rhythm and his stomach churned violently, its heaving made worse by the violent tremors that ran through his body. Sweat bathed his flesh in a heavy sheen and soaked into his hair and clothes, despite the terrible chill that gripped him.

Lord God, JD!

Below him, townsfolk crept from their shelter to assess what damage – and carnage – had been wrought. Yosemite helped Josiah get Ezra to Nathan's clinic, and some of the men of the town began the work of clearing away the bodies. He saw none of this, though, heard none of the fevered commotion that naturally arose after such a fight as this had been. All he could hear was a single voice calling to him – "Vin! Cover me!" – and all he could see was JD falling to the street.

Shot down because the friend he trusted had failed to protect him.

Haunted by that image, racked by fear and guilt, he rolled onto his hands and knees and dragged himself along the roof, keeping to the shadows, driven by the instincts of a lifetime to stay hidden when hurt. At last he reached an edge and, using his rifle to support frightfully unsteady legs, made his way to the stairs that led down, not even knowing what building he was on. Dizzy from the exertion, all but blinded by the cruel, stabbing pain in his head and gripped by a rising nausea, he stumbled down the stairs, literally falling down the last few and tumbling onto the ground where he stayed, unable to rise.

"Vin!"

Inez, sweeping glass shattered by gunfire out the back of the saloon, saw the tracker falling and dropped her broom to rush down the alley to help him. She went to her knees at his side and carefully rolled him over, taking his head into her lap and gasping sharply at the sight of the blood matting his hair and coating the right side of his face.

"Madre de Dios!" she whispered in alarm, her heart lurching into her throat. He was breathing, much to her relief, but she knew how bad head wounds could be, and was frightened for him. "Vin?" He stirred weakly and groaned thickly, and she ran her fingers gently through his hair. "Vin, please, wake up!"

she urged worriedly. "Please, I need you to open your eyes!"

He stirred again, and slowly, slowly his eyes fluttered open and fixed upon the dark blur above him. But he could not bring them into focus, anymore than he could clear away the ringing in his ears. Still, the arms that held him were warm and comforting, and he let himself rest in them.

"Vin?" she called softly, bending lower over him. She could see that his eyes were not right, and felt her fear for him increase. "I can help you to Nathan's, but only if you help me." She smiled in gentle teasing, hoping he could see her. "You are no Buck Wilmington, but even you are too heavy for me to carry."

"Buck?" he repeated weakly, frowning in confusion. "Buck..."

Goddamn it, Vin, give us some fuckin' cover!

He flinched at the sudden memory of the big man's enraged shout, and knew why Wilmington had been so angry.

JD. I let 'em git JD.

"Oh, shit!" he groaned thickly as his stomach gave a sudden and violent heave.

Quickly, and with the skill of long practice in a saloon, Inez helped turn him onto his hands and knees just as he began to retch. But his stomach had already been emptied by the previous bouts of sickness, and now only dry heaves shook him. She stayed close by him, one arm over his back, the other hand holding his long hair away from his face, and murmured soft words of comfort in Spanish.

When at last the spell released him, she pulled him back and let him rest against her, all the while studying him through anxious eyes. He was deathly pale, and sweat mingled with the blood in his hair and on his face. He was shaking, as much from shock, she suspected, as from any chill.

"We should get to Nathan's now," she told him, wondering exactly how they would accomplish that.

"JD," he moaned in anguish, praying the boy wasn't dead. "Oh, Lord, JD! 'S my fault..."

"It was not your fault," she assured him, not liking at all his complexion or incoherence. "He was shot by the banditos attempting to rob the bank–"

"'Nez?" Her voice came to him from a great distance, striking a chord of recognition, but her face, and everything else, remained a dark, formless blur. "Ya g... ya gotta... help me..."

She tightened her arms about him, frightened by his obvious inability to see her. "I'm trying, Vin," she said again, forcing a calm into her voice that she did not feel. "But you have to let me get you to Nathan's–"

"No!" he groaned strickenly, fumbling for her hand and holding as tightly to it as he could. "I cain't... JD... my fault... Buck's... gonna hate me... I cain't face 'em yet!"

His words puzzled her, and saddened her. She could not imagine why he would blame himself for JD getting shot, but knew that, whatever had happened, Buck would be in a frenzy of anguish and anger. The big man was like a grizzly on the rampage when "the kid" was hurt, and Inez felt certain Vin was in no shape to handle anyone's violent emotions just now.

"S'loon," he slurred, fighting to keep from falling into the darkness that hovered so invitingly near. "Git me... s'loon. Please?"

"All right," she agreed grudgingly, against her better judgment. "I will help you to the saloon, and get you cleaned up. But you will see Nathan. Agreed?"

He didn't answer, merely gave a slight, painful nod and let her help him to his feet. But that was by no means easy, and, by the time they succeeded, he was reeling again from dizziness and leaning heavily against her, feeling again and again that bullet colliding with his skull.

With slow, small, careful steps they made their way to the saloon. Vin stumbled frequently, and several times almost took them both down, but, at last, they made it. As she finally deposited him in a chair and watched his head sink down onto the table, she scowled and shook her head in irritation at such unbending stubbornness.

What was it with these men?

=======

Buck sat on the bed and gave what help with and comfort to JD he could while Nathan worked to remove the bullet. Ezra lay dozing on the second bed, already dosed with laudanum and awaiting his turn under the knife. Buck had lost track of how long they'd been here, knew only that a single minute was too long.

"Goddamn it, kid, you gotta stop runnin' out inta the street like that!" he whispered in anguish, fiercely clutching JD's pale hand to his chest at the memory of that heart-stopping sight. "It's gonna kill you and me both!" A soft, breathless groan escaped the unconscious boy, and Buck tightened his hold on his hand, bending close and speaking low. "Ssh, easy, son," he soothed. "It's all right. Ol' Buck's right here. You just hang in there, all right?"

Josiah came back into the clinic then, his face lined with weariness and worry. "How is he?" he asked softly, watching as Wilmington's gentle voice and strong presence worked their familiar magic over the injured boy.

Nathan never lifted his eyes from his work. "He's holdin' up," he said tersely. "Bullet broke a rib, but don' look like it touched his lung. Few mo' minutes, I oughtta have it out."

JD's body arched off the bed as Nathan made contact with the bullet, and Buck quickly leaned over him, holding down and speaking softly, soothingly to him, hating every moment of this. Then, with a hiss of triumph, Nathan pulled out the bullet and dropped it into the bowl set nearby, and went immediately to work stemming the fresh flow of blood and cleaning the wound.

Buck swallowed hard, his dark blue eyes fixed on JD's small, blood-covered figure. "What the hell was he thinkin', Josiah?" he asked, his enormous pain clear in his tone.

Sanchez moved to the foot of the bed and smiled sadly down at JD. "What all young men think, I suppose, what you an' me thought when we were his age. That he's immortal, invisible, ten feet tall and bullet-proof. That he can't die, because he's right, and right always triumphs."

"'Cept when it don't," Buck muttered softly. "Maybe we thought that once, but we learned better–"

"Because we got old enough ta know better," Josiah reminded him. "And, if we're lucky, John Dunne will get old enough ta know better, too." He grinned wryly. "If we all do our jobs right, he'll come to appreciate the value of a good, solid water trough, just like you an' me."

"Speakin' of doin' our jobs..." Buck finally tore his gaze from JD to look up at the preacher. "Anybody seen Vin? I thought he'd be here by now."

Josiah shook his head. "He wasn't out on the streets. I was workin' with folks to clear away the bodies, and didn't see him there. Kinda surprisin', too," he added with a puzzled look. "Usually Vin's the first one ta lend a hand."

Buck ran a hand through his thick dark hair as he stared at JD. "The kid ran out inta that street 'cause he thought Vin'd be coverin' him. Hell, I reckon we all thought that."

"Buck," Josiah interrupted grimly, "don't go layin' blame–"

"No, that ain't it." The big man frowned deeply, remembering the long silence of the Winchester, seeing again that unsteady, unresponsive figure hunched on the overhang. "Somethin' happened, Josiah, somethin's wrong. When's the last time JD did somethin' like that an' Vin didn't shoot whatever moved?"

Anxiety blossomed in Josiah's gut. "You sayin' he's hurt?"

Buck sighed heavily and shook his head in worry. "I'm sayin' somethin' wasn't right with him when I saw him, and, yeah, it could be he's hurt. Hell, you saw him same as I did, runnin' across them roofs like some damn deer, jumpin' between 'em like he thought he could fly, and lookin' for all the world like he didn't think bullets could touch him. I swear, sometimes he's as bad as JD about thinkin' he's invisible!"

Josiah chuckled grimly. "He does have an interestin' lack of concern about his own well-bein' when our lives are at stake."

"Interestin' ain't the word," Buck said shortly, his frayed nerves jumping. "More like infuriatin'. That boy's gonna get his fool head blown off one day, and I'm gonna have ta be the one ta tell Chris!"

Josiah's heavy brows came together. "You think he's still up on the roofs, then?"

Buck exhaled sharply in frustration. "Up on the roofs, in the shadows, under a goddamn rock... Who the hell knows with Vin? But he ain't here, ain't nobody seen him, an' that worries the hell outta me!"

Josiah nodded, gripped by that same worry. "I'll go lookin', then. You're right. It ain't like him not ta be here when one of us is wounded, especially when it's JD."

Buck smiled slightly. "Just remember, Josiah, this is Vin. And if he don't wanta be found, you're gonna be needin' some'a that divine guidance of yours."

Sanchez winked. "Well, if all else fails, I can always turn to the spirits."

Wilmington chuckled. "Just make sure you don't turn to the wrong kind of spirits, preacher, 'cause I'm too tired ta be pickin' your sorry ass up off'a the saloon floor!"

=======

Vin panicked when he awoke and had no idea where he was, why he was there, or how he'd come to be there. From what little he could make out with his dark, blurred vision, he knew he wasn't in his wagon, wasn't in the boardinghouse or Nathan's clinic, and fear slammed through him.

"Oh, shit!" he gasped, sitting up abruptly and lurching to his feet, only to fall heavily to his hands and knees as dizziness engulfed him. Pain knifed in hot, jagged streaks through his head, blinding him, and for a moment he feared he would be sick.

"What– Vin!" Inez cried sharply, opening the door to find him on the floor. She shut the door quickly behind her and rushed to him, going to her knees at his side and circling her arms about him. "What happened?" she demanded anxiously. "Why aren't you in bed?"

"Wh... where... Oh!" he groaned, collapsing into the soft arms that closed about him and burying his tortured head in the warm body that cradled his own.

"Ssh, hush, Vin, hush," Inez soothed, holding him close and stroking his back. She didn't like at all his soft, choked groans, or the weak and desperate way he clutched at her. God, why hadn't any of them come for him yet?

Slowly, slowly, her soft voice and gentle touch penetrated the thick veil of pain and confusion that shrouded him, and some measure of recognition dawned. "'Nez," he whispered faintly.

Sharp relief swept through her at that, and she smiled, slipping gentle fingers through his sweat-matted hair. "Sí, Vin, estoy aquí. I'm right here."

"Where... here?" he rasped, knotting white, shaking fingers in the folds of her skirt as he fought against the hard, heavy waves of pain and sickness battering against him.

She tightened her arms about him. "You are in the saloon," she answered slowly, clearly. "Upstairs, in my room. You would not go to Nathan's–"

"Yer r... Oh, Lord!" he moaned hoarsely, trying to raise his head. "How..." Blue eyes, wide and unfocused and confused, stared out from a face as white as death. "Inez, I cain't... stay here..." He dropped a hand to the floor and tried to push himself away from her, tried to raise himself from where he lay, only to collapse against her again. "Jesus!"

"Ssh, Vin, it's all right," she assured him, gently stroking his ashen face. "It's all right."

"No," he breathed, even as he welcomed the warmth and softness that sheltered him from his pain. "Ain't right. Ain't proper..."

"Proper?" she repeated archly, wondering where in the hell propriety entered into any of this. "How is it not proper? You are hurt, and you are my friend. Where else should I have brought you when you wouldn't go to Nathan's?"

He drew deep, ragged gasps against the nausea and pain that held him fast. "Ain't right, Inez, 'n you know it. Yer a lady... I gotta go–"

"Go where?" she interrupted firmly. "And get there how? Even if you could walk – which I very much doubt you can – you don't really think I'd let you leave, do you? In this shape?" She shook her head and lay a gentle hand against his whiskered cheek. "You have only two choices, Vin – Nathan's clinic, or here. Take your pick."

He knew he should argue, knew he should get up and leave, but couldn't. He swallowed hard and tightened his grip on her skirts as another wave of sickness rose threateningly through him. "All right," he rasped weakly, knowing he was beaten. "Reckon... won't hurt ta stay... a while."

Relieved that she would not have to fight him, she helped him back into bed and sat down on it at his side, gripped anew by fear for him. She had cleaned and bandaged his wound earlier, but knew Nathan should see it. The bullet had cut a deep furrow across his right temple, into his hairline and over his ear, was much too long and deep for her to think of it as a "graze." And the entire area around the wound was swollen and badly bruised.

"You men and your guns," she breathed sadly, reaching into the bowl on the bedside table and retrieving a cool, wet cloth. "When will you ever learn not to try and kill one another for such worthless things as money?"

"Weren't the money," he answered, his words slurring, his eyelids drooping. "Don't care a lick... fer money. I's fightin'... fer th' others."

She smiled at that and tenderly bathed his face and throat, knowing who those "others" were. "They are lucky to have you on their side."

"Don't reckon JD 'r Ezra'd say so," he murmured sadly as dark oblivion crept upon him. "They's dependin' on me... I let 'em down... Buck's gonna hate me."

She shook her head and sighed, knowing how seriously these men took their responsibility to each other. "You let me handle Buck," she urged him. "You just rest now, let yourself sleep. It will all work out, you'll see."

Of that, she would make certain. She doubted Buck Wilmington would truly be angry at Vin for JD's injury, but, if by some chance he were, she knew she could change his mind.

She had the big man wrapped around her finger.

=======

Buck looked up as Nathan loomed above him. He was still entrenched at JD's side, unable to tear himself away from the boy, unwilling to let Ezra out of his sight. Suffering of any kind tore at his heart, but pain in his friends was something he felt as if it were his own.

Especially when that pain was JD's.

Nathan nodded and smiled wearily at the big man, his dark eyes and face showing plainly the strain of the day. But he also recognized the torment in Wilmington's eyes, and knew this day had not been easy on any of them.

And it wasn't over yet.

"JD's doin' fine," Nathan said, addressing the most pressing of Buck's concerns first. "He lost a lotta blood, gon' need a lotta rest, but he's young, strong. Long's he stays free'a fever, he should be all right."

Buck merely nodded, and squeezed the pale, limp hand he still held securely between his much bigger ones. Then, when he could speak, he asked, "And Ezra?"

Nathan smiled again. "Seems Lady Luck's still smilin' on her fav'rite son. Bullet nicked his shoulderblade, but didn't break it. He's gon' hurt like hell fo' a while, but I'm sure he'll be back at th' tables in no time, suckerin' folks inta playin' with a one-armed dealer an' makin' enough money ta take his mind off'a the pain. Needs ta stay off'a that leg fo' a while, but this oughtta give him a chance ta use that fancy sword-cane he ordered from New Orleans."

Buck gave a shaky laugh. "Well, it's nice ta know not even a bullet can put a crimp in ol' Ezra's style!"

"Now," the healer fixed a stern gaze on Buck, "how 'bout you?"

Wilmington blinked up at him in confusion. "How 'bout me?"

Nathan sighed and shook his head. "Git over inta that chair by the window, Buck, lemme look ya over. Got some blood on ya sleeve, I wanta make sure ain't nothin' bad wrong with ya."

"Aw, hell, Nathan–"

"Do it, Buck!" Jackson snapped sternly, his eyes flashing. "I ain't in the mood fo' no arguments! I'm tired, I been through a helluva gunfight, I jus' took two bullets outta two friends'a mine, I got another friend with blood on his shirt, I know Josiah's hidin' some kinda hurt, an' God knows where Vin is o' what's wrong with him. So don' gimme no trouble, else I'll cold-cock ya right here an' drag ya over there m'self!"

Buck cleared his throat and rose to his feet. "Well, hell, Nathan, as long as ya put it that way, I can't hardly refuse, can I?" He smiled and bowed low, extending one arm in an extravagant gesture. "After you."

Nathan nodded. He was damned tired'a foolin' with a lotta pig-headed fools who'd rather bleed ta death than admit they was hurt. He'd heal 'em, if he had ta kill 'em ta do it!

=======

Young Micah Fallon had had it. He'd run all over town looking for one, any one, of the Seven, so's he could give 'em Miss Inez's message. But the only one anybody had seen was the big preacher, and, every time Micah went where he was told he'd find him, the man had gone somewhere else.

Well, shoot, enough was enough. He could see his pards Tommy and Jacob up the street, and knew they were just bustin' to play-act the shoot-out. 'Sides, he hadn't yet showed 'em the new penknife he'd gotten for his birthday, and it was sure enough burnin' a hole in his pocket now.

He swept one more gaze over the street, saw no sign of Mr. Josiah, then turned and raced toward his friends. He liked Miss Inez, and he damn near worshipped the tracker, but he figured he'd done all he could for both.

'Sides, Mr. Vin couldn't be hurt that bad, else he'da been up in Mr. Nathan's clinic.

=======

Josiah prowled the alleys and rooftops in his search for Vin, but never saw the tracker. Up on the roof of the grain exchange, though, he found evidence that only confirmed Buck's fears. He discovered yet another outlaw, his face blown off. The man clearly had not taken a step after he was shot, yet Josiah found blood in several other places, and knew instinctively it was Tanner's.

But where was Vin?

No one in town had seen him, and several men had joined Josiah in the search. Yet all knew how elusive Tanner could be when he wanted, and no one had any real hope of finding him if he did not want to be found.

As a last resort, Josiah turned with heavy, exhausted footsteps toward the saloon.

=======

Vin lay still in Inez's bed and listened in horror to the loud chatter of the working girls out in the hallway. As was to be expected, the fierce battle in the streets was on everyone's lips, and growing more impressive with each retelling. But what Vin was now hearing did not impress him, merely ignited a cold anger inside him at the knowledge of his own failure.

Two of the bastards had escaped, just gotten on their horses and ridden out. And he'd done nothing to stop them.

Cursing himself, he struggled slowly from the bed and rose carefully to his feet, knowing the dizziness would come and preparing himself for it. Even so, it hit him hard, and he very nearly fell to his knees. But he fought it with everything that was in him, refused to give in to it, or to the pain and nausea curling through him. When he could walk without falling, and when his vision cleared enough for him to see shapes among the shadows, he made his way slowly around Inez's room, gathering his boots, hat, coat and gunbelt, then returning to the bed to put them all on. He thought bending over to pull on his boots would be the end of him, feared his head and stomach might both explode, and had to fight hard to keep from sinking once more into the darkness that promised sweet escape from his pain.

But he would not permit himself that escape. Summoning up every ounce of will, of determination, of sheer, stubborn grit he possessed, he gave himself time to recover some measure of steadiness, then rose once more from the bed, gritting his teeth and remaining doggedly on his feet even when the room, the whole world, tilted and turned sickeningly about him. Shadows swam and swirled before him, and he felt as if a white-hot spike were being driven through his skull. But he allowed the pain to fuel his rage at himself and the bastards who had done this, who had hurt JD and Ezra, and allowed that rage to flow, to give strength to his body.

Allowed it to prime all his killing instincts.

When he thought he could walk without falling, he retrieved his rifle from where Inez had set it, then opened the door slowly and peered out into the hallway. Seeing no one, and praying that meant there really was no one, he stepped out and weaved unsteadily along the hall, made his way down the back stairs, out of the saloon, and into the alley.

And Vin Tanner, who'd used shadows all his life, used them now to hide from those searching for him, until he could begin a search of his own.

=======

Inez looked up from the bar as Josiah Sanchez entered the saloon and felt a a strong rush of relief at the sight of him. The saloon was rapidly filling with men eager to share thoughts on and tales of the day's violence, leaving her with little time to take care of Vin. She'd been hoping one of the others would come for him soon, and prayed that their failure to show so far did not mean things were worse with Ezra or JD than she had heard. Now, though, as she watched the big man weaving his way toward her and read his dejection in the slump of his heavy shoulders and the lack of spring in his step, she could not help feeling a sharp twinge of fear. Bracing herself for the worst, she got a clean glass and began pouring the drink she could see he needed.

Josiah found himself intercepted by countless men who had some comment on the day's battle or words of concern about Ezra and JD. He imparted what news he could, knowing these folks needed to be reassured about the status of their "Seven" and recognizing the sincerity that lay behind most of the well wishes. He also questioned everyone he could about Vin, and always got the same answer.

No one had seen him.

At last he reached the bar, and smiled wanly at Inez as she set the glass before him. "You're an angel of mercy," he said, raising the glass and downing its contents in one swallow.

"I had begun to wonder if any of you would ever come," she said, pouring him another. "Are Ezra and JD all right?"

His smile widened as he reached for the glass. "Nathan seems pleased. Says their chances are good." He raised the glass to his mouth, started to drink, then stopped himself and frowned at her. "What'd you mean, you wondered if any of us would come?"

She regarded him with faint exasperation. "It has been two hours since I sent Micah for you. I know you have been busy with the outlaws, the town and Ezra and JD, but Vin–"

"Vin?" He slammed his glass onto the bar, sloshing whiskey over his fingers and onto the polished surface. His blue eyes bored into her, every trace of exhaustion dropping from him. "You know somethin' about Vin?"

Her exasperation turned to outright confusion. "Of course, I do! That's why I sent Micah..." She saw a corresponding confusion in Josiah's face and asked, "Didn't he find you?"

Sanchez shook his head slowly. "Haven't seen him. And I've been goin' all over town, lookin' for Vin." Worry flooded his eyes, and he snatched up his glass, draining the whiskey almost desperately. "He disappeared after the gunfight," he rasped, grateful for the burn of the liquor through his gut. "We're afraid he's hurt, but we can't find a trace of him. It's like he just vanished inta thin air!"

Inez exhaled sharply and swore silently to have a talk with Micah, furious at the needless worry he'd caused Tanner's friends. Then, banishing her anger with an effort, she reached out and patted Josiah's hand, smiling gently at him. "I can help you. He's upstairs, in my room. And you're right, he is hurt.

A head wound." She shook her dark head at his wordless sound of concern. "I know, I tried to make him go to Nathan's, I knew that was where he belonged, but..." She grimaced and shook her head again. "You know how stubborn he can be. I was afraid that if I insisted he wouldn't let me help him at all..." She shrugged. "And I thought I could at least keep an eye on him here."

He swore under his breath. Damn stubborn tracker... "How bad's he hurt?" he asked at last, his blue eyes sharp with anxiety.

She exhaled slowly. "He is in great pain and has been sick several times, he is confused and cannot see too well." She reached across the bar to Josiah's face, tracing the wound on his head. "It goes from here to here," she said, sliding her finger back, "and is very deep. I cleaned it as best I could and bandaged it, and I have tried not to let him sleep too long at any one time." She glanced around the filling saloon. "When I am able, I go upstairs to wake him, but now, with the crowd coming in..." She smiled slightly at him. "I am so glad you are here."

He took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly, smiling gently at her. "Like I said, an angel of mercy. Thank you for tendin' our lost sheep."

"It was the least I could do, after everything you all have done for me. And, besides," she smiled shyly, "he is very sweet. He was concerned it would not be ‘proper' for him to be in my room." Her dark eyes softened. "He called me a ‘lady.'"

Josiah kissed the back of her hand. "Vin is nothin' if not an honest man, Inez. Now, if you'll lead me to him, I'll take our wounded Lancelot off your lovely hands."

She called to the other bartender, then walked around and went with Josiah to the stairs. "He will not be happy to go to the clinic," she warned him, "but I don't think he'll be able to put up a fight. He can't even stand on his own."

Josiah smiled grimly as he trudged up the stairs behind her. "That's never stopped him from fightin' before. That boy's as tough as rawhide."

She shook her head sadly. "You won't think so when you see him." She led him to her door, knocked softly, and then opened it. "Vin?" she called. "Are you awake? Josiah has come– No!" she cried sharply, rushing in as terror chilled the blood in her veins. "Vin!"

Infected by her fear, Josiah pushed past her into the room, and stopped short at what he saw. Nothing. The room was empty.

Tanner was gone.

=======

Buck sat by JD's bed and held one of the boy's hands in his own, his other hand brushing lightly through the young sheriff's thick black hair. JD was still unconscious, likely would be for some time, but he was alive, and that, to Buck, was the most important thing of all.

"Ya done good today, kid," he said softly, his blue eyes intent upon the slack, pale features. "Kept your head, watched your shots, didn't do no more'a that fannin' foolishness." A slight smile tugged at his mouth. "But we gotta talk about this runnin' inta the street! You nearly gave ol' Buck heart failure there, son." He winced at the terrifying memory and laid a big but infinitely gentle hand over the boy's heart to reassure himself that his worst fear hadn't materialized. "Don't do that again, JD," he pleaded, his voice and eyes filled with pain. "I've lost too many folks I care about already. I just couldn't stand ta lose you, too." He shook his head to clear it, then reached into the bowl Nathan had set on the table by the bed and pulled out a cool, damp cloth, tenderly bathing the boy's pale face and throat. "I know you thought Vin was watchin' ya, but he ain't always gonna be there. He's good, but he can't watch all our backs at once."

He tried not to think about the tracker, tried not to picture him lying somewhere hurt, alone, needing them and none of them knowing where to find him. But he couldn't imagine why no one had found him yet, couldn't imagine where he might be. His greatest fear was that Tanner was so badly hurt he'd merely crawled off somewhere to die, following the instincts honed by a lifetime of solitude.

"Jesus, Vin," he breathed in torment, "where the hell are ya?"

"No sign of our wayward compatriot yet?" asked a sleepy drawl behind him.

Buck released JD's hand and went to sit by Ezra, who stared at him through heavy-lidded eyes. "You're s'posed ta be asleep," he scolded gently.

Ezra gave a drowsy smile. "I am supposed to be a multitude of things," he retorted. "You didn't answer my question."

"You must still be drugged," Buck said with a smile. "I can understand ever' word you're sayin'." At the gambler's impatient frown, he sighed. "All right, all right. No, we haven't found him. And that's startin' ta scare the hell outta me."

Ezra swallowed and nodded, understanding Buck's fear. "With two of us injured, he would be here, if he could." He glanced across the clinic, avoiding, for the moment, the unpleasant possibilities rising in his laudanum-befuddled brain. "And how fares young Mr. Dunne?"

Buck nodded. "Nathan thinks he'll be all right. Bullet broke a rib, but didn't do much more damage than that. Any luck, he'll be back t' annoyin' the hell outta us in no time. How're you feelin'?"

Again, that drowsy smile curved about the gambler's mouth. "At the moment, rather pleasantly numb," he drawled thickly, his words slurring together. "Though I am certain, given my unfortunate experience with such things, all that will change when Mr. Jackson's lovely medicine wears off."

"Why'n't you go back ta sleep then?" Buck urged, leaning over to pull the bedcovers up higher over the injured man. "Might as well enjoy it while ya can."

Ezra nodded, and would have dropped off then had the clinic door not been thrust open. Josiah strode in, his gaze going at once to Buck. "Vin was in Inez's room," he said without preamble, his deep voice tight with worry. "He wouldn't come here, so she was tendin' him. He's got a head wound, she said it looked pretty bad."

"Jesus!" Buck muttered, bowing his head and closing his eyes.

"A moment, Mr. Sanchez," Ezra asked, fighting against sleep. "You said he ‘was' with Inez." He stared at the big man, dreading the next question, but knowing it had to be asked. "Where is he now?"

Josiah removed his hat and ran a hand through his graying hair. "That's just it, Ezra," he answered in a low, hoarse voice. "Nobody knows. When Inez took me up so I could bring him here, he was gone." He looked again at Buck. "His rifle and gunbelt are gone, too."

"Shit," Buck whispered as his heart sank. "Shit, shit, shit! Goddamn it, what the hell is that boy thinkin'?"

Josiah, exhausted in every part of his body and feeling far older than his years, made his way to the empty chair at JD's side and sank heavily into it. "Accordin' t' Inez," he said softly, sadly, "he's thinkin' it's his fault these two got shot, and he's thinkin' the rest of us are gonna blame him, too." He sighed and shook his head, his sorrowful gaze going to Buck. "'Specially you," he said softly, not wanting to add to the man's misery, but knowing he had no choice. If they had any hope of finding the tracker, they had to understand what was driving him from them. "He's afraid you're gonna be angry with him, that you'll hold him responsible for ‘lettin'' JD get shot."

Buck thrust his hands deeply into his hair and slumped forward dejectedly, resting his elbows on his thighs. "Jesus, how could he think that?" he whispered. "Damn it, Josiah, I saw him up there, I knew somethin' was wrong!" He rose abruptly to his feet and began pacing about the clinic with anxious, long-legged strides. "Hell, I don't blame Vin for what happened! It ain't his fault JD ran out inta that street! The only ones I blame for the kid gettin' shot are them goddamn sonsabitches who tried ta rob the bank and turned that street into a battleground! Jesus," he breathed, running an unsteady hand through his thick hair, "we gotta find him!"

"How?" Josiah asked tiredly. "We've searched this whole town, and no one can find him. He doesn't want us ta find him. This is Vin–"

"He's hurt–"

"But he's still Vin!" the older man said strongly. "Think about it, Buck! How many times in his life d'you suppose he's had ta hide from folks even when he was hurt? Hell, especially when he was hurt? It's what he knows. It's probably all he's ever known, until he came ta us."

"But why won't he come to us now?" Buck asked softly, a world of hurt and fear for Tanner in his eyes. "He knows he doesn't have ta be afraid of us, he knows–"

"That we won't turn on him?" Ezra put in quietly. "How does he know that, Buck?" He stared up at Wilmington through green eyes now clear of any sleepiness or drugged befuddlement. "Inez said he's confused, remember? When all you've known in your life is hurt, betrayal and abandonment, there is some part of you that never forgets that, and that never stops expectin' it. If he blames himself for our injuries, then he will naturally assume that we blame him, as well. And, if he is confused enough, he may well expect that we will turn upon him. Why should we prove any different from anyone else he's ever known?" He sighed and shook his head slightly, understanding the tracker's fear all too well. "Let us not forget, Buck," he said softly, sadly, "Vin apparently has little experience with friendship. It is more than likely that in some part of himself he still cannot quite believe he now has friends who would not turn on him when given half a chance."

"Jesus," Buck muttered, suspecting Ezra spoke the truth. It pained him to think of the kind of life Vin must have led, a life where friendship had no meaning, where trust did not exist, where loneliness was the only alternative to pain. "Jesus Christ, Vin..." A sharp fear struck him suddenly, and he stared at Josiah. "Anybody check the livery? If he's that confused, that afraid of us–"

"I checked, just before I came here," Sanchez answered tiredly. "Peso's still there. Besides, from the way Inez described him, I doubt he'd be able ta ride."

Buck gave a short, bitter laugh. "Hell, from the way you said Inez described him, we should'a found him layin' out in the middle'a the goddamn street by now! He can barely walk, but he can disappear! One'a you wanta explain that ta me?"

Josiah gave a wry smile. "Simple. This is Vin Tanner we're talkin' about. The man who thinks he's invisible."

=======

It had taken far longer than he had intended, and had been far more difficult than he had anticipated, but Vin finally slipped into the livery. He'd slunk through shadows, crept along alleys, and more than once had to hide to avoid being seen. But he couldn't take the chance that anyone would stop him.

At one point, though, Josiah had been so close he could hear the big man muttering, and it had been all he could do not to reveal himself and seek refuge in that comforting, sheltering presence.

But he had to do this. He owed it to JD.

So he'd driven himself onward. And all the while he'd fought the hideous pain in his head, the unrelenting dizziness and confusion, and the nausea that never left him. Not to mention vision that refused to focus, and that was much dimmer than it should have been. He told himself it would clear in a while, and prayed it was true. Otherwise, it would be damn near impossible to find two men in a land as big as this. Especially for a man alone.

Alone.

Well, hell, it wouldn't be the first time he'd been alone, would it? And likely wouldn't be the last. He'd spent most of his life that way, and never given any thought to it. He'd never wished it otherwise, for he wasn't a man who wasted time on wishing for things that could never be. Hell, he'd never even known it could be different.

Until he'd come here.

Unbidden, the knowledge of what he'd found with these six men – companionship, friendship, belonging – came to him, rising with a ferocity that dropped him to his knees. He gasped at the strength and solidness of it, at its nearness even now, felt it like a living thing inside him. Most vividly he saw, felt, Chris Larabee, and almost cried out aloud. His tired soul ached from the force of the bond they shared, and he wanted nothing more than to look up and see the black-clad man standing before him, offering his reassurance and his understanding. Chris would help him through this hurt, would somehow lift this confusion from his mind, would help him find his way back to the others.

But Chris wasn't here. And the others... He'd have to do this on his own.

He'd have to do this alone.

And he would. Just as he always had before. Forcing himself once more to his feet, he gathered what little remained of his strength, willed himself to think only of the task at hand, and began the always taxing ordeal of saddling Peso. Twice he blacked out from the effort, and once more he was gripped by a bout of violent sickness, but, after what seemed hours, it was done. He led the big gelding to door of the livery and looked out, praying that luck was with him.

It was. There was little activity about, no one near enough to pay him any mind. Determined to see this through, driven by the memory of his earlier failure, he hauled himself shakily into the saddle and, drawing no attention to himself, willing no one to notice him, ignored every protest of his body and turned Peso in the direction he vaguely remember the two escaping outlaws taking. As he struggled just to hold himself in the saddle, he threw desperate prayers to God and to the Spirits who had always guided him along every hard path he'd had to take in his life.

And then freed the hawk in him to hunt.

=======

Buck and Josiah, mindful of their injured friends' need for rest, moved to their usual table in the saloon, and, when satisfied that his patients were resting well and sleeping soundly, Nathan joined them. They had about two hours yet until sundown, and still had found not a trace of Vin.

"Damn boy can walk on air," Buck muttered, downing another shot of whiskey. The three had finally eaten – at Inez's insistence – but were desperately tired, drained by this day's events. "Hell, maybe I was wrong. Maybe he can make himself invisible."

Nathan frowned thoughtfully. "Maybe in a way he can." When his companions shot dull, disbelieving gazes at him, he struggled to explain. "Back on the plantations, you survived by not bein' noticed. Didn't draw no attention to ya'self, didn't make no noise, didn't make no trouble, never did what ya wasn't s'posed ta or go where ya wasn't s'posed ta... If ya kep' ya head down, kep' quiet an' did ev'rything that's expected of ya, didn't nobody notice ya. You's just part'a the scenery. 'N they ain't nobody knows the scenery 'round here better'n Vin." He looked at his friends. "How many times've we forgot about him, when he's sittin' right here with us?" He nodded toward the chair Tanner usually occupied. "Jes' sits there silent an' still, leanin' back inta them shadows 'til he becomes a shadow hisself. An' spooks the hell outta us all when he finally moves or speaks."

Josiah arched two heavy brows and nodded. "Makes sense. Folks get used ta seein' a thing, and then stop seein' it, stop takin' notice, because they are so used to it. And a man who knows how ta be still and is a friend of the shadows can be standin' right beside you and still be invisible."

"And think'a how he dresses," Nathan went on. "Y'all think it's any accident he wears brown pants, brown boots, a brown coat, a hat the color'a sand? Go outside, take a look at the land 'n tell me what color ya see. Brown. Tan. How many times've we watched him climb inta some rocks an' then jes' lost him, when he was right in front'a us all the time? Yeah, I reckon if anybody comes close ta bein' invisible, it's Vin. The man could stand in the middle of a crowded room an' make folks forget he's there."

Buck slammed his glass down onto the table with a violence born of weariness, worry and frustration. "So you're sayin' we ain't gonna find him, that it?" he growled. "Well, I ain't buyin' it! He's hurt – God alone knows how bad – an' likely scared as hell, needin' help – shit, needin' us – and I ain't about ta let him down! Hell, for all we know, he's already left town–"

"Peso was in the livery," Josiah said yet again, emphasizing each word heavily. "And Vin wasn't in no shape ta ride. If he'd tried, that would've gotten noticed!" He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly, willing calm upon himself. "Brothers, we're all tired, we've seen our friends hurt, and now we've got a friend missin'. We're scared and we're frustrated. But we can't afford ta let ourselves get too worked up to think. More importantly, we have ta try and think like Vin would."

"Hell, Josiah," Buck grumbled dispiritedly, "there ain't but one man among us who can do that, and he ain't here right now! And, frankly, I ain't anxious for him ta come back. How'n the hell are we gonna tell Chris that Vin's hurt and we can't find him?"

Nathan glanced at the doorway, then stiffened in his chair and shivered as a cold chill rippled down his spine. "We better think of a way right quick," he said quietly. "'Cause he jes' walked in."

"Oh, shit," Buck groaned, hanging his head and closing his eyes in sick dread. "Just when I thought this day couldn't get any worse. How far away is he?"

"Not far enough," Josiah muttered. "And comin' quick. I hope he had a good stay in Purgatorio, 'cause if he didn't we're all headed straight for hell."

=======

Chris paused just inside the saloon and swept his gaze over the interior, the corners of his mouth quirking downward in a slight, bemused frown. He'd gotten a strong, strange sense of something not right as he'd ridden into town, had noted an odd sort of nervousness among the people on the streets, a high tension that set his own nerves buzzing. Then he'd seen the unmistakable signs of a gunfight – shattered windows boarded up, bullet-riddled walls, posts and troughs, dark patches of dried blood in the street – and had felt his hackles rise. And folks had whispered and pointed at him as he passed, a sight with which he was not entirely unfamiliar but had gotten out of the habit of seeing here. So with a roiling uneasiness churning in his gut, he had come immediately to the one place where he knew he would get his answers.

The saloon.

The nervousness, almost a brittle giddiness, was present here, too, but, most important, so were three of his men. He assumed JD was at the jail and Vin out on patrol, but was startled not to see Ezra holding court at the center table. He half-wondered if Vin had somehow goaded, tricked or bullied the man into riding with him, and smiled in wicked amusement at the thought.

Ezra, out on the trail, at night, with Vin. God, there'd be hell to pay tomorrow!

He made his way to the table with a long, purposeful stride, his black duster whipping about his legs. Beneath the brim of his dust-covered hat, sharp green eyes noted every detail about him, took in the gazes that darted his way, the murmurs that rose and fell in his wake, the strained, expectant expressions on countless faces. His every instinct was on high alert, and Chris Larabee was not

a man who ignored his instincts.

He stepped up to the table, then sank with an easy grace into "his" chair and surveyed the men sitting with him. Buck had yet to meet his eyes, was tight in the face and drawn at the mouth, and Josiah looked half-dead from exhaustion.

Nathan, however, was tense, his dark eyes filled with an anxiety that sent Chris's hackles even higher.

"Evenin', boys," he greeted in a low, even voice. "Seems to've been some excitement here. Wanta tell me about it?"

"Not really" were the first words that rose in Buck's mind, but he had the good sense not to give them voice. Instead, he poured whiskey into his glass and slid it over to Chris. "Might wanta drink this, pard," he suggested softly. "I think you're gonna need it."

Chris immediately fixed his sharp, probing gaze on Buck, noting the lines in the man's face, the dullness of his usually lively blue eyes, the dejected slump of his broad shoulders. Buck was tired, bone-tired, but there was far more to his appearance than that. He was a man laboring under a heavy burden he had no wish to bear.

Vin.

Fear hit him with a terrible force, knotting his gut and driving the air from his lungs, all but stopping his heart. He knew with a terrible, instinctive certainty that something had happened to Tanner, and only barely fought back the urge to reach out and shake Buck until he said what it was.

"Drink, Chris, please," Josiah urged, his sorrowful blue gaze catching and holding the younger man's. "Buck's right, you're gonna need it."

Not knowing what else to do, so scared he could hardly breathe, Chris took the glass and emptied it in one swallow. But he barely felt the burn of the whiskey, felt only the aching fear in his gut. "Tell me," he ordered through clenched teeth.

"Gang rode inta town this mornin'," Buck began in a flat, emotionless voice, staring blankly past Chris and seeing it all unfolding again before him. "Two gangs, actually. Seems Ben Carlton and Frank Simpson got together, combined their men and made a try on the bank. Eighteen of 'em," he rasped, his voice utterly lacking its usual ebullience. "God help us all, it was a hell of a fight. But we stopped 'em, beat 'em. Only two got away. All the others are dead or in jail. And the money's safe." He took the whiskey Josiah offered him and drank it. "So the bank still ain't been robbed."

"But?" Chris prompted harshly, his green eyes burning.

"But," Nathan took up, "Ezra an' JD got hit. Ezra in th' shoulder 'n leg, JD in the chest." At Larabee's gasp, the healer held up a hand. "They're all right, sleepin' up in the clinic now. Ezra'll be up an' around in a week or so, providin' he does what I say. JD's gon' be a while longer, but, if there ain't no complications, he'll be jes' fine. Bullet broke a rib, but didn't reach his lung. He was damn lucky."

Chris dragged his gaze over the three again, almost screaming in frustration. One name they hadn't mentioned, and their silence was deafening. "And Vin?" he forced out, feeling as if he'd been punched when Buck flinched. "Tell me!" he snarled.

"We don't know," Buck answered softly, raising his anguished gaze to meet his old friend's tortured one. "Toward the end of the fight, I knew somethin' was wrong. I could see him, up on the damn roof, but he didn't look right. Then JD ran out inta the street, yellin' for Vin ta cover him... and that's when the bastards shot him. Ezra'd been hit by then, most of the outlaws were down, but these last four tried ta make a break, and JD tried ta stop 'em. He thought Vin... Hell, you know how we all depend on Vin an' that damn rifle of his... But he didn't shoot. Couldn't, I reckon..."

"Buck an' I killed two of 'em," Nathan took up when Buck faltered. "Then we went ta see about JD, an' that's when them las' two got away. We got JD 'n Ezra up ta the clinic, figgered Vin'd come, but he never did. Josiah went lookin' for him – hell, half th' town started lookin' – but we never found him."

"He got hit in the head," Josiah explained softly, easily able to see Chris's torment growing. "Inez found him, after the fight. He was in the alley, had fallen down the stairs. She tried to get him ta go to Nathan's, but he refused."

He sighed and shook his graying head slowly, hurting for the young man. "Turns out he blames himself for JD and Ezra gettin' shot, and figures we all do, too–"

"'Specially me," Buck muttered miserably. "He thinks I'm gonna hate him... Hell, Chris," he groaned, his voice breaking, "I know it wasn't his fault! JD ran out just assumin' Vin'd cover him! It was a damn fool thing ta do, an' there's no way anybody could blame Vin! I just wish he'd let me tell him that!"

Without realizing he did so, Chris reached out and laid a hand on Buck's arm, knowing how the man's heart must be tearing itself to pieces at the thought that fear of him had driven Vin away. And nothing he could have said or done could have meant more to Buck at that moment than that simple gesture.

"Inez took him up ta her room, cleaned his wound, took care of him," Josiah went on. "She said he was in bad shape – dizzy, sick, confused. Said he couldn't even stand on his own, could barely see. Finally, I came here lookin' for him. We'd looked everywhere else, nobody'd seen him... But when I asked Inez, she told me he was here and took me up to her room. Only–"

"Only he was gone," Buck breathed. "Somehow he'd gotten himself outta bed, outta the saloon... We've done ever'thing but tear this town apart, Chris!" he said fervently, needing Larabee to believe him. "He's hurt, he needs help, but he won't let us find him! And I'm about outta my mind, thinkin' it's because he's afraid'a me!"

Chris gripped his friend's arm harder. "You said yourself he's confused," he said, his voice tight with a fear so deep it hurt. "It ain't your fault, Buck, and I don't want you blamin' yourself. The important thing is findin' Vin and seein' how bad he's hurt."

"We've looked everywhere," Buck said again, exhaustion plain in his voice.

"If you can't find him in town, maybe it's because he ain't in town," Chris said. "Anybody check the livery?"

Josiah nodded. "Yeah, a couple'a hours ago. Peso was still in his stall."

Chris sat back and bowed his head, thinking about his friend. Tanner didn't want to be found, that was clear. He blamed himself for what happened to JD and Ezra, feared the others would do the same, and couldn't bring himself to face them.

But there had to be more. Inez had said he wasn't even able to stand, yet somehow he'd gotten out of bed, out of the saloon, and all without being seen. Why? Why leave such a safe haven? He had to know the feisty woman would protect him from the others, even if he was the only one who thought such protection necessary, had to know she wouldn't let anyone near him. She liked all of them, and dearly loved teasing Buck, but seemed to show a particular fondness, even a tenderness, toward Vin, Ezra and JD. And she'd fight anyone to the death for them.

So why would he take himself away from the surest protection he could find? Vin had the instincts of a wild animal, and, when hurt, those instincts would urge him to hole up somewhere until he healed. So, having found his hole, what would drive him from it?

What would drive an animal? Depended on the animal. What kind of animal was Vin? Hawk, cougar, wolf. All predators. All...Hunters.

He rose abruptly to his feet, startling the others.

"Where ya goin'?" Buck asked in confusion.

"Livery," Chris rapped out, already striding from the table.

"We checked there," Josiah reminded him. Nonetheless, he rose tiredly to follow. "But I guess we'll check again," he sighed as Nathan and Buck joined him behind Chris's rapidly departing figure.

PART 2

Vin sat hunched over on his knees, one hand pressed to the ground to support and steady himself, and ran the fingers of his other hand through the dark-stained dirt, sending a silent prayer of gratitude to the Spirits for this gift. Blood. One of the outlaws was hurt, and bleeding enough for Tanner to suspect they'd have to stop soon and tend the wound. Else he'd be coming up on a body before too much longer. And he found himself hoping the bastard didn't die just yet.

A body could just be left where it fell. But a wounded man slowed his party down, forced frequent stops, made it easier for anyone following to close the distance. And, if he was hurt badly enough or his companions weren't too skilled in doctoring, he could leave a blood trail that any pursuer would welcome. Just like the one Tanner was following now.

Yep. He hoped this bastard hung in there a good, long while.

Satisfied he had his quarry's trail fixed in his mind, he forced himself slowly, carefully to his feet and made his way with wobbly, weaving steps to where Peso grazed contentedly on sparse grass. Marshalling every bit of strength he possessed for the ordeal, he hauled himself once more into the saddle, reeling heavily and groaning thickly as pain and dizziness rocked him. But he clung with all his might to the horn and willed himself not to fall, not to give in to the threatening blackness, and all the while gave fervent thanks that, for once, Peso was behaving himself.

But the big horse, ever alert to his rider's moods and manner, seemed to understand that, just now, Tanner was in no way capable of dealing with his characteristic fractiousness, and managed to restrain his more troublesome impulses. In their years together, a deep familiarity, an instinctive knowing, had arisen between them, so that one often seemed an extension of the other. Peso knew the feel of Vin's wounded body in his saddle, could tell the difference between hands that guided him with strength and sureness, and hands that clung to him and sought from him the strength they lacked. And he responded accordingly.

Peso could fight Vin like the devil himself when the tracker was well and the horse was feeling uppity. But he generally only showed his ornery, rattlesnake-mean side when his rider was capable of fighting back, and treated the man almost decently when he was not. Vin knew this, and was deeply grateful.

"C'mon, ya hammer-headed mule," he rasped, kneeing the horse forward when he thought he could ride without falling. "Tracks say they's headed toward Round Rock Springs. If they are, mebbe we'll come up around 'em, git behind 'em 'n take 'em. 'N I'm past carin' whether they come back in their saddles 'r across 'em."

It had been a long time since the former bounty hunter had been squeamish about the "dead" part of "dead or alive."

=======

"SHIT!" Chris yelled furiously, flinging a stool against the far wall of Peso's empty stall. "Goddamn it, Tanner, when I get my hands on you..."

"But he can't even walk!" Nathan protested, his anger almost as great as Larabee's. "Damn fool was shot in th' head, likely got hisself a helluva concussion... How'n the hell'd he get on a horse? That horse in particular? He ain't in no shape ta be fightin' Peso... Hell, he ain't in no shape ta be doin' nothin' 'cept lettin' me tend ta that hard head'a his!"

Chris turned on his three friends, his eyes glittering in his white face. "What'd Vin take with him when he left Inez's?" he hissed.

Josiah shrugged. "Everything. Hat, coat, boots, guns–"

"‘Guns'?" Chris spat, laying heavy emphasis on the final "s."

"Mare's leg and rifle," the preacher answered.

Chris whirled away from them and slammed his fists against the stall door as his fury at the absent tracker rose still another notch. "You said two of 'em got away?"

Buck ran a weary hand through his hair. "Yeah. Rode outta here like bats outta hell. Josiah figures he at least winged one, but we don't know for sure. And we didn't have enough healthy bodies among us ta send anybody out ta look for 'em." He sighed heavily, his exhaustion pressing like a leaden weight upon him. "I reckon one or two of us'll have ta go out tomorrow, but I'm damned if I can figure out how we'll work it, and still see to the town."

"One of us has already gone out after 'em," Chris seethed in a low voice, knowing it with everything that was in him. "That's why you couldn't find Vin." He turned back toward them, his face grim. "Goddamn fool's gone huntin'."

Three men stared at him in stunned disbelief, their minds refusing to accept what he was saying.

"That jes' ain't possible, Chris," Nathan insisted softly, shaking his head slowly. "Not with what Inez said–"

"Look around, damn it!" Chris shouted, waving a hand at the empty stall. "Peso's gone, Vin's tack is gone... Goddamn it, Vin's gone!" He stared at the healer through burning eyes, his lean frame so tight he almost shook. "You tell me where else he is then!" he hissed through clenched teeth. "If he ain't in town and he ain't out there, then where the hell is he? I know he can damn near disappear inta thin air, but what the hell did he do with his fuckin' horse?"

Buck turned away and went with heavy steps to sit on a low stool nearby, dropping his head into his hands. "Jesus God Almighty," he murmured strickenly, finally admitting to himself that Chris was right. "He ain't in no shape for that!" He scrubbed hard at his face with long, strong fingers, then slowly raised his head and stared at Chris, his blue eyes dulled by fatigue. "We gotta go after him," he said quietly. "There's two of 'em, and it's clear they don't give a rat's ass about killin'. Could be one of 'em's hurt, but we don't know that for sure. Could be they lit outta here an' never stopped runnin', might be halfway ta Texas or Mexico by now, but we don't know that, either. And if they ain't hurt, and if they do stop, and if they discover Vin's after 'em..." He swallowed hard and forced himself to meet Chris's flinty gaze. "At his best, Vin's more'n a match for two men, we all know that. But he ain't at his best right now. And if he meets up with two desperadoes who ain't got nothin' ta lose by killin' him... We gotta go after him," he said again. "There ain't no two ways about it."

"True," Josiah put in, convinced as well. "But we won't do him any good by rushin' outta here half-cocked. There's a few things we need ta think about, first."

Chris exhaled harshly. "We ain't got time for that!" he spat impatiently. "Vin's out there–"

"I know that," the big man said gently, turning tired, sad eyes on Larabee. "Believe me, Chris, I'm worried about him, too. But we have ta think about this." He crossed his arms against his broad chest and leaned against the wall of Peso's empty stall. "Right now, four out of the seven of us are healthy. Tired to the bone, but healthy." He glanced at the healer and nodded. "But Nathan's gonna need ta stay with Ezra and JD, we all know that. Just as we all know you're gonna go after Vin. Now, do me and Buck go with you and leave Nathan here alone, or do we stay with Nathan and let you go out alone?"

"Don't nobody need ta be goin' out there alone," Nathan said firmly, almost daring anyone to argue. He'd just about had it with these men and their foolishness. "'Specially since we don' know how bad Vin's hurt. If he's as bad as Inez said, or, God he'p us, even worse, he might not be able ta ride by hisse'f. That means one man rides with him, another gits him on the horse. I don' wanta take no chances with him fallin' or bein' dropped. 'Specially not with no head wound."

"I'll go," Buck sighed. "Hell, it's my fault he's out there. If he wasn't so convinced I'd hold what happened ta JD against him, he wouldn'ta gone."

"You're not responsible, Buck," Chris assured him quietly.

"I still feel responsible–"

"But you're not," Chris said firmly. "Besides," his eyes and voice softened; he knew how his old friend felt about the young sheriff, "your place is here, with JD. Out on the trail, you'd be worried sick about him–"

"And here I'll be worried sick about Vin–"

"But at least here you'll be able to help Nathan," Chris said. "And, with him tendin' Ezra and JD, the town's gonna need somebody ta look after it. Besides, there's no tellin' how long we'll be gone. JD's gonna need ya when he wakes up. And you're gonna need ta be here for him." He sighed heavily and scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling that same need gnawing at his gut. "I'll take Josiah with me." He looked at the preacher. "You know some about doctorin'. You can take care of him 'til we get him back here ta Nathan."

Josiah smiled slightly and bobbed his head in agreement. "I'll be glad to." He studied Chris a moment, and knew the man was ready to leave right then. "But I got a couple'a more things to say." When Larabee stiffened and narrowed his eyes, his face setting hard, Josiah held up his big hands in a gesture of peace. "Just hear me out. We only got a little more'n an hour of daylight left. We're all exhausted, and can barely think or see straight. Maybe we should wait 'til mornin'–"

"Vin may not have 'til mornin'!" Chris exploded, his fear for his friend like a living thing within him. "He needs us now!"

"We ain't gonna catch up to him in an hour, and you know it," Josiah answered calmly, recognizing the fear behind Larabee's anger. "Chris, think, please," he urged gently, catching and holding the man's tortured gaze with his own. "The light's gonna start failin' soon. And neither one of us are trackers.

Stumblin' around in the dark, we might destroy the very trail we need ta see ta find Vin. We need rest, so we can start out fresh in the mornin'. If we're gonna be any good ta Vin, our minds need ta be sharp. And I don't know about yours, but mine's the furthest thing from sharp right now there is. I'm worried about him, too. But I also know that, right now, I'd do him more harm than good. And that's not a chance I'm willin' ta take. Not when it's Vin's life we're talkin' about."

Chris wanted to protest, wanted to scream in fury and frustration and spit curses at Sanchez, wanted to pull his gun and force the big man to come with him. But he did none of those. Not when a small, traitorous part of his mind whispered that Josiah was right. Instead, he merely turned abruptly away and bowed his head, closing his eyes tightly and clenching his hands into fists at his sides.

Buck rose from his seat on the stool and walked slowly toward his old friend. He could see the battle raging in Larabee, could see the furious clash between head and heart, and ached for him. He knew what Vin meant to Chris, knew how unique and vital a place the quiet Texan occupied in the gunfighter's scarred soul, could well understand the pain and terror now clawing at the man's heart. He'd known that same pain and terror when he'd seen JD fall.

But at least he'd known what happened to JD, knew where he was now and how he was doing, had only to walk a few steps to reassure himself that the boy was still alive. Chris had none of that, knew none of that, and the not knowing was eating him alive.

"Nathan," Buck said softly, never taking his eyes off Chris, "why don't you go on up ta the clinic, pack whatever doctorin' supplies you think they're gonna need, maybe write out some instructions. Josiah, you go get some rest. If you're like me, you're about ta drop where ya stand, and I'm guessin' your arm's hurtin pretty good, too."

Josiah nodded and forced a slight smile, understanding what Buck was doing. "I won't argue that point, brother." He switched his gaze to Larabee. "Chris–"

"Be here and ready to ride at dawn," Chris ordered in a low, steely voice. "One minute later, and I'm goin' without ya."

"I'll be here." He sighed and glanced again at Buck, then walked heavily out of the livery with Nathan.

"What's wrong with his arm?" Chris asked harshly when the healer and preacher had left.

"Just a graze," Buck answered with a shrug. "Hell, I reckon we all got cut up a mite. It was some fight, pard. Just the kind you like."

Chris tensed at that. "With JD, Ezra and Vin hurt?" he rasped. "No, Buck, I wouldn'ta liked it at all."

Buck ran a hand over his mustache and mouth. "Helluva thing, ain't it?" he asked quietly, compassion in his tired eyes and soft voice. "Feelin' so helpless? Bein' scared shitless because a man who's taken care of himself all his life is out there alone, hurt an' in danger, while you're stuck here, forced ta do the smart thing an' wait, when everything in you is cryin' out ta ride after him right now." He thought suddenly of JD, remembered again the soul-freezing sight of the boy falling under an outlaw's bullet, and laughed bitterly. "Havin' friends is sheer hell on a man," he breathed. "I don't recommend it for the weak."

"I just had ta go ta Purgatorio–"

"Don't start that, Chris," Buck said firmly, wanting to quell the demon of guilt before it took control. "It coulda been any one of us who wasn't here for any reason. Hell, it coulda been Vin. He coulda been out at Nettie's, or up in them hills'a his. Ain't none of us got a rope tyin' us ta this town, and ain't none of us ta blame for what happens when we're gone. And there's no guarantee it woulda worked out one bit different even if you had been here." He frowned and shook his head. "This is Vin we're talkin' about here, pard. If he feels he's gotta do somethin', he's gonna do it, regardless of what anyone else says." He cast a sad gaze over Larabee's pinched, worried face. "He just don't always stop and think about what that does ta the ones he leaves behind."

"Why him, Buck?" Chris asked softly, sounding every bit as tired as he felt. He frowned and stared in confusion at the man who had known him longest, who he had once thought knew him best. Until a lanky, long-haired Texan had sauntered into his life, with blue eyes that could see straight through to his soul. "After Sarah and Adam died, I stood at their graves and swore I was never gonna let anybody in again. Couldn't bear to go through that pain again. I even tried to push you away, and would've, if you hadn't been so damn stubborn."

"Hell, you know me," Buck snorted, grinning. "I ain't ever been easy ta push. And I sure as hell ain't ever been good at takin' a hint."

"I'll say," Chris grunted, almost chuckling. Then he frowned slightly, thinking about the six men who had staked such a huge claim on his life. On his heart. "This wasn't supposed to happen, Buck. I swore I wasn't gonna let it happen. But one by one, you all wriggled your way in... except for Vin." He winced as a vision of Tanner rose in his mind, coyote-lean and wearing a cocky, go-ta-hell grin that could soothe Chris's mind or make his head damn near explode. "Wasn't no wrigglin' there, no slippin' in unannounced. Goddamn bounty hunter hit me head on, like a train at full speed. I never saw it comin', couldn't stop it or get outta the way. It was like..." He faltered and shook his head helplessly.

"Like findin' a piece'a yourself," Buck supplied easily. "A piece you'd never known was missin', 'til it was there. Hell, Chris, I coulda told you that."

"But why him?" Larabee asked again, desperate to understand. "I mean... Shit," he breathed, shaking his head in exhausted bewilderment. "I don't know what the hell I mean!"

"You want me t' explain why Chris Larabee, despite all his best efforts to the contrary, is still a human bein'," Buck mused softly, crossing his arms against his broad chest and hitching a shoulder against the door of Peso's empty stall. "You want me t' explain why Mr. Get-the-Hell-Away-From-Me can't stop carin' about folks who care about him. And you want me t' explain why it's eatin' you alive that Vin Tanner, who needs nothin' an' nobody, who trusts nothin' an' nobody, and who's lived damn near his whole life believin' nothin' an' nobody wants, needs or trusts him, is in trouble and you can't help him. That what you want me t' explain, pard?"

Chris grinned weakly. "I guess that about sums it up."

Buck snorted and shook his head. "Y'know, Larabee, for such a smart hombre, you can be one of the dumbest sonsabitches I ever met." He leaned forward and caught and held his friend's startled gaze with his own, then jabbed a finger firmly into Larabee's chest. "There's your answer right there, Chris," he said with a quiet intensity. "You know what that is? It's called a heart, and somewhere along the line, Vin reached inta yours and started it beatin' again. Started it feelin' again. I don't know when or how it happened, and I don't really care. I just know it did, an' I ain't got the words to say how thankful I am.Why Vin? I'll tell ya why Vin – because it was meant ta be, pard. Because it was s'posed ta happen. Because you needed it ta happen, an' so did he. He pulled you outta the grave, and you pulled him outta the shadows, and, for the first time in too damn long, the two'a you stepped inta the sun and decided you liked how it felt ta be there. And that, Chris, is why Vin." He stepped back and raised two dark eyebrows. "Anything else you wanta know?"

"Yeah," Chris murmured, a slow smile spreading across his face. "When the hell did you get so smart?"

Buck shrugged and grinned broadly. "Always have been, pard," he said brightly. "It's just that my brain gets overshadowed by my astonishin' good looks and charm."

Chris gave a soft chuff of laughter and shook his head, then gazed at his friend and nodded. "Thanks."

Buck's smile and teasing manner faded, replaced by an uncharacteristic seriousness. "Don't question this, Chris," he urged, reaching out to lay a gentle hand on Larabee's shoulder, "and don't fight it. Friendship like that between you and Vin don't come around too often. A man'd be a fool ta throw it away."

Chris stared at his friend, the man who'd been with him at his highest and lowest, and sometimes been treated shamefully for it. "No," he said finally, holding Buck's gaze with his own. "I won't. I did it once, and it's the biggest damn mistake I ever made."

Buck stiffened as Chris's words, and their meaning, hit him. Warmth filled him, giving fresh strength to his exhausted body, and a new light shone in his blue eyes. He squeezed Chris's shoulder tightly, then gave the gunslinger his broad, bright smile.

"Well, pard," he said at last, "it's lucky for you you're seein' th' error of your ways. Now," he slapped Chris's back, "let's go see how Ezra an' JD are doin', then go get you somethin' ta eat." He winked. "See if I can't get Inez ta rustle us up somethin' hot and spicy."

Chris had to laugh and shake his head, but went gladly with his old friend. "I don't know why you're so set on catchin' her, Buck. She'll kill ya long before you get t' enjoy her."

"Oh, I don't know, pard," the scoundrel answered with a grin, wagging his eyebrows suggestively, "I got a feelin' she could make dyin' real enjoyable!"

=======

Hiram Reed glanced over at his companion and swore under his breath. Hallett had taken a bullet in the back, just under his right shoulderblade, and was bleeding like a stuck pig. Sonuvabitch was slowing them down, but not even Reed had quite reached the point where he'd just leave a wounded partner to die.

But he sure as hell didn't plan on sticking around long after Hallett did give up the ghost!

And, from what he could see, that was inevitable. The bullet was still in there, Hallett was fevered, and he was losing more blood than a man could afford to. And Reed was no one's idea of a doctor. He'd rigged the best bandage he was able, but that wasn't saying much. He'd briefly considered pouring whiskey in the wound to clean it, but didn't see the sense in wasting good liquor on a man who was clearly doomed. Not for a moment, though, had he even thought about using the trail method of cauterizing the wound. He'd had that done once to him, and just didn't have the stomach to see it done again, not even to help a friend.

Friend. His lips thinned into a mean, wolfish smile at that. Hell, a man like him didn't have friends. It just didn't pay. His face was on too many wanted posters, the price on his head too high. After a five-year stint of bank robberies, stage holdups and mine, ranch and Army payroll thefts that had left a trail of dead bodies across three states, he was worth eight hundred dollars dead or alive, and he had no desire to make some so-called "friend" rich off his carcass.

Besides, what the hell good were "friends," anyway? He'd considered Carlton enough of an amigo to throw in with the bastard on his fool notion to rob the bank in a town with seven – seven – lawmen, and where had it gotten him? On the run again, with no money and only this poor, dumb sonuvabitch slowly bleeding to death beside him.

Goddamn Carlton, anyway! What had the fool been thinking? Hell, everybody knew about that town, about its "regulators"! But Carlton had insisted that two gangs acting as one, with eighteen men between them, could get the job done. Eighteen against seven – or only six as it had turned out – easy odds, right?

Yeah, right. A harsh chuckle escaped Reed. Easy odds! So how come out of eighteen men, only two had ridden out? And where was all that goddamn money Carlton had promised?

But at least he'd had the satisfaction of seeing that kid sheriff go down...

His hackles rose at that thought, and he threw yet another worried glance over his shoulder. He didn't see anyone, hadn't seen any sign of pursuit, but could not push aside his growing unease. Whether he could see him or not, someone was out there, following. He knew it, because he knew about those seven regulators. They were as tough and as salty a bunch as had ever ridden the river, hard men who had no equal when it came fighting time. They were also a tightly knit bunch, and they'd seen their youngest go down. That wasn't something they were likely to overlook or let go.

Nope, at least one of 'em was back there, following. Reed could feel it in the itch between his shoulderblades, in the hair on his neck that wouldn't lay flat. And until Hallett finally did the convenient thing and died from that bullet he was carrying in him, there wasn't a goddamn thing Reed could do about it.

Except to hope like hell the sonuvabitch following him wasn't that goddamn tracker.

=======

Vin knelt in the dust and tried to study what was written in the ground. But the light was failing – at least, he hoped it was the light failing – and, between the gathering dusk and his faulty vision, he was having a hell of a time making out anything at all.

Lord, surely he hadn't come this far only to lose the trail now!

He exhaled unsteadily and slowly lifted his aching head, frowning in strained concentration and trying to focus his eyes on the area about him, trying to read something in the terrain that would help him. He had to stop for the night, he knew that. He'd used up every ounce of strength, every bit of stubborn endurance he had in reserve, and simply had nothing left on which to draw. He'd have to hole up someplace, lick his wounds, and start the hunt again tomorrow. He hated it, but he had no choice.

Wasn't no sense goin' on when he couldn't even make out the fingers on the hand right before him.

At least he had the consolation of knowing the men he was after – his prey – wouldn't be pushing on through the night either. Not with that one losing blood like he was.

He'd already found signs the two were slowing down, and figured the wounded man was the cause of it. Less than an hour ago he'd come upon the place where they'd stopped for one to bandage the other's wound, had found a sizeable patch of blood on the ground and some wadded bits of cloth grown stiff with the stuff. He had no doubt he'd eventually come upon a body, but hoped it wouldn't be anytime soon.

Right now, he needed all the help he could get, and that blood trail was a God-send.

He glanced around again, finally recognizing where he was. Brushy Creek. Though, until the fall rains began in earnest, it was more like Brushy Trickle. But there was enough water, brackish as it was, for him and Peso, and the high, thick brush that gave the creek its name would provide more than suitable cover for the night. Especially since, without the others here, he wouldn't have to indulge in such niceties as a fire and hot food.

The others...

He tried not to think about them as he dragged his saddle off Peso, falling to the ground with it, and made a feeble attempt at rubbing him down, as he fumbled clumsily with knots in an effort to forestall the big horse's maddening habit of wandering away from camp. He'd let them down, had failed them, and, unable to bear thinking about what that failure might have cost him, he tried to close his mind against their increasingly intrusive images as he ate the dried biscuit that was all his traitorous stomach would allow, as he made a place for himself in the brush and rolled himself in his blankets.

Lord God, why couldn't they leave him be?

But, stubborn as always, they were there, as real as if they wore flesh. He could see Buck, white teeth flashing against the darkness in that broad, easy smile, big hands gesturing expansively as he spun yet another of his outrageous tales. The man could talk the hind leg off a dog, apparently never tired of the sound of his own voice, but he brought warmth and laughter and deep good-fellowship to every camp he shared, and many a night Vin had lain awake just listening to him and taking comfort in the strength and solidness of the big man's presence.

JD, too, was there, the shadow at Buck's side, his wide, bright eyes fixed intently upon Wilmington as he hung on every word, drinking them all in like the dry desert did the rain until the big man took the story one exaggeration too far and the boy declared him "full of crap!" The young sheriff might no longer be the greenhorn he'd been when he'd flung himself off that stage looking for adventure, but, for all the hard things he'd seen and done since, he managed somehow to hold onto the eager spirit and earnest good faith that would mark him forever as "the kid" in their eyes. At times Vin felt a twinge of envy for the boy, and wondered how it felt to be that young. Because, though not so many years older than JD, young was not something Vin Tanner could ever really remember being.

Now he could hear Josiah and that deep, rich voice rumbling out of his cavernous chest like thunder rolling from the heart of a mountain as he wove the tales of magical places and mystical peoples that so fascinated the tracker. Most of all, though, he loved to hear Josiah reading or quoting from the Bible, from the Old Testament in particular, when that mighty voice would ring out with all the power and majesty of God Himself. He could let himself float upon that voice, let it carry him past this world of hurts and sorrows and into one where he was kept safe from such things and where all that existed was the beauty Josiah spoke into being.

He heard another voice then, a drawl as thick and sweet as molasses, and saw the gleam of a gold tooth. Ezra, trying to drum up a game of chance – as if there were ever a chance when the gambler played – even as he complained endlessly about his uncivilized surroundings. He had never seen a camp he liked, hated being outdoors with a passion, and was not the least bit shy about saying so. The gambler liked his comforts, liked fine clothes and fancy settings, and thought the most beautiful sight in the world was a green baize-covered poker table with a brand new deck of cards and a large pile of money upon it. He was slippery as an eel and crooked as a sidewinder, but he'd proved himself a surprisingly loyal, steady and handy man to have at your back. He'd be there when the chips were down, even if he did stop to gather those chips and pocket them on his way. Like Buck, he could talk for days, that honeyed voice spinning out high-falutin', five-dollar words that made Vin's head hurt just to ponder.

And where there was hurt, there was Nathan, doing all he could to take that hurt away. Another big man, like Buck and Josiah, but with the gift of healing in his strong hands. He hated suffering of any kind, would fight against it with everything that was in him, because he'd known so much of it himself.

The former slave carried scars on his back from the whippings he'd endured, carried scars in his soul from the oppression he'd borne, yet had emerged from the cruelties of his past as a man of dignity and endless compassion. His first instinct always was to help those in need, and Vin found himself wishing he could feel those gentle, healing hands upon him now, easing the merciless ache in his head and the pain in his heart.

But the most commanding presence of all was neither the biggest nor the loudest among them. Whipcord-lean and nearly silent, a black-clad figure of deadly menace whose piercing green gaze could freeze a man's blood in his veins, Chris was nobody's idea of lively, light-hearted fireside companionship. But he was everything Vin needed and never imagined he'd have in a friend. He didn't need to speak for Vin to hear him, didn't need to be near for Vin to feel him. Hell, he wasn't even here and Vin could see him more clearly than he'd been able to see anything since getting shot. He tried to banish him, as he'd tried with all the others, but the stubborn gunslinger wouldn't go, wouldn't leave him alone, and stood before him now, those goddamn eyes staring into his soul and one strong hand reaching out to him in a gesture of friendship and concern. Despite himself, Vin wanted so much to feel that hand closing about his forearm in the firm clasp that was theirs alone, wanted to know Chris was with him, helping him, lending him strength now that his own was gone.

He knew he should resist needing someone so much, trusting someone so much, but he couldn't. Not when that someone was Chris. From the first moment they had locked gazes across that street, he had understood and welcomed it, had felt its rightness, its familiarity, deep in his soul, and had never once questioned it. He'd found someone he didn't have to explain or excuse himself to, because Chris

knew him as he knew himself, knew more from his silences than anyone else could know from his words. And he knew Chris with that same completeness, understood the difficult, complicated gunman as he'd never been able to understand even the simplest of people before. Whatever it was they shared – to call it "friendship" just didn't seem enough – had been immediate and deeply intuitive, and to them both it was as natural as breathing.

Maybe that was why he was so certain now that Chris, who was supposed to be in Purgatorio and shouldn't know what had happened, did know, understood what he was doing and why, and would be coming after him.

"Lord, Chris, I'm hurtin'," he rasped softly to the dark apparition before him, certain Larabee knew that, too. "I don't know if I kin do this, but I gotta try." The black figure never moved, never spoke, but Vin knew he heard. "I'm sorry I let y'all down, cowboy," he breathed, unable any longer to fend off sleep. "But I'm gonna make it right."

=======

The hour was late, the town was quiet, and Chris was nowhere near being able to sleep. He stalked the dark streets like a restless, angry spirit, a grim black shadow lit only by the flickering flames of the street fires he passed. The few people he encountered, mostly cowboys and miners leaving saloons, took one look at him and gave him a wide berth, no one daring to tempt the infamous Larabee wrath.

The man looked ready to shoot the first poor bastard who tested him.

And Chris was. He didn't like worrying over Vin, didn't like the feeling of helplessness it raised in him, and so transformed his worry, his fear, into the far more familiar and comfortable feeling of anger. Anger at the tracker's foolishness in going after two desperate men alone, anger at his mule-headed refusal to admit that he was hurt, anger at his apparent mistrust of his friends...

Anger at what the reckless sonuvabitch was doing to the heart and gut of his closest friend.

"Goddamn it, Vin, when are you gonna learn?" Chris whispered to the night, somehow knowing Tanner would be listening. "You can trust us! We ain't gonna turn on ya, we ain't gonna turn ya out... You ain't alone no more! And you didn't have ta do this alone! You shoulda waited. I was comin', Vin! If you'da just waited..."

He found himself outside Inez's saloon and stood near the batwing doors, sorely tempted to go in and drown his anger, his fear, in whiskey. But he knew he couldn't. He and Josiah were leaving at dawn, and he'd need a clear head if they were to find Vin. He didn't particularly care about finding the last two outlaws. If they did, fine; if not, fine. It was Tanner he was really after; finding the tracker was all he cared about.

"And when I do find you," he growled into the night, "I'm gonna take every bit of this aggravation outta your sorry Texas hide!"

He turned away from the saloon and resumed his restless prowling, consoling himself with thoughts of the way he'd spend the five hundred dollars he'd collect on Tanner after he shot him full of holes.

=======

Vin was awake before dawn, and allowed himself the luxury of a small, well-concealed fire to make coffee while he waited for enough light to continue the hunt. The coffee was considerably weaker than he liked, and he could eat no more than two of the hard, dry biscuits from last night. But at least it all stayed down down. He told himself he was better, told himself the night's rest – or what rest there'd been between the hellish nightmare visions of Ezra and JD falling beneath the outlaws' bullets – had done him good. As his success with the biscuits proved, the unrelenting sickness that had so tormented him yesterday had eased to a much more tolerable level of general queasiness, and the constant ringing in his ears had lessened, as well. His vision, too, had improved somewhat, but his head still ached unmercifully, and he had to move carefully lest the persistent dizziness drop him to the ground.

Even so, he knew he could do this. Had to do this. He'd done it before, tracked men in far worse shape than this. He wasn't about to let a little head graze stop him now. After he'd brought these two down, he'd have all the time in the world to let Nathan fuss over him.

And let Chris beat the shit out of him.

He grinned slightly at that. He knew Chris would be pissed, could imagine all the names he was being called, could almost see that vein in the gunslinger's forehead throbbing now. Larabee had once said he'd never known he had such a vein until he met Vin Tanner.

"Well, hell," Vin drawled softly. "'At's whatcha git fer tom-cattin' around in Purgatorio whilst the rest of us're fightin' off a goddamn regiment. It'd serve ya right if that goddamn vein bust wide open 'n left ya with a headache big as mine. Betcha wouldn't feel so high 'n mighty then!"

With smug satisfaction at that thought, Vin extinguished the small fire and carefully buried all sign of it, then got his few belongings together and began the ever-challenging task of saddling Peso. The big horse was feeling fractious this morning, had apparently come to regret yesterday's docility and was now determined to make up for it. He fought the bit as if he'd never seen such a contraption before, and twice slipped it from his mouth once Vin managed to get it on him. Blanket and saddle brought another battle, with the horse picking up on Vin's unsteadiness and taking full advantage of it, sidling away just as Vin hefted the rig across his back. So quick was the move that Vin could neither

turn to follow it nor stop the momentum of the saddle, and both man and saddle went down to the ground in a heap.

He lay there – winded, dizzy, his head throbbing like hell – and tried desperately not to lose his breakfast. He could barely see through the haze of pain and rising sickness, but knew Peso was there, could hear him prancing around and snorting in haughty pleasure.

"Proud'a yerself, ain'tcha?" he rasped once he was fairly certain he wouldn't be sick. "Goddamn hammer-headed, sonuvabitchin' mule. Best be glad I cain't see no better'n I can, else I'd put a bullet 'tween yer eyes." He managed to sit up, crossed his legs to steady himself, and glared up at the dark blur that was his horse. "Shoulda left ya in that border town where I found ya," he growled. "Fer all I know, you d'served what you was gittin' from them fellers. Hell, y'ain't worth the peso I paid for ya!"

Peso seemed singularly unmoved by the tracker's tirade, completely unimpressed by the threats and curses spat at him. While Vin had a number of highly effective ways of imposing his will upon the cantankerous animal, not one of them involved cruelty, and Peso knew this. And was not above using it to his advantage.

But Vin was in no mood – and no condition – to fight with his horse. Mustering every bit of his strength, and shoring it up with all his considerable stubbornness, he climbed carefully to his feet, forced himself to stand without swaying or falling, and snaked out a hand to grab one black ear and twist, his other hand clamping hard on the animal's sensitive upper lip. Maintaining his merciless hold, he glared into the gelding's pained, startled eyes and scowled, baring his teeth in a wolfish grimace.

"Ain't got time fer this," he snarled, standing firm before the horse, refusing to be moved even a step. "Yer costin' me daylight, 'n I got work ta do. Gimme just one more bit'a trouble, 'n I'll tie an' hobble ya whilst I saddle ya. Ya got that?"

Whatever his other faults, and he had many, Peso was no fool. He clearly recognized the change in the tracker's demeanor, sensed the shift in dominance, and understood that the man had been pushed as far as he would go. His free ear relaxed, his dark eyes softened, and he evened his weight upon all four legs, standing still and placid.

Vin felt the change, and knew he'd won this round. "Gonna saddle ya now," he said, "'n yer gonna stand there 'n take it, like a true horse ought." Finally satisfied that Peso would comply, he released him, gave the black nose a quick caress, and went to retrieve the saddle.

It was by no means easy to get the rig on, but Vin had only his own dizziness and pain to blame. Peso remained meek as a lamb, never so much as twitching. His only show of defiance came when he drew a huge breath and inflated his chest to interfere with the tightening of the belly strap, but Vin was by now so used to that he automatically kneed the horse to force him to release it.

"I ain't in no mood nor shape ta be dumped in the middle'a the fuckin' desert," he drawled as he drew the cinch taut. "Best you remember that."

He draped his saddlebags behind the cantle, secured his bedroll and checked his rifle, then gave the saddle one last tug to be sure. Never paid to get cocky with Peso, especially when the big horse was behaving. Finally, bracing himself for what was to come, he gripped the horn tightly, put a boot in the stirrup, and hauled himself into the saddle with nothing at all like his usual grace or ease. The effort sent hard jolts of pain stabbing through his skull and tore a hoarse cry from him, and dizziness assailed him with a hideous, sickening force. It was all he could do to hang on while he fought to stay conscious, fought not to throw up, fought not to let himself just fall to the ground and give in to his misery. Hot tears stung his eyes as pain lanced through his head and nausea churned in his gut, and for long moments a beckoning darkness was temptingly close. But if through nothing else save instinct and long habit he hung on, and refused to let himself sink into the oblivion his body craved.

And through it all, Peso – Lord love him – stayed as steady and calm as if he were a true and decent horse instead of the perverse, contrary mixture of rattlesnake and pissed-off cougar Vin knew him to be. The gelding had a nasty streak any Comanche warrior would envy, would fight just for the sake of fighting. But what he lacked in charm, he more than made up for in intelligence, endurance on the trail and sheer toughness. When other horses were ready to drop from exhaustion, Peso was just hitting his stride, and he thrived in wild, rough country that would kill a lesser animal.

He'd never in a million years be an agreeable, well-mannered, sweet-tempered horse. And that was just fine with Tanner.

"Let's go, mule," Vin sighed, kneeing the gelding forward. "Still got some huntin' ta do."

=======

Chris tore out of town the moment he decided he had light enough to see, with Josiah at his back. Though nowhere near the tracker Vin was, he still picked up Peso's trail easily enough, a fact which both relieved him and added more fuel to his steadily burning anger.

"Goddamn it," he spat after a good three hours of seething, "what the hell's he thinkin'? Damn fool ain't even tryin' ta hide his tracks!" His green eyes glittered like jewels in his face, and fury rolled off him in waves. "Hell, a blind man could follow him! Not ta mention every bounty hunter in the goddamn territory!"

Josiah sighed heavily and shook his head slowly. It was going to be a long, trying ride. Wasn't bad enough Ezra and JD were hurt; wasn't bad enough Vin was hurt and had run off on his own after two desperadoes. Now Chris was on the warpath, and wouldn't be happy until he'd taken scalps.

He'd thought he was lucky to get off with only a graze to the arm. But he was beginning to think that being gut-shot would be better than riding with a thoroughly pissed-off Chris Larabee.

"Maybe," he answered at last, his deep voice calm and – he hoped – soothing, "he's not coverin' his tracks because he knew you'd be comin' after him, and wanted to make it easy for ya. Vin's not stupid–"

"No?" Chris shot back in a hard, tight voice. "Then how do ya explain what he's doin'?"

Josiah regarded him with a practiced patience. If he'd learned only one thing in his time among these six men, it was how to be patient in the face of sheer cussedness. "If you'd been here when that gunfight broke out," he said quietly, "if you felt responsible for someone getting shot, what would you be doin'? Would you wait for Vin to come and talk you out of it? Or would you just go on with what you felt you had to do, knowin' all the while he'd be right behind you?"

"Damn it, Josiah, he's hurt!"

Sanchez shrugged his broad shoulders. "He's able to walk, he's able to ride. In his mind, that means he's all right." He fixed knowing eyes on Chris. "Seen you ride hurt a few times, yourself. Seen you ready ta charge the gates of hell when it was all you could do ta stay in the saddle. You sayin' Vin ain't as entitled ta his stupidity as you are ta yours?"

Chris reined in his horse sharply at that and stared in disbelief at the older man. "Did you just call me‘stupid'?"

"Nope," Josiah said, returning the green stare evenly. "I said you have moments of stupidity. There's a difference." He smiled slightly. "Sometimes it's a fine one, but it's a difference nonetheless." He shrugged again. "You've had your moments, now Vin's havin' one. But it's our job ta find him before it gets him killed." He winked. "Sorta like he's done for you a time or two."

Against his will, Chris felt his anger cooling before the big man's words, and a slight, wry smile ghosted about his mouth. "I guess it's a good thing we're not both havin' our moments at the same time."

Josiah chuckled and shook his head. "God help us if that ever happens! One'a you at a time is hard enough on a man's nerves. Both of you together..." He shuddered dramatically. "It just don't bear thinkin' about."

Chris stared off into the distance, and his smile gave way to a worried frown. "I just wish he'd waited. He had ta know somebody would've gone after the bastards! It didn't have ta be him–"

"In his mind, it did," Josiah contradicted quietly. "He considers what happened t' Ezra and JD ta be his fault. And that makes it his responsibility ta make it right. You know him better than any of us, Chris, you know his honor, his loyalty, and his pride. And this struck at all three of them. Right now, that bullet graze is the least of Vin's wounds."

"It wasn't his fault!" Chris said loudly, harshly, his anger rekindling. "Goddamn it, Josiah, if I hear one more person sayin' that–"

"I'm not sayin' it was, Chris," Josiah said pointedly, his patience wearing thin. "I'm tellin' you what Vin thinks!" He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly, and tried to regain his calm. "Put yourself in his place," he urged quietly. "Try seein' this as he does. Not as you want him to, but as he does. We are his. We are his friends, his family, his brothers. And I believe you know, probably better than anybody else, how fiercely he guards and protects anything that is his. The moment that boy let us behind that wall of his, we became his responsibility. And you know how seriously Vin takes his responsibilities." He frowned at Chris. "Surely you know that's why he prowls those roofs like he does when there's trouble, why he goes sailin' from one to another, givin' no thought t' the bullets flyin' around him? All that matters ta him is keepin' us safe."

"But he can't watch all of us!" Chris said with a quiet intensity. "Damn it, Josiah, there were eighteen of 'em! And nobody can expect Vin ta be everywhere at once, watchin' everybody at once! It's just not possible!"

Josiah shrugged. "Try tellin' that ta him." He sighed heavily, and his blue eyes grew sad. "He didn't get there in time ta keep Ezra from gettin' shot. Got the bastard who did it, but not until after. And JD..." He winced and shook his graying head slowly. "JD called out to him just before he ran inta that street. Called for Vin ta cover him. But Vin couldn't, because he was hurt himself. And JD went down. Then those last two outlaws got away. Normally, Vin could've stopped 'em without thinkin' about it. Just fixed those hawk's eyes of his on 'em, brought that rifle up and dropped 'em. But he didn't. He couldn't. And they got away." He leaned forward in his saddle and held Chris's gaze with his own, determined ta make him understand. "In Vin's mind, we were dependin' on him, Ezra and JD were dependin' on him, and he let us down. He failed us. And that sense of failure is what's drivin' him ta do this."

"But what is this?" Chris asked, waving a hand around the empty countryside. "Revenge?"

Josiah shook his head. "Not revenge," he intoned sadly. "Redemption."

=======

Reed swore harshly, foully, and kicked savagely at the rocks around him as his anger boiled over. Goddamn Carlton for getting him into this! Goddamn him for going along with it!

And goddamn Hallett for not dyin' fast enough!

He looked around and snorted in disgust. They'd stopped again, because Hallett had fallen off his damn horse. And wouldn't be getting back on. He was dying, but he wasn't dead yet. Just kept hanging on, like he had something to live for.

And now Reed was stuck here with him, would be stuck until Hallett died, because he'd promised the bastard he wouldn't run out on him. And as low as he'd sunk in his life, he hadn't yet reached the point where he'd break a promise to a dying man.

He had enough enemies among the livin'. He didn't need anybody comin' after him from hell!

He looked up at the sky. Almost noon now, and he wasn't anywhere near being as far from that shithole of a town as he wanted to be.

Seven lawmen. And not just any seven, but those seven. God Almighty, what had Carlton been thinking? And what had he been thinking when he'd joined him?

And now one of 'em was out there. He'd caught a glimpse, seen the barest flash of something on the horizon, and just knew it was one of those damned regulators. But that had been hours ago, and the bastard was too far away then for Reed to really see him, even to know where he was. Still, he had to be closer now.

Because Reed and Hallett had stopped.

Because Hallett was dying, though not fast enough.

And now Reed was stuck here, trapped between a dying man he couldn't leave and a goddamned regulator he couldn't see.

Goddamn it all to hell, what had he been thinkin'?

=======

Vin lay on his belly among the rocks and brush and stared through his spyglass, trying to bring the images in the glass into focus. He forced all awareness of his pain, his weariness, into the back of his mind and willed himself to concentrate instead on his quarry.

He was closing in on them. He knew it, could feel it. Even though he could not yet see them, had seen little more of them than flickering shadows on the horizon, his every hunter's instinct told him he was getting closer.

Once again, he sent a silent thought of gratitude to whichever one of his friends had put that bullet into one of the bastards. The two would easily have outpaced him otherwise, and he knew he would never have found their trail at all had it not been written in blood. He was not normally a man to relish another's suffering, but he was realist enough – and hunter enough – to seize upon the advantage that suffering gave him.

And he had a real hard time mustering any sympathy for the sonuvabitch carrying that bullet. He figured the bastard had earned it when he'd ridden in with that gang, tried to rob the bank, shot the hell out of the town and left Ezra and JD bleeding in the streets.

Yep, if the sonuvabitch was lucky, he'd be hurt too badly to put up any kind of fight and force Vin to loose two days of worry, frustration and rage on him.

He swept the glass again over the vista stretching out before him, and allowed himself a tight, feral smile. They'd gone to ground just where he thought they would, were holed up now at Round Rock Springs. Likely they thought the high area, protected by the huge boulders that gave the place its name, would give them cover from any potential threat. And ordinarily it might.

Unless what threatened them was Vin Tanner, who knew every inch of that ground, knew every way there was to approach it.

And who knew how to make himself damn near invisible.

=======

"Bu...uck?"

Wilmington snapped out of sleep and jerked upright in his chair at the weak but wonderfully sweet summons from the bed. Smiling hugely in deep relief, his blue eyes shining brilliantly, he leaned over and took one of JD's hands between his two bigger ones, all but laughing aloud as two wide, fever-free hazel eyes stared up at him in confusion.

"'Bout time you woke up, son," he said with all the gentle affection this boy roused in him. "Been almighty quiet around here without your yammerin'. Hell, I was even startin' ta miss them God-awful jokes'a yours!"

"You're so... full... of crap," JD breathed, smiling fondly up at the big man.

"Yeah, but at least I ain't the one runnin' out in front'a no damn bullets," Buck scolded tenderly. "How many times have I gotta tell ya, son – if you c'n see the bad guys, they c'n see you. You ain't invisible, y'know."

JD swallowed and squeezed Buck's hand weakly. "Couldn't... let 'em... get away," he murmured. "Had... had... to stop 'em." He searched Wilmington's face intently. "Did we?"

Buck sighed. "Well, most of 'em. Two got away, but sixteen didn't. So I guess we did pretty good."

The young sheriff frowned. "Two... Anybody... goin' after 'em?"

"Yeah," Buck answered, now forcing his smile. He figured JD didn't need to know the whole truth just yet. "Vin, Chris and Josiah. Chris came back last night," he added, seeing JD's confusion. "They left this mornin'."

It wasn't a complete lie...

JD swallowed and nodded slightly, then frowned again. "Why... why didn't you... go with 'em? Might... might need ya."

Buck smiled softly, his blue eyes tired but full of light. "Had somebody here needed me more," he breathed, laying a big hand gently against the boy's pale, cool cheek. "'Sides," he leaned closer and winked, "I needed some rest, and you know how much Chris and Vin talk. Figgered I'd never get any sleep at all with their endless jawin'."

JD laughed, then stiffened and gasped as pain lanced through his chest. Immediately, though, big hands closed tightly about his own, offering their strength since he had none of his own, and he clung to them with all he had, knowing now why Buck had stayed.

"Easy, son," Buck soothed, holding the boy's hands and watching as he rode out the wave of pain. "You just take it easy, now. I'm here, and I ain't goin' nowhere. And neither are you. You're gonna be all right, y'hear me?"

"Hurts, Buck," he whispered, closing his eyes against the hot tears that stung them.

"I know it does, son," Buck sighed, freeing a hand gentle fingers through the boy's thick dark hair. "But you're gonna be fine. Just need some rest, and some'a Nathan's good care. Then you'll be back ta botherin' Casey and tellin' them damn jokes in no time."

"Casey... likes... my jokes," JD protested weakly, at last relaxing as the pain subsided to a more bearable level.

"Well, now, I'm disappointed ta hear that," Buck said with mock sorrow, glad to see the tension fading from the boy's body and sleep settling upon him. "Here I thought she was a smart young lady!" He shook his head and sighed heavily. "Gonna have ta talk ta Miz Nettie about that girl's upbringin', I see."

JD smiled drowsily. "So... full..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Buck whispered as JD drifted off. "I just wish I could tell ya how glad I am you're still here ta tell me!"

=======

Chris squatted and pushed his hat back on his head, studying the dark ground before him. "Somebody's bleedin' awful bad," he said grimly, remembering all the patches they'd come across before this one. "Leavin' a helluva trail." He pointed at a familiar bootheel print in the dirt. "Vin's," he said tersely.

Josiah stared at the print and frowned. "You sure?"

Chris nodded, pointing to a flaw in the print. "Yep. See this? He stepped on a nail about a month ago, workin' on Nettie's roof. Put a hole in his heel, cracked it some. And the damn fool won't get it fixed. ‘Ain't botherin' me none,' he says." He smiled grimly. "Hell, I reckon it'll do more than bother him someday when he goes ta fightin' Peso and the damn horse tears that heel right off!"

Josiah chuckled and shook his head, his hands set on his hips. "Those two are a pair, aren't they? Anybody but Vin would'a shot Peso by now, and Lord knows that foul-tempered horse would've killed anybody else long ago. Never seen a man and beast so well suited t' each other."

"Yeah," Chris grunted, rising to his feet. "Two ornery, mule-headed sonsabitches who between 'em don't have any sense at all." He turned and surveyed their surroundings, scowling deeply. "Well?" he demanded irritably. "Where d'you think they're headed?"

Josiah squinted into the distance and thought. "One of 'em's wounded, and bad by the look of things. They're gonna need water, and soon." He rubbed a hand over his chin, going over what he knew of the area. "Digger's Creek is close, but they're goin' in the wrong direction for that. The way they're headed, their best chance is Round Rock Springs."

"Shit!" Chris swore softly, his gaze still searching the horizon as if he thought to see Vin there. "That's more'n half a day's ride from here!" He narrowed his eyes and scowled tightly in concentration. "Mud Creek's closer–"

"Can't count on findin' water there this time'a year," Josiah said. "And even if there is water, it ain't worth drinkin'. Not until the rains come." He shook his head stubbornly. "Nope, I'm thinkin' they'd head for Round Rock Springs. It's a sure thing. Ever'body around here knows that."

Chris turned and fixed cold eyes on the big man. "And if we're wrong, we lose half a day's ridin'," he ground out harshly.

Josiah returned the stare evenly. "And if we go to Mud Creek and we're wrong," he said quietly, "then we add four or five hours to that half-day's ride. Besides, they need cover as much as they need water," he pointed out. "They at least have ta suspect they're bein' followed. Ain't nothin' but flat, open ground around Mud Creek. That's the last place two men on the run, one of 'em wounded, wanta be." His gaze softened as he stared at the seething gunfighter. "Wantin' 'em ta be closer won't make it so, Chris," he said quietly. "They're goin' ta Round Rock Springs. I'd stake my life on it."

"And Vin's?" Larabee hissed, his green eyes glinting. "You willin' ta stake his life on it, too?"

=======

Vin stared up at the endless blue sky, plotted the path the sun would follow, then lowered his gaze to the terrain and tracked that same path there, studying where and how shadows would fall on the uneven, rocky ground, and deciding how best to make his approach. It would be a much longer, more roundabout way than he desired, would likely take three or four hours, and some of that spent lying in place, waiting for still more shadows to unfold.

But it was only way he could do it and not be seen...

He scooted back below the crest of the rise where he'd lain and sat up, studying Peso. He'd have to leave the big horse here; he couldn't risk riding any further and being seen. But there was sufficient grazing for an animal too trailwise to be picky, and a small spring, part of the underground stream that fed this whole area, provided water. And, in less than an hour, this part of the ground would be in shadow, giving relief from the heat.

He just had to make sure the damn horse was tied securely enough that he wouldn't wander off.

"Yer a goddamn nuisance," he told Peso as he stood and went to him. "Any other horse'd be grateful fer what he's got here an' stay put. But I know you. You'd wander from a mountain meadow to a goddamn desert just outta sheer cussedness."

Peso twitched an ear, but otherwise ignored him.

Vin tested the horse's lead, made sure it was so securely tied not even Peso could slip it or work it loose. "Ain't ever seen such a horse fer untyin' knots 'n wanderin' off," he fussed. "Hell, if I had the time, I'd hobble ya, too. Not that it'd do any good." Peso was one of the few horses he'd seen who could run in hobbles, moving his forelegs in a hopping, rabbit-like motion. "Goddamn mule," he growled, reaching out to give the powerful black neck a rough caress. "One'a these days, I'm gonna take ya back ta Mexico, find the fellers I gotcha from 'n git my peso back. Then we'll see how high 'n mighty y'are."

Peso brought his head down and around and shoved it into the tracker's chest, though with nothing like the force he was capable of showing. And he held it there, obviously waiting.

With a scowl, Vin gave in and scratched behind one silky ear until the gelding nearly purred from pleasure. "Damn mule," he said softly, fondly. "Gonna make me shoot ya yet." He slid his hand under the horse's powerful jaw and lifted the big head until he was looking into Peso's eyes. "You best be here when I git back, y' hear?" he growled. "If I have ta come lookin' fer ya, y'ain't gonna like it one little bit when I find ya!"

When Peso merely jerked his head free and returned to his grazing, Vin walked around and slid his rifle from its scabbard. He reached into a saddlebag, drew out a box of shells, and shoved it into the pocket of his coat. He didn't particularly want to get into another shooting war, wasn't really sure he could hit anything anyway, but he'd oblige the bastards if they forced him. He took a long drink from his canteen, then cast one last glance up at the sky and nodded.

It was time.

Again ignoring his relentless headache, forcing himself instead to see Ezra and JD falling, he let his anger, his fury rise, then turned it to cold purpose. He'd failed once, but he wouldn't fail again. Here and now, he was going to make it right so he could go back and face his friends.

He closed his eyes, drew a deep, calming breath and let the familiar stillness spread through him.

Then let the hawk in him fly free to hunt.

=======

Chris rode like a man possessed, pushing his black for all it was worth, gripped by a deepening sense of foreboding. He had long since ceased following any trail, no longer even made a pretense of looking at the ground for tracks. He cared only about reaching Round Rock Springs as fast as his horse could get him there.

About getting to Vin and stopping the damn fool from getting himself killed.

Josiah had to push his sorrel harder than he liked to keep pace with Chris, and he whispered apology after apology to the game horse, promising he would somehow make it up to him. But he knew better than to protest this reckless pace, or to urge Chris to slow down, knew there was no point in either. He recognized the mixture of rage and terror seething in the green eyes, the hard set to the chiseled jaw, the coiled tightness of the lean, black-clad body. Some alarm had sounded in the gunfighter, some instinct for trouble had been aroused. And Josiah had only to look in that grim, fierce face to know what had triggered that alarm.

Vin.

He wasn't surprised Chris knew Vin was in trouble, didn't have to ask how he knew. The bond between Larabee and Tanner was like nothing the preacher had ever seen before. It wasn't friendship, wasn't even kinship, but something far deeper, far stronger, and far more vital. It joined the two at their souls, so that even when they were separated, they were never truly apart. Sanchez had spent time among visionaries, shamen, prophets and holy men in all parts of the world, yet never in all his studies and travels had he experienced anything more truly mystical than the spiritual communion between the brooding, hardened gunman and the unschooled, illiterate tracker.

And now that communion was driving Chris onward, warning him that the man who was so much more than a brother was in danger and needed his help.

Josiah murmured another apology to his horse and spurred him after Chris's racing black, all the while offering silent, fervent prayers that they would not be too late.

=======

Ezra watched as Nathan checked JD's wound and changed the boy's bandages, and saw the healer's dark brow furrow deeply with a worry the gambler knew had nothing to do with the young sheriff. JD was doing even better than Jackson had hoped, breathing easily and showing not the slightest sign of fever, his young and vigorous constitution rallying to his aid.

In fact, he was doing so well that Buck had been willing to leave his side, get a meal and a bath and take a stroll around the town just to make sure that all was well. So there had to be another cause for Nathan's obvious anxiety, and Ezra knew only too well what it was.

"Chris and Josiah will find him," he drawled quietly.

Nathan was startled by the soft voice, and spun around to meet the gambler's knowing green gaze. "You s'posed ta be sleepin'!" he scolded more sharply than he'd intended.

Ezra smiled slightly. "I fear the palliative effects of your medications have diminished most lamentably, and the discomfort in my shoulder has grown so intrusive as to make sleep quite impossible. Besides," he grimaced, "the sun is in my eyes, and it's not a sensation I find pleasant."

Nathan smirked. "Hell, Ezra, I'm surprised you know what sunlight is. Ain't somethin' you see much of."

"Yes, well, if this is all there is to it, then I must tell you, Mr. Jackson, it is grossly over-rated." He cast a look of disgust at the healer. "I cannot fathom why so many seemingly discerning persons consider it so appealin'!"

Nathan had to chuckle at that. He knew the gambler loathed mornings, and would not get out of bed before noon unless forced at gunpoint. And once up, the man preferred the dark interior of a saloon to almost any other place on earth.

"You know folks is always sayin' things look better in th' light'a day," he said.

Ezra snorted derisively. "Nonsense! The light of day is too bright and unforgiving. Darkness, however, holds the allure of coverin' all defects and flaws and softenin' life's much too harsh and unpleasant realities." He shrugged his good shoulder and regarded Nathan mildly. "In the light, a man is seen for what he is. In darkness, he may be seen for what he wants to be."

Nathan frowned slightly, wondering at the words. Was Standish admitting to such a difference in himself, between the man he was and the man he wanted to be? Was there something in him he felt uncomfortable having others see? Or was he just playing with words again?

The healer sighed and shook his head slightly. He and Ezra didn't always agree – hell, didn't often agree – in their views, had vastly different outlooks on life. But, where once he'd been deeply suspicious of the gambler's every action and motive, he'd finally begun to realize that Standish hid an awful lot under that glib, slick surface, and that much of it was good. Ezra cared about people far more than he'd ever willingly let on, cared more about his six friends than he'd ever admit, and would do almost anything for them.

Nathan would probably never trust his wallet to Ezra, but he'd trust his life to the man without question.

"Still," Ezra went on, made suddenly uncomfortable by the healer's searching gaze and wanting to change the subject, "I suppose in this one instance I must consider the benefits of daylight, as it will no doubt aid Chris and Josiah in their search for Vin. Our intrepid tracker finds it simple enough to disappear in the light of day. I shudder to think what it would require to find him at night."

Nathan's worry returned in full force at that, and he turned away from Standish and made his way to the window, staring through it to the street below. "But he ain't hisse'f," he said softly, anxiously. "Got a head wound that needs tendin'. Damn fool won't take care of it, I know him. He's got one thing on that stubborn mind of his, an' it ain't takin' care'a hisself."

"They'll find him," Ezra said again, wanting to ease Nathan's worry. He knew how the man fretted over any suffering, and often wondered how the former slave could still muster such compassion for others when so little had been shown him. Yet that compassionate nature, that need to heal the hurts of the world, was one of the qualities Ezra most respected in the man with whom he was so often at odds. "If anyone can find him, it's Chris. No one knows better how he thinks, or can more accurately anticipate his moves and actions. For all we know, they've found him already and are bringin' him back now." He grinned until his gold tooth showed. "Or will, once Chris has extracted the appropriate pound of flesh from Vin's hide."

A slight grin creased Nathan's face, and a gleam kindled in his dark eyes. "Yeah, Chris wasn't too happy with him, was he? Maybe we should be glad Vin's hurt. Likely Chris won't shoot'r beat the shit outta a wounded man."

Ezra arched one chestnut brow. "I wouldn't wager any money on that, Mr. Jackson. Vin has a remarkable aptitude for incurrin' Chris's wrath, even when he's incapacitated. In fact, as a talent, I would say it ranks with his trackin' and sharpshootin' abilities. As my dear, sainted mother would say, it is one of his ‘God-given gifts.'"

Nathan chuckled quietly, his worry chased away by rising good humor. Then, realizing what the man had done, he turned to the gambler and gave him a warm smile. "Thanks, Ezra. I appreciate that."

Standish only stared at him, eyes neutral, one eyebrow raised. "I cannot imagine what you are talkin' about, Mr. Jackson. I have done nothin' except engage in meaningless conversation. However," he let his mask slip, and an answering warmth shone in the green eyes, "if you are truly grateful, then perhaps you could close the curtains and block out that damned sun. I will never recover from the shock of such an egregious assault upon my sensibilities in my weakened condition!"

=======

Vin halted at the base of the rocks and sank to his haunches, shaking from weakness, breathing hard and bathed in sweat, nearly blinded by the worsening pain in his head. Though it had taken every ounce of strength he possessed, he had made it, and now had only – somehow – to haul himself up this wall of rock to be in place above the outlaws' camp.

And he'd do it. He had no idea how he'd force his exhausted body to make the climb, but knew he had no choice. He wanted – needed – the high ground, had to be in a position to make sure the two wouldn't escape him again. He wouldn't get more than one shot at this, didn't have more than this one, last try in him, and so had to make this work.

Because there was no way in hell he'd fail his friends again.

He allowed himself nearly an hour's rest in the shadows, and even dozed, though he snapped awake after a short while and cursed himself for such foolishness. Then, grown impatient with his weakness, he hung his rifle over his shoulder with the sling he'd fashioned for it and forced himself to begin the climb. Scrabbling for handholds and footholds, he scaled the rough, uneven jumble of rocks, dirt and brush much more slowly than was his habit, careful to make as little sound as possible. Meanwhile, every instinct, every sense, was on sharp alert, as he listened, watched, even sniffed the still air, for any sign of the outlaws. He was all hunter now, and knew there was no prey more dangerous than a desperate man.

Near the top, he shook his hat off his head. While its wide, low brim offered welcome shade from the blazing late afternoon sun, he did not want to chance having it seen by the men below and giving his presence away. Ignoring the sweat pouring from him, soaking his hair and his clothes, he hauled himself up the last little bit, praying the bastards he was after couldn't hear the heavy pounding of his heart.

And wishing he couldn't feel it in his head.

Finally, hanging suspended by hands and feet from the rocks, he eased his head over the top and scanned the ground before him, searching for a likely spot. He found it then, a shallow, bowl-shaped indentation in the ground, large enough for one man, with rocks and brush enough around it for ample cover. Tossing a quick, silent prayer of thanks to whatever spirit watched over and guided him, he carefully pulled himself over the top and crawled on his belly to the little bowl, suddenly grateful the rains had not yet come.

Else he'd find himself lying in a pool.

Once in the bowl, still on his belly, he unslung his rifle and laid it within close reach. He drew his spyglass from his pocket and pulled it open, put it to his eye and swept it slowly over the terrain about him, only barely resisting the temptation to rub eyes that refused to focus. Still, he knew this place, and let his memory supply the details his vision refused to provide.

Round Rock Springs was a wildly beautiful place, marked by a tumble of huge boulders smoothed by wind and rain, mesquite, creosote and desert willow trees, low craggy ridges and the deep, clear springs that welled from some underground river. The springs dotted the area like beads on a string, and were the only reliable, unfailing source of water for miles around. They were below him, set along a shallow but broad ravine – probably once a riverbed – between the ridge on which he was perched and the one across the way. Vin knew this area intimately, came here often, but wished bitterly he could see it more clearly now.

Didn't pay to get careless when hunting...

He saw a shape at the foot of an arthritically-twisted mesquite tree near one of the smaller springs, and studied it long enough to realize it was a man; likely the wounded outlaw. He watched for a long while, saw he was not moving, and felt a sharp twinge of uneasiness. There were no horses, and no sign of the second man. If this one were dead, then his partner would likely be gone, taking both horses with him.

"Shit," he hissed, only barely resisting the urge to snap the spyglass shut. But not seeing the second man didn't mean he wasn't there, so stealth remained important. "Hell, Tanner, you've come this far. What're ya gonna do now?"

He licked his lips, took a quick drink from his canteen, and thought. The last tracks he'd found hadn't been but hours old; the bastard below – if he were dead – couldn't have been dead long. Which meant his partner might still be near. And in this ground, with the dirt kept moist and loose by the springs, his tracks would be easy to find.

Vin cast a glance up at the sky. He still had four, maybe five hours of daylight left, plenty of time to pick up the trail. And there'd only be a crescent moon tonight, not nearly enough light to make travel easy or safe. The sonuvabitch he was after would have to stop, make camp for the night. Maybe he could catch him then.

But only if he knew which way the bastard was headed.

"Ain't no help fer it then, Tanner," he sighed. "Might's well git on down there, see what you c'n find. Y'ain't gittin' nowheres layin' up here."

He opened the spyglass again and put it to his eye, making one last sweep of the area. Seeing no more clearly than he had five minutes ago, he closed the glass, slipped it into his pocket and reached for his rifle, taking deep, calming breaths all the while. Then, bracing himself for whatever shots might come, he crawled across the ledge on his belly, desperately hoping he was not as exposed as he felt.

The boys was always teasin' him for actin' like he thought he was invisible. That'd damn sure be a right nice trick ta know just now!

No shots came. Hearing only a deep, heavy silence, he swallowed hard and tightened his hold on his rifle, then eased himself over the edge and sought purchase on the rocky slope below. But the ground beneath him was loose, and he slid down more than walked, sending rocks tumbling down and clouds of dust billowing up, and completely destroying any hope of a stealthy approach.

Still the man on the ground did not move, still no hidden partner appeared to shoot at him. And still Vin's hackles rose ever higher.

"Shit shit shit shit..." he muttered on his slipping, sliding way down, hating this with everything that was in him. His skin crawled, an itch materialized between his shoulders, the hair on his neck refused to lay flat and his every nerve was on knife-sharp edge. His instincts were screaming frantic warnings at him, but he could see no sign at all that he was not the only living person here. "Goddamn you 'n yer bright ideas!" he cursed himself.

Once down in the ravine, he straightened slowly, hefted his rifle in two hands, and went slowly toward the man lying near the spring, his blue eyes never still. He searched the ground as he crossed it, lifted his gaze and swept it over the ridges about him, alert for any sight or sound that did not belong. His own tread was noiseless; even his breathing was subdued.

The damp, loose ground was deeply marked by tracks, horse and human, and he forced himself to try and untangle them, to read the tale they told. Normally he would have had it within moments. But he was so tired, and his head hurt so...

And, hell, normally he could see.

Shit.

Disgusted with himself, he went to the man under the tree, stared down at him, then knelt beside him. Dead, though not for long. And clearly laying where he had fallen.

"Guess ya won't be helpin' me no more by bleedin' all over th' ground fer me," he said resignedly, shaking his head slightly. "Damn, I'm gonna miss that. Sure made my work a helluva lot easier."

Sparing not another thought for the dead outlaw, he rose to his feet and went back to the spring, crouching and beginning a careful search of the area. He could do this. He just had to think. The Spirits might have taken away his blood trail, but they'd replaced it with damp ground that even Ezra would have been able to read.

"C'mon, Tanner," he scolded himself. "Ya got yerself inta this, it's time ya got yerself out. Read the fuckin' tracks."

So he did. He saw where the horses had wandered to graze, found where the second man had stretched himself out on the ground to get some rest. And gave a wolfish smile.

"Well, hell, if ya took time fer a nap, then y'ain't so far ahead'a me after all!" he rasped with satisfaction. "Lazy bastard like you d'serves ta be caught. Ya give more hard-workin' outlaws a bad name."

He got up, went back to the spring, picked up the track of one of the horses, and scratched his jaw in puzzlement. Working in wider circles around the spring, dropping often to his knees and using his hands to supplement vision that swam in and out of focus, he read the ground as others would a book and frowned, not liking the story it told.

Lots of horse tracks, some obscured by bootprints. He'd expected to find signs that the surviving outlaw had gotten away riding one horse and leading the other, but that wasn't what he was seeing. Neither set of horse tracks were deep enough to indicate the additional weight of a rider. Instead, it simply appeared that both horses had just... wandered away.

"What the hell?" he muttered, scowling. "What'd the sonuvabitch do, walk outta here?" He leaned forward and studied the hoofprints, then gave a wry chuckle as the answer dawned on him. "Reckon one'a y'all's a bunch-quitter, like Peso," he said aloud to the unseen animals. "One musta took off, 'n th' other'n musta follered." He reached out idly and traced a finger around the imprint of a hoof.

"Ain't neither of ya runnin', that's plain." He chuckled again. "Shit, I'll bet y'all waited 'til that bastard fell asleep, then jist moseyed off on yer own. Damn fool musta fergot ta tie ya 'fore he took his nap." He spat contemptuously into the dirt. "Some folks is jist too goddamn stupid ta live!"

He stood up, looked around at the ground again, and nodded. If the horses had wandered off, it was likely the bastard would've gone after them. Which meant he'd be tracking a man on foot. The Spirits were still with him.

He heard it then, a sound that did not belong, the slight, soft jingle and creak of tack. Snapping his rifle up reflexively, he whirled about and levered a round into the chamber, then relaxed as a riderless horse, still fully tacked, meandered into view.

"Damn fool animal!" he snarled, lowering his rifle. "Nearly got yerself shot!"

The horse glanced at him, twitched an ear and nickered softly, but showed neither fear of nor interest in Tanner. It found a patch of grass, lowered its head and began munching complacently.

Vin exhaled unsteadily and ran a hand over his face, suddenly realizing just how raw his nerves were. Try as he might, though, he could not relax. He had one dead outlaw and one riderless horse, and clear sign that the second outlaw was gone, probably after the missing animals. And since only one horse had come back, it was likely the other had been caught, which meant the remaining man, freed by his partner's death to make his escape, was probably riding hell-bent-for-leather away from here right now.

So why were his hackles still climbing?

He tightened his grip on his rifle and swept his gaze slowly over the ground that rose on either side of the springs, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably as the itch between them grew worse. He strained to hear something – anything – that told him he was not alone, but no sound came to him that did not belong. Everything seemed exactly as it should have been.

But his instincts assured him something was wrong, and he'd learned long ago never to question them.

He made one last desperate sweep with his eyes of the high ground about him, licking his lips nervously, then swallowed hard and went to one of the smaller springs. He'd collect the horse, go back for Peso, and take up the chase. But he needed water first.

With the wariness of a wild animal suspecting a trap, he went slowly to his knees in the moist, soft earth, eyes flicking restlessly all about, ears straining, nerves screaming, his right hand never releasing the rifle. His left hand he dipped into the water, and finally he bowed his head and brought the cupped hand toward his mouth. But, between his weariness, persistent dizziness and headache, he found himself suddenly off balance and had to drop his rifle, jamming his right hand into the dirt to keep himself from falling. He closed his eyes and pressed his left hand to his throbbing head...

And froze when he heard the distinctive sound of a pistol being cocked.

PART 3

Hiram Reed lay still among the rocks and watched the long-haired man prowling around the springs below. He recognized the man at once. He was one of the seven regulators from that goddamn town, their tracker. And it seemed everything he'd heard about the bastard was true.

He was supposed to have the eyes of a hawk, the nose of a wolf and the tenacity of a hound on the hunt. Reed could see he was hurt, could see the blood-stained bandage circling his head, but it didn't seem to matter to the tracker. And it sure as hell hadn't slowed him down.

Reed felt twin surges of fear and fury shooting through him. He'd waken from his nap to discover the horses gone, had spent nearly two hours searching for them – in vain – before coming back here, in the hope the animals would eventually return to the water. Then, trapped on foot, he'd seen that goddamn regulator come into the ravine, and his fear had turned to panic. For all he knew, the tracker's partners would be showing up soon, and he'd be badly outgunned. So he'd lain here, hiding among the rocks and keeping still, hoping like hell that tracker's eyes weren't all they were cracked up to be.

And it was beginning to seem they weren't. Countless times, Reed had seen them look in his direction, searching the very ground where he lay hidden, but they clearly had not seen him. Calmed and somewhat reassured by the realization, Reed had begun watching the tracker more closely, determined to grab whatever chance for escape presented itself.

Then he saw it. The tracker knelt at a spring, leaned forward to take some water, and very nearly fell. Emboldened by the man's obvious dizziness, Reed grinned savagely, slid a Colt from its holster and, watching as the tracker struggled not to fall, rose from his concealment and cocked the pistol.

"Just stay right there," he called loudly, leveling his gun at the regulator.

The man's head snapped up, his eyes fixed on Reed and widened, and the outlaw sneered. "Now, ain't this a purty pass we've come to?"

=======

Chris fumed visibly and stared into the distance, his green eyes glittering in his tight-set face, his clenched teeth mangling the cheroot he had stuck between them. He could see the outline of Round Rock Springs hovering tauntingly before him in the distance, but knew they were still a good hour away.

And Vin needed them now...

Josiah worked to pry the rock from his horse's hoof with his knife, casting surreptitious glances at Chris as he did and shaking his head sadly. The gunfighter stood like a marble statue, hands planted firmly on his lean hips, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the horizon, his face a tight mask of anguish. Clad in his customary black from his hat to his boots, he looked very much like one of Josiah's crows.

And God help them all if it was Vin's death this particular bird foretold.

"He's out there," Chris said harshly, the first words he'd spoken in hours. "He's in trouble."

Josiah looked up sharply and frowned at the words, but did not argue. He could see the certainty in Chris's eyes, could hear it in his low voice, and knew it was not an idle fear. Wherever Vin was right now, Chris was with him in some way.

"Then we'll help him," Sanchez said quietly, finally working the rock loose and letting his horse's foot go. He rose to his feet and went to Chris, standing beside him. "If you can feel him, then he's still with us, and likely he knows you're comin'. And if he knows that, then he'll hang on 'til you get there."

A flicker of pain, of fear, passed over Chris's face and seeped into his eyes. "We have to find him," he said softly, his voice roughened by emotion. "What if he's hurt? God, Josiah, what if he's d–" His throat closed on the word, refusing to let it through. "I just–"

"Can't stand the thought of him dyin' scared, thinkin' he's alone," Josiah finished sadly. "Neither can I. I figure he's already spent too much of his life like that, thinkin' – hell, knowin' – there's no one who gives a damn for him... But it's not like that for him anymore, Chris, you know that. More importantly, he knows that." He turned and fixed his wise blue gaze upon the younger man. "Don't give up on him, Chris," he urged. "A man like Vin can hang on a long time, no matter what he's facin', so long as he knows he's got somethin' worth hangin' on for."

Chris scowled deeply, then snatched the cheroot from his mouth and hurled it to the ground. "Let's go get him, then," he growled, striding toward his horse. "We need ta get him back home so Nathan can take care of him. Then I'm gonna kill him!"

=======

Bitter rage poured through Vin as he stared up at the man holding the gun on him. Goddamn it, how could he have been so stupid? How could he have let his guard down like this? He'd known something wasn't right here, had felt it clearly, but had let himself get caught like this anyway, had let the bastard get the drop on him.

Goddamn it, he'd failed again.

But he let none of what he was feeling show, merely stared at the man in silence, trying to force some measure of clarity to his blurred vision. He wanted desperately to see the man's face, his eyes, knew they would give away whatever the bastard intended. But exhaustion and the splitting pain in his head were rapidly robbing him of what little sight he had left, and the problem was only compounded by the fact that the sonuvabitch had the sun behind him, rendering him little more than a dark, featureless blur.

Well, hell, likely he'd go down, Vin thought, but he'd do all he could to take this bastard with him.

Reed laughed harshly and made his way slowly, carefully, down the rocky slope, watching the tracker all the while. "So, where's yer pards?" he asked mockingly . "They comin' behind ya, or'd they leave ya ta do all the work yerself?"

Vin said nothing, and never moved. But he was acutely aware of the nearness of his rifle, felt his fingers itching to hold it, and wondered if he could get it up, aim and fire before the bullet from the outlaw's gun reached him.

If it came down to it, though, it was a chance he was willing to take.

Reed continued to advance, missing the change in the eyes that watched him, never seeing the confusion in them give way to determination. He did see the slight relaxing of the tracker's body, but mistook its cause. He thought it signaled surrender, meant the man was no longer a threat, and grinned at his victory, revealing uneven, tobacco-stained teeth.

"Well," he drawled, stopping about fifty feet from the tracker, "if yer pards are anything like you, I reckon you seven ain't as tough as yer made out ta be. I sure got th' drop on ya easy enough. 'N here I'd heard you was th' one ta watch out fer."

"Nah," Vin said calmly, "I ain't th' one. It's th' ones comin' after me ya need ta watch out fer. I ain't no more'n a nuisance. Them others is a goddamn nightmare."

Reed laughed harshly. "But yer here an' they ain't." He raised the gun slightly. "So I reckon I'll rid me of a nuisance, 'n leave yer body ta give them friends'a yers nightmares of their own."

Vin saw the blurred shadow of an arm lifting, knew there was likely a gun at the end of it, and cocked his head to one side, smiling slightly. "Go ta hell," he rasped softly, grabbing the rifle and flinging himself to one side, then rolling to his knees and bringing the rifle up, aiming and firing in one smooth motion.

The tracker's quick movement froze Reed, but only for a moment. Immediately he adjusted his aim and squeezed the trigger. But he never saw where his shot went, was lifted off his feet and thrown to the ground by the Winchester slug that slammed into his chest and tore apart his heart.

Vin watched from his knees as the outlaw fell, as his hunt came to its end. He felt an odd peace, and a strange heaviness, settle upon him, seemed suddenly to be sinking into the sand. Heat flared abruptly within him, and a sudden sharp and burning pain seared through him. But it faded quickly as darkness claimed him.

The rifle slipped from his numb fingers and he sank to the ground, staining it with his blood.

=======

Chris and Josiah heard the faint report of gunshots on the still air, and, as one, spurred their horses onward at a desperate pace. Chris leaned low in the saddle, urging his black to go faster with every muscle of his straining body, his heart racing as madly as the animal's churning hooves. Cold, sick terror gripped him, knotted his gut and wrung at his soul.

Jesus, Vin, hang on!

Josiah, too, was racked by terror, as much for the man just ahead of him as for the one he could not see. He silently screamed prayers for both, pleaded with God to shield Vin from harm, and implored Him to spare Chris the agony of losing still another part of his soul.

Time lost all meaning as they raced madly for the springs, seemed to slow to a crawl or stop altogether, tearing a howl of fury and frustration from Chris. Despite the reckless, punishing pace to which he spurred his black, the craggy mass of Round Rock Springs looked no closer now than it had an hour ago, but hung mockingly there in the distance, seeming to jeer at his inability to reach Vin. Again and again, those gunshots echoed in his mind, tearing another harsh, wordless cry from him.

Josiah cringed at the pain and terror in that ragged voice, but never heard the words now pouring from his own lips.

"‘Deliver me from mine enemies, O my God; defend me from them that rise against me. Deliver me from the workers of iniquity, and save me from bloody men. For, lo, they lie in wait for my soul; the mighty are gathered against me...'"

At last, after either an hour or an eternity, the ridges and rocks of the springs were before them, and, never giving a thought to any danger that might await him, Chris spurred his horse up and over a rise and tore back down into the ravine dotted by the pools on their "string." He raced along the ancient riverbed, veering around or sometimes merely jumping the black over the springs, desperately hoping he was not too late. But the terrible silence of this place, broken only by the sounds of his and Josiah's laboring mounts, sent cold rivers of terror coursing through him.

God, Vin, where are you?

He rounded a sharp bend in the ravine, and sharply reined the black to a plunging stop as the sight before him sent his heart slamming against his ribs.

"VIN!"

Even as the cry left his throat, he was flinging himself from his horse and running toward the fallen tracker, with Josiah close at his heels. From the corner of his eye, he saw the second man, also down and unmoving, but cared nothing for him. Tanner claimed his whole attention.

"Goddamn it, Vin!" he cried hoarsely, throwing himself to his knees at Tanner's side and reaching out, gently turning the still and silent tracker onto his back. "Jesus!" he gasped in sick horror at the dark blood that soaked Vin's shirt and pants. "Goddamn it! Goddamn you! What the hell were you thinkin'?" Even as he raged at Tanner, he gathered him into his arms and cradled the younger man close against him. To his immense relief, the wounded man stirred weakly and groaned softly, his ashen face contorting into a mask of pain. "He's alive!" he croaked to Josiah as the big man knelt at Vin's other side.

"Thank God!" Josiah breathed fervently, bowing his head and closing his eyes as relief crashed through him. Then, gathering his wits, he raised his head and turned his attention to the wounded man. Taking the knife from his belt, he carefully cut Vin's blood-sodden shirt away from the wound, and winced at the sight of it. The bullet had taken Vin in the left side, just above the waistband of his pants. Sliding a hand under the tracker's back and feeling around, he found no exit wound. "It's still in there," he said softly.

"Shit!" Chris whispered tightly.

Josiah untied Vin's bandana, pulled it free and folded it up, then held it out to Chris. "We gotta stop the bleedin'. Take this, put pressure on the wound. I'll see what Nathan sent in the way of bandages and such."

Chris stared at the bandana without taking it. "I don't wanta hurt him–"

"If you don't do this," Josiah said firmly, "he'll bleed ta death. That what you want?"

Chris winced deeply, but took the bandana and, swallowing hard, pressed it firmly against the wound. Vin arched his back and cried out harshly, trying to push away the hand that tormented him. But Chris bowed his head and spoke softly, soothingly to his friend, keeping Vin's hands away and maintaining pressure on the wound. After a few moments, he felt Vin shudder and lapse once more into unconsciousness.

Josiah returned, carrying the bag Nathan had sent with him, and knelt once more at Vin's side. "Got bandages, carbolic and whiskey," he announced. "You keep a hold on him, keep that pressure on, I'll spread a bedroll for him and get a fire goin'. Once I've got the wound cleaned, I'll know more about what we're facin'."

He fixed a calm, determined stare on Chris. "And I'll tell ya somethin' else. We're stayin' here the night. We've only got a few hours of daylight left, and I intend ta go slow tendin' him. I ain't Nathan, and I don't wanta be makin' no mistakes. And he's in no shape to go anywhere just now."

Chris dropped his gaze to his unconscious friend. "And you think that'll be different tomorrow?" he asked in a low, anxious voice.

Josiah sighed and shrugged. "Got no way'a knowin'," he admitted. "But I'm takin' this one step at a time. Besides, we've pushed the horses as far as they'll go today." His stare caught and held Larabee's. "We got no choice, Chris. Vin needs tendin', he can't ride, our horses can't be ridden. We're stayin', and that's all there is to it."

Chris exhaled slowly through clenched teeth and nodded, reluctantly accepting the necessity of it. "All right." His eyes searched the preacher's. "You gonna take the bullet out or leave it in?"

Sanchez sighed heavily and bowed his head, studying Vin's pale, drawn face. "I've taken out a few bullets in my time," he said softly. "I reckon if I had to, I could do it. But I'd rather just leave it, if we can, and let Nathan do it. I trust his hands above mine any day. And I don't wanta be takin' no chances with Vin's life."

Chris nodded slowly, his shoulders slumping as the weight of all that had happened settled heavily upon him. "All right, do what you can. I guess that's all I can ask."

"It's all any of us can ask, Chris," Josiah said quietly. "And it's all any of us can do."

=======

Chris sat at Vin's side, gently bathing his friend's face with a cool, damp cloth and watching anxiously over him. Josiah had cleaned and bandaged the wound, and Chris flinched at the memory of Vin's pained cries and weak struggles through the ordeal. Only after it was over had they found the laudanum Nathan had also sent, but at least now Vin was resting under the effects of the drug. Chris almost envied him.

"We're gonna have ta have a long talk when you're better, pard," he said softly, staring sadly into Tanner's pale, slack face. Josiah had also tended the wound in Vin's head and applied a clean bandage. And Chris himself had washed the dried blood from Vin's hair. "You gotta stop runnin' off like this, takin' care'a these things on your own. You're not on your own anymore. And you don't need ta be actin' like ya are. It's too hard on the rest of us. It's too hard on me." He gave a tired, grim smile. "And it's sure as hell been hard on you!"

Josiah sat by the fire, fixing supper and listening to the low tones of Chris's voice. Larabee was deeply worried about Tanner, the big man could see that, but just having found his missing friend seemed to have loosened some hard, painful knot at the gunfighter's core. Josiah hadn't stopped giving thanks yet.

He glanced around the small camp. He'd disposed of the two other bodies – one, his victim; the other, Vin's – and had tended the horses, including those belonging to the dead outlaws, and Peso. He'd found the big gelding not far from here, still tied where Vin had left him and none too happy about it.

Josiah had narrowly avoided a vicious bite in the shoulder from the long, wicked teeth the horse wielded with such malevolent glee. But now, with food, water and other horses to torment, Peso seemed as happy as Peso ever was.

Josiah sometimes wondered how such an even-tempered man as Vin could have such a foul-tempered horse.

He poured two cups of coffee and rose to his feet, went to Chris and handed him a cup, then settled himself on the ground at Vin's other side. "How's he doin'?" he asked softly.

Chris shrugged slightly, frowning. "Restin'. He was shiverin' earlier, so I put another blanket on him. Don't know if he was cold, or if it was just reaction settin' in. But I was thinkin' we might wanta move him closer to the fire. It's gonna get a little cooler when the sun goes down, and he don't need ta take a chill."

Josiah nodded. "Sounds good. You get any water down him?"

"Some." A sudden soft chuckle escaped him. "He was askin' about Peso just before he went out. Got a bullet in him, and he's worried about that damn fool horse!"

Josiah smiled and nodded. "Brother Vin's got a mighty soft heart. As soft as his head is hard. If he asks again, tell him Peso's fine. Already took a chunk outta one'a the new horses."

"I heard the squeal. Figured that's what it was." His gaze drifted back to Vin. "I don't know why he keeps that beast."

"Peso's tough, smart, independent, stubborn. Don't trust anybody or anything, won't abide bein' ill-used, don't like bein' told what ta do or when ta do it. But he'll never quit on ya, he can survive what would kill a lesser animal, and he'll be with ya come hell or high water." He arched two heavy brows at Chris. "Sound like anybody we know?"

Chris managed a tight, tired smile. "You forgot the part about havin' a temper like a teased badger, the manners of a sore-tailed bobcat, and a head of stone. Yeah, sounds just like somebody we know!"

"Sounds like several somebodies we know," Josiah corrected with a pointed gaze at Larabee. "Supper's ready. Go on over and get yourself somethin' ta eat, and I'll bring Vin closer to the fire." He glanced up at the sky. "Gonna be dark soon. And I, for one, will be deeply grateful to see this day come to an end."

"There's still tomorrow," Chris said softly, casting another worried gaze at his unconscious friend.

Josiah smiled gently. "Leave tomorrow to itself, Chris. Ain't no sense borrowin' trouble. If it's headin' for us, it'll find us on its own. For now, let's just see this day over and done with, and leave everything else alone."

=======

Vin felt again the hard, hot pain searing through him and tensed against its onslaught, groaning thickly as it pierced ever more deeply into him. He tried to turn away from whatever was hurting him, tried to push it away from him, then felt a strong hand at his shoulder, and another hand closing about his.

He relaxed with a soft, breathless groan and clung to that hand, but didn't open his eyes to see who held him. Didn't need to.

"Chri...is," he breathed.

"I'm here," Larabee assured him.

Vin forced his eyes opened and stared up at the dark, formless shadow above him, unable to make out any features. "Damn eyes," he whispered. "Ain't worked right... since I's shot." He struggled to lift his free hand, then let it fall with a tired, pained sigh. "They gittin' worse... 'r is it dark?" he asked worriedly.

Chris smiled slightly. "It's dark. Near midnight, I guess." He studied his friend's pale, drawn face in the low firelight, saw the sheen of sweat that bespoke a fever. "How you feelin'?"

Vin let his eyes close and thought. "Been better," he admitted finally. "Been worse, too... but it's hard... t' recollect... jist when." He swallowed and licked his lips. "Thirsty," he murmured.

Chris nodded and reached for the cup of water he had been keeping near him. Letting go of Vin's hand for the moment, he slipped his hand under the tracker's head and lifted gently, then placed the cup to Tanner's lips. "Drink," he directed. "But slowly. Don't want ya throwin' it back up on me."

Vin sipped greedily at the water, and made a small sound of protest when Chris took the cup away. "No–"

"I said slowly," Chris repeated firmly. "You get sick on me, I'll have ta shoot ya."

Vin tensed and groaned thickly as another spasm of pain seared through him. "Feels like... y' already did."

"Wasn't me," Chris told him, setting the cup down. "Not this time, anyway. But that's not ta say I wouldn't have, if that sonuvabitch hadn't beaten me to it. I was already workin' on just where ta put the bullet."

Vin grimaced, then shuddered and relaxed with a soft, hitching sigh as the pain relented somewhat. "Reckon that means... yer pissed at me," he breathed. "Figgered ya would be."

"You figured wrong. More water?" When Vin nodded, Chris put the cup once more to his mouth. "‘Pissed' don't even begin ta cover what I am at you, Tanner," he went on, careful not to let the wounded man drink too much or too fast. "You scared the hell outta me. And not just me. Buck's about ready ta tear your head off, Nathan's so mad he can't see straight, Josiah ain't none too happy with ya, an' I don't even wanta think about what Inez's got planned for ya, you runnin' out on her like ya did." He took the cup away again and set it aside, then lowered Vin back down onto his blankets. "But I'm the one that's gonna make your life hell for the next five years or so!" he growled.

Vin opened his eyes and tried to see Chris more clearly, then lifted a hand with a grunt of pain and effort and tried to feel for him. Immediately, though, his hand was taken into Larabee's and held securely, and he relaxed with a tired sigh. "Had... ta do it."

Chris shook his head and tightened his grip on Tanner's hand. "No, you didn't," he said firmly, staring down into the wide, unseeing eyes and wondering just how much harm Vin had done to himself. "You didn't have ta hide from the others, you didn't have ta leave, and you for damn sure didn't have ta take after these bastards on your own, with a goddamn hole in your head! You–"

"'S'my fault!" Vin breathed in anguish, closing his eyes and turning his head. "My fault... they's hurt. They's countin' on me... 'n I let 'em down–"

"Stop it!" Chris said sharply, reaching out and turning Tanner's face back to him. "Open your eyes and look at me!" he ordered.

Vin winced and squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, ashamed of this failure, as well. "Cain't see ya–"

"You can see me well enough," Chris contradicted sternly, again transforming his worry over Vin into anger. "Now, open your goddamn eyes and look at me!" When he did, Chris leaned low, still holding his chin firmly, and said in a hard, harsh voice, "It... wasn't... your... fault! Nobody blames you, Vin, and especially not Buck. He knows you were hurt, he knows you didn't shoot because you couldn't."

Vin frowned in confusion, his exhausted mind struggling to make sense of Larabee's words. "But... you said... he's mad at me..."

Chris sighed and released Tanner's chin, sitting back and shaking his head in frustration at his friend's inability to understand what, to him, was so clear. "Yeah, Vin, he's mad, all right. But not because'a what happened ta JD. He's mad because you took off on your own, without sayin' a word, and with a bullet wound in your head. He's mad because he's worried as hell about ya. You didn't have ta do this!"

Vin shook his head, then winced and gasped as the movement sent fresh spikes of pain through his skull. "I let 'em all down," he insisted weakly, his soft voice a thin, thready rasp. "Had... had ta make it... right. 'N I did." He drew a short, shaking breath and exhaled just as unsteadily. "I got 'im."

"Yeah, but he got you, too!" Chris snarled, his fear growing stronger as Vin grew weaker. "Goddamn it, Tanner, do you have any idea how scared I was when I rode in here an' saw you layin' there like a goddamn corpse? Or how close I came ta pukin' out my guts when I saw your blood soakin' inta the goddamn dirt? He could've killed you!" he declared harshly. "Is that what you wanted?

For me ta come ridin' up and find your dead body laid out here?" His hoarse voice rose as all the terror he'd felt at seeing Vin lying so still on the ground again poured through him. "Don't you know what that woulda done ta me? How'n the hell d'you think I'd'a felt if I'da had ta tie your dead body across Peso, take you back ta town and bury you?"

Vin grimaced and closed his eyes tightly, raising a shaking hand and pressing it to his throbbing temple. "Don't," he pleaded in a whisper. "Head hurts..."

"Your head hurts?" Chris almost shouted. "Goddamn it, Tanner, what the hell d'ya think my head's been doin' since this started?" He suddenly saw the lines of suffering etched deeply into the wounded man's ashen face, saw the lean body tensing against the waves of pain, and relented in his anger. "Jesus, Vin, you scared me!" he said softly, again taking Tanner's hand and holding tightly to it, as if he thought by that hold alone to keep this man, the steady presence he so needed, in his life. "You scared the hell outta me! Don't ever do that again, cowboy. You hear me?"

Vin closed his eyes and nodded, clinging as tightly as he could to Chris with one hand and pressing the other to his side as the terrible pain radiated through him in searing, sharp-edged waves. He clenched his jaws and blew his breath through his lips, arching his back and trying to ride out the worsening torment.

"Ssh, easy, easy," Chris soothed, his anger forgotten. He held Vin's hand, squeezed his shoulder and stroked his sweat-damp hair, willing the pain-racked body to relax. "I'm here, Vin. I'm right here."

"H... hurts..."

"I know. Bullet's still in there. But we're gonna get you back to Nathan tomorrow, let him take care of ya. So you just hang on, all right? 'Cause I ain't figured out how ta spend that five hundred dollars yet."

"Might... change... m' mind," Vin gasped through the pain. "Might w... want... somebody else... t' git it..."

"Too goddamn bad," Chris said calmly, watching as Vin began to lose the fight for consciousness. "Ain't nobody but me collectin' it. Hell, after all the shit I have ta put up with from you, five hundred dollars is the least you owe me. 'Sides, I figure since I'm most likely gonna be the one ta finally kill ya, that bounty'll be mine fair and square. I plan ta earn ever' cent one bullet at a time."

Vin smiled slightly, his eyes closing, his body relaxing. "Yer all... talk," he breathed faintly, slipping into darkness. "Cowboy..."

Chris loosed a soft sigh of relief as Vin settled into restful oblivion. "You rest now, pard," he murmured. "We'll talk about this later. You can count on it!"

=======

The return to town began at dawn the next morning. Josiah gave Vin a heavy dose of laudanum, then lifted him up onto the saddle of Chris's horse and into the gunman's arms. Though Josiah was stronger and would have been the more logical choice to hold the wounded man for so long a ride, Larabee had decreed with an iron finality that Vin would be riding with him.

The mule-stubborn tracker could be a goddamn pain in the ass, but there was no way in hell Chris was letting him out of his sight again.

The ride back was considerably less fraught than the ride out had been, but still it was made with an undeniable sense of urgency. Vin needed Nathan. Despite Josiah's best efforts, the wound continued to bleed, and Chris himself was made increasingly uncomfortable by the heat of the fever radiating from the tracker's body. Nor was his gnawing fear at all eased by the soft groans and breathless cries that his normally stoic friend was simply too weak and too sick to suppress.

God, he needed Nathan...

Josiah watched the two in fascination during that long ride, and again marveled at the depth and strength of the bond between them. Even when he was not what Sanchez would have considered "conscious," Vin would call out for Chris, or reach for him, and would immediately relax when he heard Larabee's low voice or felt his touch. Chris, for his part, spent as much time cussing Vin as he did comforting him, but his voice never lost its soothing quality, and the strong hands that held the wounded man in the saddle or calmed his pained, fevered movements with but a touch were never anything but gentle. And now and then, even amidst his suffering, Tanner's hide-tough spirit would resurface, and, when Chris uttered another curse or insult, the soft, slurred drawl would voice some smart-assed reply.

Josiah chuckled quietly and shook his head at them, wondering how two such vastly different men could have found a kinship so deep. Chris was sharp and hard and brittle, the chaos that had dominated his life for so long only barely held in check and seething beneath his ice-cold surface, ready to break through at any moment and plunge him and all about him into violence. In contrast, Vin was cool and quiet and steady, with a calm that seemed to flow outward from him and soothe the spirits of all about him. Yet there was also a persistent wariness to him, a discomfort with and distrust of people that spoke of too many hurts suffered at too many hands. Only with Chris was he ever wholly at ease, just as Chris was only wholly at peace with him.

But, merciful God, could they argue...

"Shut up and drink, Tanner!" Chris growled, holding his canteen to his friend's mouth.

"Don' want... no more," Vin slurred hoarsely, pushing weakly against the offending canteen. "Leave me be."

Chris easily shoved away the hand away and glared at the deathly pale man slumped against him. "Shoulda left yer sorry ass by that spring. Now, goddamn it, I said drink!"

Vin turned his head and tried to return the glare, but groaned and leaned more heavily still against Chris as pain and nausea assailed him. "Oughtta puke... all over ya," he rasped weakly, resting his throbbing head against Larabee's shoulder. "That'd show ya."

"Yeah," Chris sighed, seeing the pain and sickness written in the tracker's face and growing increasingly anxious as his fever continued to climb. "Show me what an ungrateful bastard you are. I came all the way from Purgatorio ta save yer ass, and this is the thanks I get."

Vin swallowed against the nausea, and groaned as pain stabbed anew into his body. "Thanks," he whispered, beginning to slip to one side.

But Chris pulled him back and held him securely in place. "You're welcome. Now, you hold on, y'hear?"

Vin smiled slightly and closed his eyes. "Ain't goin'... nowhere... cowboy," he breathed faintly as darkness stole over him again.

"Better not," Chris said softly, gently, watching him subside into unconsciousness. "I'm gettin' too damn old ta be chasin' you all over creation!" He turned his head sharply and glared at Josiah when he heard the older man's deep chuckle. "What?" he demanded harshly.

Josiah laughed again and shook his head. "Nothin', brother. Just thinkin' that, even hurt, he's a regular handful." His gaze went to the unconscious Tanner. "Still, I'm mighty thankful ta have him back in the fold."

"Yeah," Chris breathed, that same thankfulness showing plainly in his eyes. "Now," the softness faded, replaced by steely determination, "let's stop talkin' and ride. Get the prodigal here to Nathan before he bleeds all over me!"

=======

Buck was almost to the clinic, going to relieve Nathan so the healer could get some supper, when he heard the shout and turned to see Josiah tearing down the street on his obviously exhausted horse. Chris followed at a more careful but no less urgent pace, with Vin slumped against him. Instantly the big man was running, his gut churning in cold dread, his boots thumping against the boardwalk as he raced the last few yards, dashed to the stairs and took them two and three at a time.

"NATHAN!"

The big healer leapt catlike from his chair at Wilmington's full-throated roar and was halfway across the clinic when the door was nearly ripped from its hinges. But the anger he normally would have felt at this disruption of his two patients' much-needed rest never came; he knew only one thing could have aroused Buck to such violence.

"They're comin'!" Buck called hoarsely, blue eyes dark with worry. "Josiah's tearin' down the street, hollerin' fit ta wake the dead, and Chris ain't far behind." He swallowed hard as a tremor ran through him. "He's... he's got Vin... Nathan, he ain't movin'!" he said, his voice dying to a plaintive whisper.

"Jesus!" Nathan gasped as cold terror exploded through him. Then, he caught his emotions in an iron grip, forcibly pushed aside every trace of fear, and forced himself to think. "Got no mo' room here," he muttered, already moving to gather what he would need and pack it into his bag. "Go down, tell 'em ta git 'im up t' his room–"

"Nonsense," argued a deep, sleep-slurred drawl. Ezra blinked hard, then, using his good arm, struggled to push himself upright on his bed. "If I know Mr. Tanner, he has done nothing to care for himself or his injury, and will require your close attention." He stared rather owlishly at Nathan, still feeling the effects of the laudanum the healer insisted on forcing into him, yet holding himself with as much dignity as wounds, medicine and his generally dishevelled state would allow. "I, however, while grateful for that attention, clearly no longer require it to such a degree, and am more than willin' to relinquish it in his favor."

Buck and Nathan stared at each other, frowned, then stared at Standish. "Ezra, what the hell did you just say?" Buck demanded impatiently.

The gambler sighed and shook his head. "I am forced to converse with neanderthals," he lamented. "Very well, allow me to translate: I am goin' to my room and Vin can have this bed. Better?"

"You ain't goin' nowhere," Nathan growled, taking a step nearer the gambler and setting large hands on lean hips. "Not on that leg, an' not with that arm–"

"I am not in the habit of usin' my arms to walk," Ezra interrupted. "And if it makes you feel better – though I know you well enough to realize it will not – I shall merely shift, for the present, into that invitin' rocker there in the corner," he waved a less than graceful hand in the general direction of Nathan's favored chair, "and remain safely out of the way until such time as some suitable means of conveyance for my injured person can be arranged, thus allowing Mr. Tanner both the use of my bed and the benefits of your full and unimpeded attention."

Buck snorted angrily. "Damn it all, Ezra–"

"I said, get me to that chair and leave me there until someone can help me to my room!" Standish snapped. "Good Lord, does no one in this wretched locale speak English?"

Nathan opened his mouth to argue, but heavy steps pounding up his stairs and Josiah's shouting of his name told him there was no time. Within moments, the door was again almost torn from its hinges as Sanchez bulled his way inside.

"Chris has got Vin," he announced tersely. "Boy's got a bullet in him, as well as that head wound, and he's runnin' a fearsome fever. They'll be here in just a minute."

"Nathan?" Ezra prompted, already trying to maneuver himself from the bed.

Jackson gave in with a sigh. "Buck, git him inta that chair, then get a stool an' prop up his leg. Ezra," he turned dark, commanding eyes upon the gambler, "you stay in that chair 'til I say otherwise, you hear me? I ain't gon' have time ta be pickin' you up offa the floor. You fall, you'll jes' stay 'til I c'n git to ya."

Ezra lifted a head that still felt as if it weighed a ton and fixed laudanum-clouded eyes upon the healer. "My dear sir," he answered in a voice more slurred than imperious, "I shall sit as still as a statue and remain as unobtrusive as... as..." He blinked as his ever-present supply of words suddenly ran dry. "I'll be good," he said simply, startling his friends and appalling himself.

Nathan nodded. "See that ya do." He drew a deep breath, again chased the worry from his mind, and turned to Josiah, who had slumped tiredly against a wall. "Well," he said quietly, "let's go down an' get 'im so's I c'n see what th' damn fool's done t' hisse'f this time."

=======

The small space of the clinic was made even smaller, closer, by the presence of seven men, three of them big men, and by the dark worry that poured from and hung between them and that seemed to have taken on a solid form of its own. Six of the men were silent; Nathan lost in concentration, JD and Ezra asleep, the other three held fast in a fear so deep and so raw they couldn't have spoken if they'd wanted to. The only sounds to be heard were those that drifted in through the windows from the street below, and the faint, fevered murmurs and moans from the wounded man lying under the healer's hands.

"Hold 'im, Chris." Nathan broke the thick, taut silence as Vin stirred restlessly and tried to push away his hands. "I cain't do nothin' if he's fightin' me, an' I fo' damn sure don't want 'im ta start bleedin' again. He cain't stand ta lose no mo'n he already has."

Chris caught Vin's wrists in one of his hands, holding tightly to them, then leaned forward and laid his other hand firmly against his friend's sweat-slick shoulder. "Easy, pard," he soothed in a low voice made hoarse by worry. "Just rest easy. Nathan's almost done."

Whether it was his voice, his touch, both together or something else entirely, his presence exerted its familiar influence, even through the fog of pain and fever, and Vin settled with a soft, exhausted sigh. Chris continued to hold his wrists, to keep a hand at his shoulder, wanting – needing – Vin to know he was there.

Nathan hated this, hated knowing it was one of his friends into whose body he was cutting and digging, hated knowing it was one of their lives that hung on the balance of his skill. He was always keenly aware of the burden placed on him by his vocation, but never more so than when the life given into his keeping belonged to one of the six men he considered his family. He'd told himself once that he'd get used to this, but he knew now he never would. Would never get used to the sight, feel and smell of their blood, would never be able to witness their pain without feeling some measure of it in himself. Would never face the harrowing prospect of losing one without knowing so much more than that one would also be lost.

He hated this with everything that was in him, would never in a lifetime get used to it. But he'd do it, as often as he had to and as much as it hurt him, because he could do no less for these men. Could do no less for himself.

Buck sat at the foot of JD's bed and kept one big hand on the sleeping boy's leg, unconsciously lending him the same instinctive sense of comfort and security that Chris was giving Vin. For once, though, Buck's attention was not on the young sheriff, but on the tracker, and on the bloody mess that was his bedding.

He'd fought 'em. God, where had he found the strength to fight 'em like he had? Between the wound in his head, the bullet in his side, the fever and all the blood he'd lost, he should've been beyond even the weakest struggles, shouldn't have been able to bat away a fly. Instead, in a delirious panic, still thinking he was out in that goddamn desert or some place and time even worse, he'd come off that bed like a cougar out of a cage, snarling and spitting curses in every language he knew, and forcing them to grab him and hold him down. And that was never something Vin took well, no matter his condition. Only when he, Chris and Josiah had all but lain on the smaller man to keep him down had Nathan been able to go after the bullet.

But, finally, Vin's struggles had weakened to the point that Chris alone could hold him, allowing the other two to retreat to where they now waited. Buck bowed his head and ran a shaking hand through his hair, feeling as if he'd been wrung out. He'd thought seeing Vin, having the tracker back with them, would allay all his fears and release all the knots that had taken up residence in his gut. Of course, that was before he'd known how badly Vin was hurt.

But at least Tanner was here. Little knowing he did it, he tightened his grip on JD's leg, cast a quick side glance at Ezra, then returned his attention to Vin. They were seven again. Battered, bleeding, exhausted, and, God, yes, afraid, but whole in the only way that really mattered. They were together; this was where they got their strength.

He glanced at Josiah, who appeared to be dozing but who, he suspected, was aware of everything that was happening, then back to Ezra, who truly was sleeping, but had insisted on doing it here. Nathan had tried to get Josiah to take him to his room, but both had refused to leave, though Sanchez was no longer needed and Standish wasn't even useful. But Buck had understood, and had seen that same understanding fill Nathan's eyes. They'd been driven apart, the chain that bound them strained and nearly broken, and had almost lost one of their own as a result. Now with that one just returned yet still in danger of being lost, they wouldn't, couldn't, let their circle be severed again.

Finally, his gaze wandered to Chris, and he had to marvel at the sight. All that remained of the cold-as-ice, hard-as-nails gunfighter the world knew was the black clothing. The man before him now was the one he'd thought had died three years ago, the father whose tender touch and gentle voice could quell any terror of the night, and whose strong arms and stronger heart could bring comfort even amid the worst pain of illness or injury. Now and then, a tremor of fear ran through the tracker, or a sound of pain escaped him, and each time Chris leaned forward and, with a few murmured words or a knowing touch, calmed and quieted his suffering friend. By the time Nathan finished, Chris was sitting on the bed with Vin's head and shoulders cradled against him, the wounded man's arms crossed against his own chest and Chris's arms wrapped around him, not imprisoning him so much as sheltering him, giving him the peace and a place to rest. Buck, who'd seen this several times with Adam, was seeing it again with Vin, and was as awed by it now as he'd ever been then.

=======

At last, at long last, it was done. Nathan rose slowly to his feet and went with heavy steps to the basin, plunging his hands into the water there and washing Vin's blood from them. After so long spent hunched over the tracker, his back and shoulders ached fiercely, and his eyes felt as if someone had scoured them with grit. But it was done. He'd gotten the bullet out, had stopped the bleeding, cleaned the ugly wound and packed it. And done it all without losing Vin. He emptied the bloody water into a bucket, poured some fresh into the basin, and washed his hands again, then dried them. Emptying that water into the bucket, he poured still more into the basin and soaked some cloths in it. With the cloths, he returned to his chair, sat down with a sigh, and began tenderly bathing the blood from the wounded man. All the while, he studiously avoided meeting Chris Larabee's eyes, concentrated only on the immediate tasks at hand.

He still had to bandage the wound, still had to clean and tend the wound in Vin's head, still had to get clean bedding for the man...

"Well?" Chris prompted, unable any longer to bear Nathan's silence.

Nathan waited until he had finished bathing Vin, then dropped the wet cloths to the floor and sat back in his chair with a sigh, rolling his shoulders in an effort to lessen the painful tightness in them. He'd known the question would come, had known it would come from Larabee. Some things in life were just that damn predictable.

"I know whatcha wanta hear, but I ain't sho' I c'n say it," he answered at last, forcing himself to meet that formidable green gaze. "You know as well as I do the shape he's in, you know how much blood he's lost, an' I know you c'n feel his fever." He shook his head slowly, his eyes filling with sorrow and worry. "It don' look good, you know that," he said softly.

Instinctively, Chris tightened his arms about Vin, his face setting hard, his eyes turning to flint. "I don't give a damn how it looks," he said in a tight, hoarse voice. "I didn't haul him back all this way ta lose him now, and he didn't hang on all this time ta give up now."

Nathan bowed his head and scrubbed big hands over his face, tired to the marrow of his bones. If sheer will were enough to keep a man alive, then he knew he needn't fear for Vin; Larabee had enough will to save an army. And, God knew, Tanner was a fighter. But the man had been through so much already, and what strength his wounds, blood-loss and fever hadn't drained from him, his fight with them had...

"Buck?"

They were all startled by the soft, raspy summons from the other bed, and three pairs of eyes slewed around to the boy while Buck bent low over him and laid a big, gentle hand to one side of the dark head. JD's eyes fluttered open, the hazel depths filled with sleepiness and confusion, and a pale, cool hand lifted weakly to grasp Wilmington's forearm and cling to it as if it were a lifeline.

"Buck?" he called again.

"I'm here, kid," Buck assured him quietly, forcing a smile for him and stroking his temple with a thumb.

JD frowned up at the big man, trying to bring his eyes, and his thoughts, into focus. "I thought... I heard voices," he breathed. "Chris... Chris?"

"I'm here, son," Larabee answered.

JD would have turned his head to see, but Buck's hand held it firmly in place, bringing another, deeper frown to the boy's face. "What–"

"Need ya ta listen to me first, son," Buck said, his voice soft and soothing. He carefully kept every bit of his aching worry from showing, determined to spare JD that same fear. "Vin's hurt, an' Nate's still workin' on him." He forced another smile. "It's still kinda messy over there. We had ta hold Vin down for a while, an' you know how well he takes that."

JD relaxed with a soft sigh, his mouth curving into a sleepy smile, the fear that had seized him relenting. If Vin had fought, then he couldn't be hurt too badly. "Guess he'll be all right, then," he murmured.

Buck felt a stab of guilt. If he said yes, and Vin died... He turned his head and glanced across the room, his gaze going once more to the silent, unmoving figure still cradled in Larabee's arms. Too silent, too still...

In that moment, JD saw the fear cross Buck's face, saw it steal into his eyes, and knew the big man had been trying to protect him. Swallowing hard, he turned his head slowly, saw Vin, saw Chris's face, and Nathan's, and understood at once just how bad it was. He watched Nathan wind snowy-white bandaging about the tracker's middle with skilled and careful hands, saw Chris soothe the wounded man with a touch and a few soft words when he would have struggled, and all the while felt Buck's gentle hand brushing through his hair or rubbing soothing circles into the back of his neck. And though he clearly recognized the gravity of what he saw, he also understood the power of what he felt.

"It's gonna be okay," he said quietly, tightening his hold on Buck's arm even as his eyes caught and held Chris's. "You'll see. Whatever happens, it'll be okay, because we're together. And we can face anything when we're all together, right?"

Chris's eyes dropped to Vin, then returned to JD. As the boy's words, and the force of the conviction behind them, seeped through him, the lean, black-clad, blood-covered figure relaxed slightly, light returned to the tired green eyes, and the faintest of smiles stole the tightness from the wide mouth.

"Do me a favor, kid," he sighed, gazing gratefully at JD. "When Vin wakes up, you explain that to him, will ya? He seems ta have a real problem understandin' it."

JD frowned in confusion as the tension drained visibly from Chris, and as Buck laughed aloud and shook his head. Having absolutely no idea what he'd said that was so funny, he stared at Chris for long moments, decided the man had simply been out in the sun too long, and shrugged.

"Yeah, sure," he agreed uncertainly, switching his puzzled gaze to Buck. "If you think he'll listen."

Nathan gave his opinion on that with a snort, and Chris's smile widened a fraction. "I don't know," he said with a wink at JD, "I've heard there's a first time for everything."

=======

He drifted through the darkness, feeling wakefulness tugging at the edges of his mind and fighting its pull. He knew what torments it held, knew what pain, sickness and fear waited to drive their claws once more into him, and wanted no part of that. He'd had too much already. He was tired, worn out from the struggle with his own body just to keep breathing, and wanted only to rest. And here he could. Here in this darkness he was safe, beyond the reach of all that would torment him. Beyond the reach of everything...

Except them.

Lord God, why couldn't they leave him be?

But they were as stubborn now as they'd been that night in the brush, intruded on him now as they'd done then, and refused, as always, to let him keep to the darkness and shadows where he felt safest. Their voices reached him even across the distance he'd fled for his own peace of mind, just as their strength had held him to this life when, without them, he would have found it so easy, so easy, just to let go and slip away.

It was a hell of a thing, havin' friends who made dyin' even harder than livin'...

The voices gradually grew louder, more insistent, and he turned instinctively toward them, driven by some need in himself he couldn't understand. He knew the shadows were safer, had learned early on it was best to keep himself hidden in them. Yet now these men, with no more than the sound of their voices and the promise of their nearness, were drawing him out into a light where he had no wish to be, where he'd never feel completely at home, where all that awaited him were pain and sickness and fear...

"Oh!" The breathless cry tore from him as his movement on the bed sent sharp spikes of pain drilling through his head and stabbing deep into his side. He tried to turn away from the pain, but only succeeded in making it worse, and curled into himself with another anguished sound.

And then he felt it, the firm hand at his shoulder that was always among his first memories when waking to the world of hurt. That hand steadied him, guided him through the red waves of pain, and he locked his own about it, clinging to it for all he was worth. Then a second hand descended, curved about the back of his neck and stroked his throat with a callused thumb in a gently calming gesture. He gave himself into those hands, let them hold and comfort him while he struggled to find his way through the pain, while he waited for the voice that would lead him.

And it, too, was there.

"Easy, Vin, easy," Chris soothed, bending low over the pain-racked, shaking body to let Tanner know he was near. "It's all right now, pard. I know it hurts, but you're gonna be all right. Just gotta get ya through the shock of wakin' up."

Vin huddled in those hands and clung to them with a frail strength as pain and confusion battered at his body and mind. Half-formed memories ghosted through his addled brain, but each time he thought he had hold of one it simply slithered away like a snake through tall grass.

"Chris?" he whispered, squeezing his eyes tightly shut against the light that was piercing through them and into his skull. "Where... Oh," he groaned, giving up all attempts at thought.

"Buck," Chris called quietly over his shoulder, "you wanta come lower this lamp? Light's hurtin' his eyes."

Without a word, Buck crossed the clinic to the small table by Vin's bed and turned down the lamp set upon it. When that was done, he knelt by Chris's chair and reached out, closing a big but gentle hand about Vin's arm, adding his strength and solidness to Larabee's. "Hey, buddy," he called in a soft, soothing voice, "you back with us yet?"

A fine tremor of fear ran through Vin at the unexpected touch, but he shuddered and relaxed as recognition set in. "Buck?" he rasped, opening his eyes slowly and trying to focus on the dark shape before him. "You... here?"

"In the flesh, son. You're th' envy of every little lady in town."

"But..." Still more vague memories swirled through his mind, refusing to coalesce into anything solid. "You... cain't be here. Only Chris... J'siah..." He licked his lips, trying to remember. "You... in town..."

Chris sighed and leaned closer still. "Listen to me, Vin," he urged in a low, even voice. Freeing his hand from the back of Vin's neck, he carefully brushed the long, tangled hair away from the tracker's pale face, seeking the unfocused eyes. "Josiah and I brought you home. You're back in town, up in Nathan's clinic. You've been here about three days now. Your fever finally broke this afternoon, and we've been waitin' for you ta wake up ever since."

"Fever?" he whispered, trying to make out Chris's features through the shadows that clouded his vision. When the effort proved too much, he let his eyes close and sagged back against the bed, his hands slipping from Larabee's.

Chris and Buck exchanged worried glances, neither liking the rawhide-tough tracker's fragility, then Buck gathered his thoughts and reached for the cup of water on the bedstand. Handing the cup to Chris, he then slipped a hand beneath Vin's head, careful to avoid the wound there, and gently lifted Tanner just enough for Larabee to set the cup against his lips.

"Drink," Chris ordered in his calm father's voice. "Small sips, and slowly."

Vin complied, if only because he had no strength for anything but small, slow sips. The water felt so good sliding down his parched throat, and he groaned in sheer pleasure as it seeped into every aching hollow of the dry husk that was his body.

"That's enough," Chris said, taking the cup away before Tanner could make himself sick. "We'll see how this sits, give you more later."

Vin merely gave a faint nod, entrusting himself into their care with the instinctive, unshakable certainty that it was safe to do so.

While Chris straightened him on the bed, Buck carefully untangled his blankets and pulled them up over him, tucking them close about his body. All the while he studied the younger man, taking in the black circles like bruises under his eyes, the hollows fever had carved into his bloodless face, the frightful thinness of the always-spare frame. Struck again by how close a thing it had been, he clucked his tongue and shook his head sorrowfully.

"Don't take you long ta whittle down ta nothin', son," he murmured. He laid a hand on Tanner's narrow chest and gazed sadly down into the ashen face. "Thought we were gonna lose ya for a while there. Had us all real scared."

"Sorry," Vin breathed, trying to free his arms from the confines of the covers, but unable to make it work. "Don't mean... t' be a bother."

Seeing the futility of his struggle, Buck freed his arms for him. "Think maybe you could remember that before you run off and get yourself shot next time?" he chided gently, all the while straightening the sleeves of the heavy shirt they'd put on him to ward off the chills that had racked him and smoothing the lank, unwashed hair off his bandaged forehead.

Chris had to chuckle at the sight of Buck fussing over Vin as he would JD, and at the sight of Vin accepting it, even seeming to crave it. Big as he was and boisterous as he could be, Wilmington truly had a mother's touch.

"Chris said... yer mad at me," Vin rasped. "Fer runnin' out on ya... like I done."

Buck sighed and sat back on his haunches. "There's a little more to it than that, son," he said quietly. "There's some things I figure we need ta get clear in that hard head'a yours." He saw the lines of exhaustion deepening in Tanner's face, and laid the back of a hand against the tracker's blessedly cool cheek. "But I think it'll wait 'til you're better."

Vin mustered the scattered fragments of his strength and slowly lifted a leaden arm, swinging it in the direction of the shadow he assumed to be Buck. Immediately, his hand was taken in a warm, firm grasp, and he shuddered in relief at the strength of that grip.

Lord, how could he ever've thought he'd find a place where these men couldn't reach him?

"'M sorry... 'bout JD... 'n Ezra," he breathed, his words slurring together. "Didn't mean... t' let 'em git hurt..."

"Listen ta me, Vin," Buck said in a quiet but firm voice, leaning close above the tracker to make certain he was heard. "What happened ta them wasn't your fault, and I never for a single minute blamed you. Even you can't be ever'where at once, and you're not solely responsible for all the rest of us. We're all in this together, pard, you got that? You shoulda come to us, Vin," he said softly, gazing sadly into confused eyes. "You shoulda let us take care'a you like we did JD and Ezra." He tightened his grip on the pale, limp hand. "That's what we're here for, son," he breathed. "It's what friends do."

Vin frowned at that, again trying to get hold of the words, their meaning, and again feeling them slip through his grasp. "Don' know," he whispered. "Cain't... cain't git it all... ta lay straight in my head..."

"Then just let it go for now," Chris soothed, leaning forward in his chair and again setting his hand to Vin's shoulder, giving permission for his friend to slip, for now, back into the shadows. "You're home, you're safe, and that's what matters. The rest of it'll keep."

Vin gave in, let the hand on his shoulder, the hand gripping his, guide him through the pain and confusion to a place where he could rest. And long after all his other thoughts had slithered into the grass, one, at last, remained firmly in his grasp.

He was home...

EPILOGUE:

Vin sat outside the saloon in the early morning quiet, cradling a cup of coffee in his hands, and carefully tipped his chair back until it rested on only its two back legs, smiling in simple pleasure when nothing untoward happened. He was a long way from being fully healed of his wounds, could feel it deep in his side when he overdid and was still subject to headaches and dizzy spells, but, for now, his chair was the only thing tilting, and it was a right nice feeling. He propped a booted foot against the railing, sipped from his coffee, and just enjoyed the clear morning.

Moments later, he heard the soft thump of boots against the boardwalk, the jingle of spurs, and saw a dark shadow fell across him. He didn't look up, didn't have to. He'd known for a good ten minutes the man was watching him, had been expecting him to make an appearance.

"Lookin' mighty pleased with yourself this mornin'," Chris said quietly, studying the relaxed air of the man slouched in the chair before him, the peaceful light in the blue eyes and the slight smile that just teased his mouth. "Ain't plannin' anything, are ya?"

"Not a thing," Vin drawled. He did look up then, squinting slightly to see the face shadowed by the flat-brimmed black hat. "'Cept mebbe gittin' another cup'a coffee."

Chris felt a momentary twinge of worry at that squint. The wound in Vin's head had proved every bit as serious as the one in his side, and they'd all had a scare when the tracker's vision had been slow to clear. But he calmed himself with an effort, and realized this squint was caused by nothing more than Tanner trying to peer through the shadows cast by his hat.

Still, needing reassurance, he pushed the hat from his head with a casual gesture, and was relieved to see the squint disappear. Not wanting Vin to see that relief, and thus know of the worry that had preceded it, Chris turned and grabbed a chair, mastering his feelings before pulling the chair closer and folding his long frame into it at Vin's side.

They sat for a long while in silence, two men who needed no words with each other, who were simply content to feel again the strength and depth and solidness of what existed between them. They had so nearly lost that, had so nearly lost Vin, that, even now, Chris felt his gut clench at the awful closeness of it. But he had only to slant a quick glance at the man leaning back in the chair beside him to feel that knot release, to know that, for now, his world was still whole.

For now...

The thought came unbidden, unwanted, and made Chris shift uneasily in his chair. A slight frown pulled down the corners of the long mouth, and green eyes darted once more to still and silent tracker.

For now. But for how much longer?

Vin heard the creak of the chair as Larabee moved, felt the worried weight of that gaze upon him, and gave a soft, resigned sigh. He clearly sensed the shift in the gunfighter's mood, and realized the moment he'd known must come, but had dreaded all the same, was here. As Chris shifted again, his tension palpable, Vin slowly lowered his chair to all four legs, moved his foot from the railing

to the boardwalk, and bowed his head to frown into the cup cradled between his hands.

"Best spit it out," he advised in his soft, raspy drawl. "Ya been chewin' on it a while now. Much more'n it's gonna choke ya."

Larabee gave a soft, wry chuckle. "This from the man who can chew on his thoughts longer'n he can a piece'a jerky?"

Vin shot a sly, crooked grin at his friend. "Yeah, but I'm younger'n you," he pointed out. "Got better teeth."

Chris chuckled again and shook his head, wondering exactly when Tanner had decided he didn't have to fear getting shot for his insolence, and why he didn't resent the Texan's cockiness more. Why it didn't bother him that this man could see through him like he was glass.

Just when had he let that happen?

He could feel that calm blue gaze upon him, but knew Vin was waiting, and so ceased his musing. Tanner was a patient man, sometimes maddeningly so, but even he had his limits. He was also a direct man, blunt almost to a fault, and had no use for dancing around issues best met head-on. It was one of the many things he and Larabee had in common.

So Chris went straight to the point. "You and Buck talk yet?" he asked, knowing even as he did that they had.

He had seen them several days ago on the steps of the church, or, rather, Vin on the steps of the church. Buck had been all motion, pacing back and forth, stepping up and leaning over the smaller man, then going back to pacing, his hands gesturing all the while. And he had seemed to do all the talking.

From what Chris had seen, Vin had merely sat and stared up at Wilmington, still and contained; if he had said anything, it had been no more than a word here and there. Larabee had watched them for more than an hour before Buck had finally stopped pacing, directed a final few comments at the tracker, then turned and walked away. Catching Chris's eye, he had merely shrugged his broad shoulders, and Larabee had grinned in rueful understanding. A man could talk all damn day to Tanner, could talk until his throat bled and he ran out of words, and still never be certain a single point had reached the shrewd, sharp brain inside that rock-hard head.

Something else he and Larabee had in common.

Vin took a sip of coffee. "We talked," he said at last, well aware that Larabee knew this.

Chris waited for more, then sighed softly, resignedly, when no more was forthcoming. "And?" he prompted.

Vin shrugged and fixed his gaze on the building across the street. "We talked," he said again. He narrowed his eyes slightly, seeming to stare at something in the distant window, but saw instead Buck's big figure pacing before him restlessly, and heard him explain at length why no one, least of all him, held Vin responsible for what had happened. Vin had been startled, then confused, then downright amazed. Not at the words themselves, but at the feeling behind them.

He'd hurt Buck, but not by "letting" JD get hurt. He'd hurt the man by doubting him, by fearing him. By assuming friendship meant as little to Buck as it had to everyone else he'd ever known.

"And?" Chris prompted again, more gently this time, seeing the slight frown tugging at his friend's mouth and shadowing the blue eyes.

Vin's frown deepened, and he bowed his head to hide it. "Reckon I'm still ponderin' on it," he said softly, slowly, sifting carefully through the words, and the feelings, that were so unfamiliar to him. "I ain't used ta havin' folks worry about me. Ain't used ta havin' folks who care enough ta worry."

He shrugged, then shook his head slowly. After a few moments, he licked his lips and lifted his confused gaze to Larabee. "I jist... I ain't sure I got the right of it in my own head."

Sympathy flooded Chris at those words. He understood how new all this still was to Vin, what a vast mystery belonging was to a man who'd not belonged anywhere, with anyone, for most of his life. The tracker had a valued place in their company, but still he ghosted around its edges, wild and wary as a wolf, alternately fearing either the trap that would snap shut around him and hold him where he had no wish to be, or the rejection that would drive him away just when he'd thought his days of running were over.God, was it any wonder the man was so comfortable in the shadows?

"Gotta be hard," Larabee said at last, his voice low and thoughtful, "suddenly findin' yourself part of a pack when you're used ta runnin' alone. Still," he let his gaze stray from Vin's and settle on a point up the street, "the thing about packs is, while they get their strength from those in 'em, those in 'em also take their strength from the pack. One wolf alone, if he's sick or hurt and can't watch out for himself, will die. But that same wolf, if he's with his pack, likely he'll find one'a the others watchin' out for him, makin' sure he gets what he needs." His green eyes wandered back to Tanner. "It's an amazin' thing, watchin' how wolves take care'a their own."

Vin stared long and hard at Chris, eyes changing from light to dark to almost black as thoughts, feelings, old doubts and new truths flashed lightning-quick through his mind. Every bit of awareness in him was focused sharply on the older man as he sought to come to grips with those words.

"Their own." Lord, when was the last time he'd been anybody's "own"? So long ago, he couldn't remember...

Chris watched Vin's head cant slightly to one side, his eyebrows drawing down, his tongue working slowly over his lower lip, and could almost feel the breeze stirred up by that whirling mind. Deciding to press the point while the man was still off balance, he leaned forward in his chair and pinned Tanner with his gaze.

"Tell me somethin'," he said with a quiet force. "Whose fault is it you got shot up on that roof?"

Vin drew back, startled, then snorted and shook his head at the stupidity of the question. "Weren't nobody's fault!" he said sharply. "'Cept the bastard who shot me. 'N mebbe my own fer not knowin' he was there."

Chris arched a blond brow in cool disbelief. "Not Buck's? Or Nathan's or JD's? Shouldn't they have seen the guy? Weren't they watchin' out for you?"

"Well, they was a mite busy at the time," he drawled, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Tryin' ta keep their own heads in one piece!"

"Hm." Chris sat back in his chair and crossed his legs, resting one booted foot on the opposite knee. He idly scratched his chin with a thumbnail. "So," he mused, his eyes narrowing slightly, "it's not their fault you got shot, because they were busy tryin' not ta get shot themselves. But it is your fault JD got shot, even though you'd already been shot and couldn't see for shit. That right?"

Vin opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again as anger flared in him at the neat way Chris had boxed him in. He tore his gaze from Larabee's and stared out into the street, his jaw clenching hard, his long fingers gripping the coffee cup until his knuckles shone white.

Chris smiled thinly at his friend's visible anger, but wasn't finished yet. "'Course, if it's your fault JD got shot, that means it's Buck and Nathan's fault, too, right?" he pressed on ruthlessly. "I mean, hell, you were up on the roof and wounded. But they were right there on the street, right there, and not a scratch between 'em. Shit, Nathan was close enough ta get 'em with his knives, so surely he shoulda been able ta stop 'em before they shot JD–"

"That ain't right 'n you know it!" Vin snarled, shooting to his feet and staring through blazing eyes at Larabee, his coffee cup falling at his feet. "Hell, you wasn't even here! You didn't see it!" He turned sharply and waved a hand out over the quiet street, seeing it as it had been that day. "They was ever'where, shootin' at whatever moved." His voice was soft and hoarse with emotion, and his eyes darted about as if searching for the outlaws. "Eighteen of 'em. Eighteen! 'N ever' one armed ta the teeth. Shit, bullets was flyin' about like mosquitas in a swamp. 'N we all had ta keep movin', runnin' up 'n down the damn street, inta alleys... I reckon I musta been on near ever' roof in town, jist tryin' ta keep the boys covered so's they could do whatever they had ta." A sudden tremor ran through his body, and he turned abruptly to stare at the spot where Standish had fallen. "Then Ezra went down," he breathed, his eyes wide and dark. "I tried... Lord God, how I tried! But I couldn't git there in time..."

Chris rose to his feet and stepped to Tanner's side, laying a strong but gentle hand on one tight shoulder. "Enough, Vin," he urged in a low, soothing voice. "You did what you could. All of you did what you could."

Vin turned haunted eyes upon his friend. "JD called out ta me," he rasped in pain. "Jist 'fore he took off. I saw 'im runnin'... 'N that's the last thing I saw. Nex' thing I know, I's watchin' Buck 'n Nathan with him... Oh, Lord," he groaned, the words torn from his soul, "I thought he was dead!"

"But he wasn't, and he's not," Chris said softly, still gripping Vin's shoulder. "And Ezra's not, and you're not. And nobody blames you, or thinks you coulda done one thing different than you did. And nobody, nobody, expected or wanted you ta go after those last two like you did. Not by yourself, not with a hole in your head. That was never your responsibility."

Vin stared the older man, his eyes still full of that day's confusion and torment. "I had ta git 'em–"

"No," Chris interrupted firmly, his gaze holding Vin's. "We had ta get 'em. Those of us who were left, those of us who were healthy. That was our responsibility. Your responsibility was stayin' here and lettin' Nathan take care'a you."

Vin winced and shook his head slightly. "He had his hands full with JD 'n Ezra. I'da jist made more work fer him–"

"And you didn't do that by comin' back with a bullet in ya, half-dead from blood-loss and fever and nearly blind?" There was no accusation, no blame, in the words, merely a quiet pointing out of facts.

Nonetheless, Vin winced again and turned away, then bowed his head and raised a hand to his temple to rub at pain either remembered or real; he couldn't quite tell right now.

Chris saw that, and took his arm, leading him back to his chair and easing him down into it. When Vin sat back with a soft, ragged sigh, Chris knelt at his side and gazed at him with the patience Tanner alone inspired in him.

"You're not runnin' alone anymore, Vin," he said quietly. "You're part of the pack. You're one of us. We look after our own. And we don't drive our own away." He reached down and picked up the fallen cup. "You sit here, rest. I'll get us some coffee." He rose to his feet and went into the saloon.

Vin sat in silence, eyes fixed on the distance, and thought. He'd been so sure of what he had to do, had felt it burning through his brain with all the fire of that bullet...

But would he have expected it from anyone else? From JD or Ezra? Or Chris?

He raised his hand again to his head, now certain the pain there was real. Lord, when had it all gotten so complicated? It had been simple, so simple, when it had been just him. Nobody else to consider, nobody to get in his way or stop him from doing what had to be done, nobody to watch over.

And nobody to watch over him.

A long, tired sigh stole from him and he dropped his hand into his lap, closing his eyes against the bright glare of the morning. Maybe he should just ride out, go back to what he knew. Get rid of the pain in his head by gettin' rid of the six other voices there...

You're one of us. We look after our own. We don't drive our own away.

Goddamn gunfighter. A faint smile curved about Vin's mouth. Wasn't no use ridin' out. Not when he'd have the whole passel of 'em ridin' out after him.

He opened his eyes, turned his head and stared up the street to the church, seeing again Buck's big figure pacing before those steps as they'd had their "talk." Wilmington had lectured him like he would JD, pointing out every stupid, foolhardy, reckless thing he'd done, letting him know just how stupid,

how foolhardy, how reckless he'd been, and what that had done to the rest of them.

Then, before Tanner could get so mad he'd leave, or start shooting, Buck's whole manner, his tone, expression, bearing, everything, had changed. He'd opened himself up and showed all the pain that had gripped him at the thought that Vin might be lost to them all because of the tracker's fear of him.

"I had JD's blood all over me," Buck had said softly, holding out big hands for Vin to see. "And that was a hard thing. To look down at myself and see that boy's blood on my hands, my shirt, my pants... But how much harder d'you think it woulda been ta have yours on my soul?" He'd knelt then, his eyes searching Vin's for some sign of understanding. "I know trust don't come easy to ya, son," he'd said sadly, "and I can't begin to imagine what kinda life you've had ta make that so. Don't even wanta try, because I just can't bear thinkin' about all the times you've needed somebody and had nobody. Can't bear thinkin' about what kinda life brings a man to expect his friends to turn on him." He'd set one hand gently on the tracker's knee then, startling Vin, but leaving it in place as if to convince Tanner that the hand, big as it was, meant him no harm. "I gotta tell ya, though, it hurts like hell knowin' you think we'd turn on ya. That I'd turn on ya and blame ya for somethin' I knew wasn't your fault."

He'd moved closer then, his big hand still on Vin's knee, his eyes searching the tracker's. "You did let us down, Vin," he'd said softly, gently, "but not when JD got shot. That wasn't none'a your doin'. You let us down when ya ran from us, when ya didn't come to us for help, when ya thought your life didn't matter to us. It does, son. It matters – hell, you matter – to us more'n I can say. And I wish ta God I had the words ta tell ya how scared I was thinkin' you were out somewhere alone, hurt, maybe dyin'..." His whole heart, his whole soul, had shone in his eyes as he'd gazed at Tanner. "We need you, Vin, and for a whole helluva lot more than just trackin' and shootin'. Those are just skills, and they don't come near measurin' your true worth t' us. You're a part of whatever it is we got here, son, and we just wouldn't be whole without ya. You understand?"

Vin hadn't, and he'd known Buck had seen that, and been saddened to see it. But he'd promised Buck he'd think on it, even though he'd felt hopelessly lost in a vast wilderness of words, thoughts and ideas that made no more sense to him than writing on a page. And he'd almost despaired of ever figuring it out, until Larabee had sat down beside him and started talking about wolves.

It's an amazin' thing, watchin' how wolves take care'a their own.

You're a part of whatever it is we got here, son, and we just wouldn't be whole without ya.

Lord God, when had he become a part'a somethin' so fine?

He heard the soft thump of boots, the jingle of spurs, and turned his head to see Chris holding out a steaming cup of coffee to him. He took the cup, but kept his gaze locked on Larabee's, searching the green eyes intently and seeing them search his, and feeling again the immediate knowing and complete understanding that had been theirs from the first.

Maybe it didn't have to be any more complicated than this.

Chris saw the tension drain from Tanner's lean frame, saw the cloud of confusion and pain clear from the blue eyes, and felt yet another knot within himself release. With a soft, slow sigh, he leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs at the ankles, and sipped from his coffee.

Vin narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, ran his tongue slowly over his lower lip, then gave a single, decisive nod, as if a trail he'd been puzzling over had suddenly come clear before him.

"I reckon I done wrong," he drawled softly. "Shouldn'ta gone off like I done. Shouldn'ta worried y'all like I done. Shoulda had more faith in y'all." He turned his head and gazed steadily at his friend. "I'll try ta do better nex' time."

Larabee had to smile at that. "I'll try ta do better," like a kid who'd come up short in his father's expectations, or who had tried something new and failed.

Well, hell, trustin' others was new to Vin, wasn't it?

He returned Tanner's gaze and nodded slowly. "That's all any of us can do, pard," he said easily, "just keep tryin' ta do better." He chuckled. "Hell, who knows? Maybe one day one of us'll get it right!"

Vin laughed softly and shook his head. "Wouldn't bet on it, cowboy. We're a hard-headed bunch. Nathan's always sayin' so."

Chris' smile turned wry as his gaze flickered to the long crease still-visible at Vin's temple. "Yeah, but I figure this time he was grateful for that hard head'a yours." His eyes glinted wickedly. "Still, you might try usin' it for somethin' besides catchin' bullets. I hear there's a new trick some folks're

tryin'. It's called ‘thinkin'.'" He winked. "You might give it a whirl."

Vin scowled at the gunfighter. "I'll remember that, Larabee," he warned. "'N next time you need me ta cover yer ass, I'll stop 'n think long 'n hard, jist sit 'n ponder the hell outta what I'm doin'." He nodded firmly, blue eyes scornful. "Likely ya won't be quite s' smug, then."

Chris said nothing, merely chuckled again and shook his head. He'd come so near to losing Vin that he figured enduring the prickly tracker's insolence was a small price to pay for still having the man at his side.

Still, he'd have to find a way to take the Texan down a peg or two before too long. Didn't pay to let him get cocky.

The deep, familiar silence again fell between them, and Vin let himself relax into it. Once more, he set his feet against the post and tipped his chair back on two legs, his body curving into its characteristic slouch. He held his cup in his lap and never lifted it to drink, not wanting to disturb the perfect balance

he'd found. Didn't find it often enough to chance losing it once he had it.

With a small, contented smile, he let his eyes close, let the warmth of the day, the peace of the moment and the strong, solid presence of the man at his side sink through him and buoy him up, let himself float weightless upon them. He began to drift, then to doze, and did nothing to fight it. He vaguely felt the full cup being taken from his hands, felt the hat he'd hung over the back of his chair set on his head and pushed down over his eyes to shade them, and, with an ease he once thought he'd never know again, simply let himself go to sleep, knowing he need fear no harm while his own black-clad guardian angel watched over him.

Chris leaned back in his chair, sipped from his coffee, and sat a relaxed but watchful vigil over his sleeping friend. He knew Vin needed this, knew it was part of the younger man's healing. He also knew what a profound sign of trust in him it was for Vin to fall asleep in his presence, and was determined to do whatever it took to maintain that trust, even if he had to sit here all damn day.

Around them, the town slowly woke to life, but the noise and busyness of its stirring never seemed to reach the two men who sat apart from it all on the porch of the saloon, one sleeping, the other indulging in the simple pleasures of sipping coffee and letting a friend sleep.

END