PART ONE
He lay perfectly still, belly pressed flat against the cool rock, while the sun beat hot on his back. He was made of the same colors as the earth; dun, chalky brown, shadowy grey. There was nothing bright on him, even the stock of the rifle resting against his cheek was dust-dull, and the gunmetal grey barrel did not reflect the sunlight. His body was narrow and slightly built so that when hunkered down like he was, he was no higher than the dry grasses that fluttered a few feet away from him. He scarcely seemed to breathe. All his attention was focused on the track running below him. His gaze flicked to the horizon, seeing a distant smudge that elongated into a trail of clay-colored dust against the pale blue sky. He felt hoofbeats vibrating through his belly and chest, then his sharp eyes saw the center of the roiling dust cloud. Stagecoach. It rumbled past, and for a few minutes, he could not see beyond the grasses waving in front of his nose. He lay patiently, knowing that haste could still cost him his life, and when the dust died down, the horizon was empty of everything but the blue sky and the dun-colored hills.
Vin Tanner drew what seemed like his first breath in an eternity. Even though he sensed no danger, he moved slowly, scooting down the defile on his stomach until he was sure he was out of the sight of any watching eyes on the far side of the trail, and only then did he uncoil his body, grimacing at the stiffness in his shoulder from bracing his Winchester for nearly an hour. He brushed the dust from his clothes and went to where he had left Peso tethered to a mesquite tree. He slid the rifle into the scabbard and waited for Peso to stop dancing around as he expressed his indignation at being left untended when he knew the tracker was nearby. Vin let him fuss for a bit -- was just grateful that the gelding was smart enough to be quiet when it was required, and then when it was time, he grabbed Peso's bit and pulled his head around. "You done good," he said. "But let's quit this game right now, mule." Blue eyes met brown, and Peso decided to let Tanner be the boss on this hot afternoon.
He mounted and kneed Peso into a lope, following the same trail the stagecoach had taken a few minutes earlier. Twice in the last two months, the stage from Vista City had been held up. The first robbery had been accepted as one of the hazards of living where they did; not much of value had been taken, and the sack of mail the robbers had stolen was found unopened a mile past the site of the hold-up. The sole witnesses, the driver and two passengers hadn't offered much of a description, other than saying the three robbers spoke Spanish to each other, wore dark masks that covered their faces, and were ruthlessly efficient in their methods. Vin had tried to track them, but they had left so many muddled signs that in the end, pursuit was a waste of time. A reward was posted for information, and life in Four Corners went on.
The second robbery had been more costly; the stage company's payroll had been stolen, but no one had been killed despite the gunplay that had followed. Chris had reckoned then it was a bad sign -- that no shots had been fired in first hold-up, but the second had resulted in a gun battle. The driver had been slightly wounded, and the guard traveling with the payroll had broken his leg when the robbers had pulled him from the stage roof. This time, there had been four men, heavily armed, but otherwise matching the description of the first gang. And again, they had vanished.
The situation had been deemed serious enough for Judge Travis to request the services of the seven peacekeepers to watch the routes of Western Stage Company. Which was why Vin had spent the better part of a hot afternoon swallowing dust.
Four Corners was bustling with activity when he rode down the main street. The coach, safely arrived, had been carrying mail, and most folks were lined up outside the Post Office, waiting for the Postmaster to sort out packages and precious letters. Vin sat relaxed on Peso's back, pondering the sight. A man who couldn't read had no use for letters, and he figured even though he was making progress with Mary Travis, no one was about to write him, anyhow. Didn't know anyone who would. Still, folks set a high store on the arrival of the stage, like it was carrying gold for them alone. Smiling, he slid from Peso's back and tethered him at the hitching post outside of the jail.
He crossed the threshold, then halted, his nerves tingling. Judge Travis was there, along with Chris, and a hard-featured stranger wearing a black broadcloth suit. He looked like the law, and that made Vin mighty nervous. Only his trust in Chris Larabee and Orrin Travis kept him from backing out the way he had come in, mounting Peso, and riding hard out of town for the hills. He edged in warily, and might have remained unnoticed if Larabee hadn't raised his head and seen him standing there.
Chris' eyes were grave, but held no hidden message in their green depths. Vin stepped forward and touched the brim of his hat. "Judge Travis."
Travis nodded. "Mr. Tanner, join us?" The judge's natural courtesy further disarmed his guard, and he settled tentatively, leaning against the wall in an attitude of deceptive ease. Of the three men, only Chris knew how much of an illusion it was. The judge drew a breath. "This is Mr. Titus Roche, from St. Louis. He is the Western Stage's new agent for the Vista City - Eagle Bend run, since Joe Fowler ran off to the gold fields."
Chris slanted a look at Roche. "Can't say's I envy you your timing, Mr. Roche. You've inherited a heap of problems."
"If you're referring to the late trouble, that's what I'm here to discuss with you and the Judge."
"Don't seem like it's late trouble." Vin spoke from the shadows. "I'd say it's mighty live."
Chris turned his gaze to the judge. "What does this have to do with us, Judge Travis?"
The judge hesitated briefly. "As you know, the Western has a contract with the federal government to deliver mail and payroll." His eyes skated briefly to Roche's, before returning to Chris. "It hasn't been able to fulfill those contracts due to the hold-ups."
"Army payroll?" Vin asked. Travis nodded. "Let the army guard it."
"The army has other problems."
"You want us to ride shotgun?" Chris asked. "My life's worth more'n that." He sat back in his chair and appraised Roche. "Why not get t' the root of the problem, give us time to find out who's guilty?"
"Time is of the essence in this manner," Roche answered smoothly. "The current situation is placing those contracts in jeopardy."
"It's costing you money," Chris said, and was aware of Vin's uneasy shift. Didn't sound right to him either, then. He shook his head. "No."
"Mr. Larabee, you don't have a choice," Roche said harshly. "Ask Judge Travis."
Chris felt as if he had been sucker-punched. He turned cold eyes to Travis. "Orrin?"
Travis hesitated, as if trying to find a way of speaking that wouldn't offend either Larabee or Roche, before he answered reluctantly. "As an officer of the Federal Government it is my duty to protect its interests in the territory. Sorry, Chris. Starting with the next run, you will ride shotgun from Vista City to Four Corners, until the culprits are apprehended."
Chris' jaw tensed. "Excuse the question, but whose job is that?"
"Reckon it belongs to the man in the fancy black suit." Vin said. "If'n he knows where t'start lookin'."
"Do you?" There was the faintest hint of a sneer in Roche's voice. He turned his attention to the slim long-haired man in dusty clothes, who had stepped out of the shadows. He looked more like the sort who would be robbing stagecoaches than guarding them.
Vin had heard that tone before, and let it go. "I might. You ride in on that coach?"
"Yes."
"One man ridin' shotgun ain't enough to protect a stage. You keep showin' up at the same time at the same places, yer a sittin' duck fer any predator that comes along. I'm with Larabee, Judge. And I know what my life's worth."
Travis held up his hand. "The matter is decided, gentlemen. We can work out the details tomorrow." His eyes went from the gunslinger to the tracker. "I remind you that we have both taken oaths."
Chris studied Travis' face. There was something going on there that he didn't like. Politics was like dirty water to him, and this felt foul. Couldn't throw accusations around in front of Roche, particularly when he had no foundation for them. He'd speak to Travis later. He inclined his head in assent. "I'll take it to the others, Judge." A fleeting expression of relief crossed Travis' eyes, so quickly that Chris would have said he had imagined it, if he were an imaginin' sort of man. But he wasn't and he didn't believe he had misread it. "Vin?"
Tanner straightened from his lean, touched his hat brim to Orrin Travis, and followed Larabee out the door. In an unspoken accord, they lingered for a moment outside the jail window.
"Will they do it?" Roche asked angrily.
"They will." Orrin Travis' voice sounded strained, unlike his usual commanding tones.
Alarm shivered through Chris. He felt the same tension in Vin's body, the preternatural awareness of emotions that the tracker could hone in on as certainly as a blood trail. They moved away from the window, and when they were out of earshot, Chris halted Vin with a touch. "You talk to the others. I'm going to see Mary."
"You sure you want t' get inta this?" Vin asked.
Chris's mouth hardened. "Hell, I don't even know what this is. But I'm damned sure gonna find out." He gave Vin a grim smile. "Talk to the others, tell them what the job is -- who's involved. Don't say anything about what we heard -- not till I talk to Mary and see if she has any notions."
"He's her pa, Chris."
"I know, partner, I know." He gave Vin's shoulder an encouraging pat, and turned towards the Clarion News offices.
Mary was sitting at her desk, her dress covered with an apron and protective sleeves. She was so absorbed in her work that she didn't notice when he opened the door and stood there for a moment, just watching her. He'd never meant to let her into his life, but she was there, and it was too late to pretend that he had never seen her courage, her strength, her kindness. Didn't hurt to look at her either, sitting with the afternoon sun on her hair, her pretty forehead furrowed in thought, and a nub of a pencil tucked behind her ear. He would not admit to love, could not risk that; but Mary made him feel alive -- for better or worse, he could not turn back now. He took off his hat and made a show of knocking the dust off.
"Chris!" Her hands went to her hair in an instinctively feminine gesture that put him in such mind of Sarah that he thought his heart would stop beating. "I didn't see you."
"Looked like you were deep in thought."
"I was. Time just escaped me --" Her blue eyes widened. "What time is it?"
"'Bout four."
She uttered a word under her breath that would have made most women faint at the indelicacy. "I have to get home." She jerked her printer's apron over her head. The ties caught in her hairpins, and she struggled for a moment, until Chris came over and gently untangled it. Her hair clung to his fingers, releasing a fragrance like dusty roses. "There." He stepped away, aware that to stay close to this woman would be inviting disaster for them both.
Mary flushed, smiling. "Thank you, Chris."
"So, why the rush?" he asked, all deceptive innocence.
"Dinner. The judge is bringing a guest tonight. Mr. Titus Roche."
"I've met him."
Mary's reporter's instincts flared. "Oh? You don't like him?"
"I hardly know the man."
Mary paused with her shawl in her hands. She turned to him, her eyes gleaming with what he recognized as her 'there's a story behind this,' look. "Come to dinner," she said.
He stifled his brief guilt at his maneuvering. "The judge won't mind?"
Mary's chin went up. "It is my house." She wrapped the shawl around her shoulders. "Come at seven."
"I will." Perhaps it was for the best that she didn't see his expression as he turned and headed towards the saloon.
+ + + + + + +
They sat behind the screen of hazy smoke and noise provided by the late afternoon crowd in the saloon. Most folks tended to ignore their presence unless bullets were flying, which suited Vin just fine. The less attention he called to himself, the better. The others seemed oblivious to anything beyond the circle of the table. Ezra had a deck of cards in his hands, JD was fidgeting nervously with the brim of his hat. Nathan and Josiah were sitting at their ease, and Buck was at the bar, flirting with one of the girls and waiting for a refill on his beer. There were times when Vin wondered how he had come to be one of this group, and not just one of them, but second to Chris Larabee. The trust invested in him shook him to his boots at times, so he tried not to think on it. But there it was, clear as the eager look in JD's eyes.
When Buck was seated in his usual long-legged sprawl, he fixed Vin with a bright blue study. "Well, ya come in here lookin' like the crack of doom has just sounded, and I'm mighty curious why."
Vin gathered his thoughts from where they had been wandering. "Anyone see the man come in on the stage this afternoon. Tall, wearin' a Sunday go to meetin' suit?"
"I did," JD spoke up. "Looked like he was sucking on lemons, too," he grinned.
"Well, his name is Titus Roche. He's the new station agent for the Western Stage company. Lookin' ta take care of these robberies."
"I fail to see how this affects us, Mr. Tanner," Ezra drawled. "If this man requires our help to apprehend these criminals --"
"Well, that's jist it, Ez. He ain't askin us t'apprehend the criminals. He figgers it's our job to ride shotgun and make sure the Western don't lose the payroll and mail contracts. And it seems Judge Travis agrees with him."
JD looked puzzled. "It's not our job?"
"It ain't our job t'guard military payrolls, JD. And it ain't Judge Travis' job to tell us that it is."
Ezra shuffled the cards in his hands with distracted ease. "What are you insinuatin', Mr. Tanner?"
"If yer askin' what I think is goin' on, Ezra, I swear t'God I don't know. But I ain't never seen Judge Travis git skittish on me, or look at another man like he warn't certain of his own mind."
"You sure, pard?" Buck asked softly. "You tell Chris about this?"
"Hell, Chris saw it. He's off talkin' to Mary, ta see if she knows any more about this Roche than we do. He asked me to tell you about Roche, and I reckon I done that." He looked at these five men whom he trusted, who trusted him. The room was suddenly too small to contain his fears. He pushed away from the table and left.
Somehow putting his own doubts into words had left him with a disquieting unease. He knew enough of his own instincts not to dismiss them, and the only way to sort them out was to do it alone, away from distractions. The quietest place he could think of was Josiah's chapel. There was something about that ramshackle church that cleared his head, so he went there, knowing the door was always open for those seeking sanctuary.
It was dim inside, and silent. He slumped down in one of the pews, his hat held loosely in his hands, and waited for the peace to seep into his mind. The door to the church opened, and he heard a footstep behind him. He would have startled, if he had not instinctively recognized the sound. Funny how he knew them all; JD's paces, quick with youth, Buck's long strides, Ezra, graceful as a dancing master, Nathan, soft-footed and sure, Chris' ... not as silent as his own, but lightly placed, alert as cat. Josiah -- a big man, rooted to the earth. Definitely Josiah.
The pew groaned as it took Josiah's weight. "You lit out in a hurry, brother. Somethin' not sit right with you?"
"Cain't say, Josiah. You know how a lake looks on a summer day, all glittery in th'sun, until you git up close and see how dark the water really is?"
"Dark, and cold, and deadly. I reckon I do." He felt Vin's shoulder shiver against his, despite the mild air.
"Well, that's how I feel 'bout this."
"Is it that man Roche that's got you so bothered?"
Vin laughed softly. "Hell -- I don't often take someone in dislike, Josiah. But him ... he's like that black water." He shook his head slightly. "I reckon I'd better hold off judgin' the man 'til I talk to Chris."
"Mal y soit, qui mal y pense," Josiah intoned solemnly. "Evil be to those who think evil."
"Shit, Josiah. I ain't thinkin' no evil, but that don't mean it ain't out there."
"Never said it wasn't, brother."
Vin rose and settled his hat on his head. He noticed for the first time that there was a bedroll tied up and ready to go by the door. He gave the preacher a look. "You plannin' a trip?"
Josiah nodded. "You know how it is, brother. Sometimes a man has to get away to think. Our Lord went out into the desert to pray; I reckon it won't hurt me none."
"Y'ain't gonna be gone forty days n'forty nights?"
Josiah grinned, recalling that Vin had been raised by a righteous woman. "I ain't up t'the Lord's standards yet. I figure seven is about all a weak man like me can bear without losin' his mind."
Vin nodded. Times had been when he could have lived for weeks without seein' another soul. He'd changed. His life had changed. He still lit out when it got too close, but now he knew the difference between being alone, and being lonely; and the humbling comfort of somebody waiting for him to return.
He tapped the brim of his hat. "See ya, Josiah." He left the church and walked past the Clarion News. The blinds were drawn, the door locked when he tried the knob. Mary was gone for the day, then. Seemed like he would have to wait a while longer to find out if his fears were baseless.
+ + + + + + +
She had known he would be on time. When Mary opened the door to Chris Larabee, the clock in her parlor was chiming the seventh bell. He came inside, filling her small doorway with his presence; rapier-slim and dangerous even in civilized black broadcloth and white linen. She supposed he had never given a thought to the gun belt strapped around his lean hips -- it was a part of him.
She was wearing dark blue silk, and put him in mind of a summer sky lit with stars. "Mary," he handed her his hat, and the blond hair he had tried to tame fell over his forehead. "Is Roche here?"
Mary blinked. She had been wondering if his little boy had the same silky hair as his father. "Roche? Oh, not yet."
"Have you told Orrin I'm joining you?"
"I had to when he asked who the fourth place setting was for." She gave him a rueful smile. "He took it well."
"I'll bet." Chris grinned wolfishly. He was scenting blood, and wondered if Mary felt it, too. He followed her into the parlor, where Judge Travis was pouring out whiskey.
"Hello, Chris. I was surprised when Mary told me you would be joining us."
"I was surprised when she asked," he took the offered glass. Travis' liquor was a hell of a lot smoother than the Red-Eye Ezra served up at the saloon, but he wouldn't be drinking to excess tonight. He needed to be sharp.
A second knock announced Roche's arrival, and the Judge went to greet his guest, leaving Chris with Mary. He looked at her over the rim of his whiskey glass. Her attention was focused on the doorway and the man who followed Travis into the room. Chris blended into the shadows, though he doubted Roche would have noticed him at all, once his eyes lit on Mary. Judge Travis made the introduction, and Mary offered her hand. Roche deliberately turned it to kiss her fingers, a presumption that made Chris step forward -- and if he let his coat swing aside to reveal his gun, well, that was just a friendly warning.
His appearance clearly startled Roche. "Mr. Larabee. I didn't expect to see you here."
Chris merely inclined his head. He took the chair the judge offered, and watched Roche with hooded eyes. Vin had surely been right -- Roche made his hackles rise, but whether it was sheer personal dislike, or a deeper sense of distrust, Chris could not say. He didn't like the way Roche's eyes followed Mary. Chris was predatory enough to recognize another predator on the hunt. He let Judge Travis and Mary make small talk with Roche for a while, occasionally adding a terse comment of his own, but content to observe his prey. He listened as Mary asked all the questions a good hostess should, and tried not to react when she posed one that was more pointed, with finesse and a disarming smile.
Roche was charming, which unsettled Chris. He never did trust a man who could waltz a woman around the floor and make it seem like he was doing her a favor. Judging from the sparks in Mary's eyes, neither did she. However, there was no way she could force the conversation to turn to the topics that needed discussing. Chris had learned patience during the war, to watch an enemy until he made an error, and then attack. He kept his eye on Travis, who was nearly as silent as he was, and saw something in the Judge that he had never thought to see. Fear. He hid it well, but Chris saw it in the way his fingers curled over the arms of his chair, in the scarcely-seen tremble of the liquor in his whiskey glass.
It wasn't until after dinner, when Mary's excellent meal had been praised, and glasses of the Judge's fine wine been consumed, that the talk turned to more serious matters than the latest elections and the weather. Roche seemed surprised when Mary did not retire to leave the gentlemen to whiskey and cigars, and when he said so, Chris nearly choked.
Mary smiled at Roche. "I may be a woman, Mr. Roche, but I also own a business and run the newspaper. I have as much right as any man to participate in a discussion of matters that affect the citizens of Four Corners."
"Of course, my apologies." Condescendingly. Roche turned his attention to Chris. "Have you spoken to your men about my proposal?"
"Vin Tanner has put the matter before them. Though I can tell you right now, that they are not going to be taken with the idea. We were hired to protect the town, not the interests of the Western Stage company."
"The effects of this could spill over into the community, Mr. Larabee. These attacks may be leveled at the Western, but the violence might not be confined to our vehicles and employees."
Chris made lazy circles on the tablecloth with the base of his wineglass. "There is a way to solve this. Give Vin Tanner a few more days to track down the bandits. We capture them, and you're safe."
Roche's reply was forestalled by a sharp rap on the door. Mary and Chris both moved at the same time, with Mary heading for the hall, and Chris close behind her. Tanner was standing on the stoop when she opened the door, his expression grave. She drew him inside. "Vin, what is it?" she asked.
Vin's eyes went to Chris. He held out a thin paper. "Wire came in from the sheriff in Julestown. Seem's the stage was runnin' late, so he went out ta take a look."
Chris grabbed the paper from Vin and read the wire. "God damn," he sighed.
"Chris?" Mary read over his shoulder. "Both dead?"
Chris nodded. "The driver and his guard. Gunned down."
"This changes things, doesn't it, Mr. Larabee?" Roche stood in the doorway, smiling. "I don't see that you can have any objections to working for me, now. This proves it an absolute necessity."
Chris fought down the impulse to smash his fist into that smiling mouth. "Oh, I have objections, Roche. And as I see it, the necessary thing is to get those bastards behind bars, not riskin our lives sittin' on the shooting gallery your stagecoaches have become. You are welcome to ride with us, but we won't be working for you or with you in any other capacity."
"A matter of semantics, Mr. Larabee."
"A matter of honor, Mr. Roche," his voice was a cold, gentle reminder of the kind of man Chris Larabee was. "We can't set out tonight, but if you expect to accompany us, you'd best be at the livery by dawn." He turned to Mary. "Thank you for dinner, Mary, it was real fine. Judge Travis, Mr. Roche ..." Politeness underlain with venom. Chris took his hat from Mary and followed Vin out the door.
Vin paced beside Chris as they headed towards the jail. The gunslinger hadn't said a word since the exchange in the Travis' house, and Vin was still puzzling that conversation out in his mind. "You find anything out from Mary?" he finally asked, deciding the best way to approach the subject was straight on.
"No. Found something out from Orrin, though."
"What'd he say?"
"Didn't say a word. That man's afraid, Vin. Now you tell me what could scare a man like Orrin Travis?"
"I seen him face down a lot of men and a lotta danger, Chris. Hell, he would've stood up fer me agin Eli Joe and all of Tascosa, if I'd asked him. Reckon the only thing that would scare a man like that'd be --" he broke off before he could say what was on his mind, knowing how Chris felt about Mary. "Don't know ..." his voice tailed off.
"You can say it, Vin. If Roche was threatening Mary and Billy -- that would make him afraid. You want to put fear into a man, you threaten what he loves the most. A blind man can see what Travis values more than his own life."
"You got proof, or jist thinkin' aloud?"
"He's slick, Vin. Charmin' as a snake to Mary. Cordial to the judge. Nothin' in the way he acts would make you think there was anything wrong."
"S'Mary in danger?"
Chris' paces slowed. "Not yet. Seems Roche is content for the time being to watch the game play out. We ain't got much time, though."
Vin raised a skeptical brow. "Man's from St. Louis?"
"So he says."
"Didn't Ezra say Maude was there, last he heard from her? Bet she'd be willin' ta weasel out some information on Roche if Ezra asked her real nice."
"Lord, if I'm askin' Maude for favors, Vin ..." Chris laughed softly. "I'm playin' poker with the devil's own mistress."
"Well, better the devil you know, or so Josiah says." Vin stopped at the alley where he kept his wagon. "I'm turnin' in. See ya, Chris." He paused, his eyes bright in the darkness. "You gonna talk t'Ezra?"
"Yeah. Vin, you said you might know where the bandits were holed up --"
"I reckon I'll be more sure after we git ta Julestown." He wouldn't say the word, but Chris knew what he was thinking. If the Devil had a hiding place in the West, it would be in Purgatorio.
Chris was tired, and dawn came early, but Vin's idea about Maude made too much sense not to pursue. Instead of going to the rooming house, Chris made his way to the saloon to talk to Ezra. He had to dodge a group of cowboys leaving in a hurry, none of them looking happy. It wasn't hard to guess the cause, once he found Ezra. The gambler was at his customary table, and judging from the pile of bills in front of him, the cowboys had just made Ezra temporarily rich.
"Have a good night, Ezra?" he asked.
"Good enough to end my temporary financial embarrassment, Mr. Larabee. Will you allow me to buy you a celebratory tot?"
"If you're buyin', I'm drinkin.'" The shot of whiskey Ezra set in front of him wouldn't have the smooth taste of Judge Travis', but at least it had an honest tang to it. Chris let it burn its way into his gullet before he spoke. "Vin tell you about Titus Roche?"
"He did." Ezra fixed Chris with a sharp glance. "It does seem that a matter of priorities needs to be established. I am not enamored of the idea of riskin' my life for a man who worries Judge Travis."
"How do you know that?"
Ezra shuffled the deck of cards at hand. "Now, I might not allow Mr. Tanner to select a bottle of wine, but I do trust him to know a rat when he smells one."
"Vin said Maude was in St. Louis last you heard from her."
The gambler's hands stilled. "My mother's whereabouts are hardly predictable, Mr. Larabee. By now she could be in San Francisco."
Chris sighed impatiently. "You have an address for her -- if she is still there?"
"She gave me her direction." Ezra resumed shuffling. "What do you want with Maude?"
"A favor."
Ezra gave an elegant snort of laughter. "How much are you willin' to pay? Maude's favors are not inexpensive."
"But surely she would do it for her beloved son?" Chris drawled.
"Sarcasm does not become you, Mr. Larabee. However, I might be able to prevail on her good graces. What do you require?"
"Information. On Titus Roche and the Western Stage Company."
"Is he rich?"
Chris thought of Roche's tailored suit and expensive accouterments. The gold watch and signet ring he wore so confidently. "I'd say so."
"That should help." Ezra leveled the cards with a sharp tap against the tabletop. "I trust that a wire in the mornin' will be sufficient?"
"Thanks, Ezra. In case you haven't heard, the stage was robbed on the way to Julestown. The driver and his shotgun rider were both killed. Brought us a little extra time. Vin, JD, and I are ridin' out at dawn, see if we can track the robbers."
"Seein' as Mr. Tanner can track a field mouse across a movin' stream, I trust that you will."
Chris grinned. "Vin'd appreciate that compliment, Ezra."
The gambler's gold tooth gleamed in his smile. "You will keep my opinion of his talents to yourself, Mr. Larabee?"
"Can't have Tanner gettin' all high and mighty on you, Ez?"
"I can scarcely live with him as it is, Mr. Larabee." But there was no rancor in Ezra's words. Considering that the gambler and the tracker were about as far apart as two human beings could be, that was high praise from Ezra, indeed. Chris poured a final shot of whiskey, then left. Caution prompted him to seek out Buck Wilmington and ask him to ride with them the next day. With that reassurance, perhaps he would be able to sleep for a few hours. He didn't have high hopes for that, but then, he couldn't remember the last time he had slept the night through without being waked by dreams he'd just as soon forget.
+ + + + + + +
Dawn came shivering on the cool desert wind. Vin felt the chill through his shirtsleeves, but he also felt the promise of warmth by mid-day. He wrapped his fingers around his mug of coffee, and savored the bite and heat of the beverage. There were many trappings of civilization he could have walked away from without a backwards glance, but coffee was not one of them. When he had finished drinking, he threw his buckskin coat over his shoulders and went to the livery, where he would meet Chris, JD, and Roche.
He was the first one to arrive, not surprising since the eastern sky was just turning from deep blue to lilac as the sun edged closer to the horizon. Peso would be fractious, and Vin preferred to let him work it out of his system before they set out for Julestown. The gelding was contrary and high-strung; picked up on every tremor in Vin's nerves, and Vin figured with Roche nearby, his nerves would be jumpin' plenty. Peso fought the bridle, fought the bit, blowed up his belly so's Vin had to give him an elbow to the ribs before he'd exhale enough to get the cinch drawn up tight. And then had the nerve to give the tracker a look of wounded innocence. Finally, when both horse and rider were breathing hard, Vin stared him in the eyes. "Done?" Peso nudged his shoulder, and Vin took out the carrot he had held in his pocket. "Don't see as you've earned this, mule. But I reckon sooner or later, you will." He gave Peso's nose a rough caress, felt the velvety muzzle snuff softly at his hair. Accord had been reached.
Vin looked around the stalls at the familiar mounts. The stallion in the far stall looked like trouble. A big chestnut with a white blaze and a mean look about the eyes. Good flesh, but not a horse Vin would lay odds on for reliability and stamina. He took a closer look, approaching in near silence. The saddle and tack laid out caught his eye. Expensive. Buttery tooled leather, supple reins, gleaming. He ran a finger down the length of the saddle. Didn't take much to figure it for Roche's. He flicked open a saddlebag. Tack cloth, snaffle bit, tobacco pouch and a burled wood pipe. The other one revealed nothing but a black bandanna. Vin fingered the fabric. Silk. Seemed appropriate for a slick character like Roche.
"Find anything?"
Vin nearly leaped out of his boots. "Shit, Chris." He pressed his hand flat against his chest. "Must be losin' my edge. Didn't even hear ya come up."
"Maybe I'm just gettin' quieter from followin' you," Chris grinned. "So did you find anything?"
"The man ain't a fool. He's got plenty of money, likes showy horses and tack, silk bandanna. Smokes a pipe. He ain't givin' anything away." He hitched himself up on a stall and watched Chris tack up his mount. "You talk to Ezra?"
"Last night. He's wiring Maude this morning."
"Morning fer us, or morning fer Ezra?" Vin grinned, and heard Chris' throaty chuckle in response. Buck walked in on the good-humored exchange and groaned.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen. The birds ain't even' singin' this mornin'. To hear you so chipper, well, it ain't natural."
"Molly keep you up late, Buck?" Chris asked, bending to cinch the saddle girth and hiding his grin.
"I believe we were engaged in a mutually enjoyable --" Buck broke off when JD wandered in. " ... activity." He cleared his throat and turned to tend to his big gray mare. "Mornin', JD."
"Mornin' fellas." JD Dunne was bright-eyed as only the young could be at that hour. Of the three, he was likely the only one who had slept through the night. Buck's presence had been a surprise to Vin, but some of his nerves were eased by Wilmington's cheerful presence.
"Hey Vin, toss me that bridle?" JD called out as Vin started leading Peso from the stable. It was crowded, and Peso, sensing that something was up was fidgeting. Vin tossed the bridle to JD in passing, and went out to the stable yard. It was appreciably warmer than it had been; the sky was tinted with hues of gold and red as the sun rose over the horizon. He loved the dawn: For a moment, he could close his eyes pretend he was a free man, able to follow the whims of his heart. If he were free ... would he roam again, restlessly seeking the peace he had lost so long ago, or would he stay for a while and let Mary teach him his letters; maybe take Chris up on that offer to stay out at the shack and ranch with him? If he were free, would he stop looking over his shoulder, and start looking ahead?
It was then, when Vin was at his most vulnerable, that Roche came upon him. It was only a moment, but it was enough for Roche to see the youth in him, the loneliness, the yearning. He was blind to the steel in those blue eyes, and saw only weakness. He thought he had learned something valuable. "Morning -- Tanner, isn't it?"
The tracker appraised Roche silently. Dressed in expensive, but serviceable riding clothes. Boots that Vin figured cost the earth; a felt, high-crowned hat. A Colt strapped on his hips, but not worn with near the ease Chris carried his. "Roche, ain't it?" Vin's soft reply carried the weight of his dislike. He wouldn't let this man treat him like he was a servant.
Roche took notice. "Very well, then. Mr. Tanner." He'd play the game -- for now. "Judge Travis tells me you are a buffalo hunter."
"Used to be."
"And a cavalry scout."
"Fer a while." Vin turned his attention to checking Peso's tack. "Th' others are nearly ready. You might want ta get that red devil of yers saddled up. It's a two hour ride to Julestown." He closed his mouth down tight.
When Chris came from the livery stable, he saw the two men; Vin, with his stiff back turned to Roche, and the agent, looming like a dark shadow. There was no threat implicit in Roche's stance, but Chris felt a cold shiver work its way down his spine.
"Mr. Roche, I'd like to leave as soon as possible," Chris strode across the stable yard. "The sooner we get to Julestown, the sooner we can start lookin' for the robbers."
"Of course, Mr. Larabee." Roche tipped his hat and went into the stable. Chris stood next to Vin, seeing the suppressed anger tightening his fine features. "You all right, partner?"
Vin leaned against Peso's side for a moment. "Yeah, I'm alright. Man jist makes my hackles rise. I'm gonna git a head start, if ya don't mind. See if I cain't pick up some sign b'fore Roche decides to run this show his way."
"You think I'd let him do that?" Chris asked.
"If that man's got Judge Travis in his pocket, I reckon he c'n do jist about what he wants. Are you gonna stand against him?"
"If it came to a choice, yes."
"What about Mary?" Vin asked mercilessly, and knew he had drawn blood when Chris' expression turned icy. Vin sighed. Larabee's anger wasn't directed at him, but at his own vulnerability. A man couldn't help what he felt; he could deny it, push it away, but it would always come back. "Sorry. I spoke outta turn."
Chris dismissed the apology. "Go on. We won't be far behind you. I'll be watchin' your back."
"Who's gonna be watchin' yours, Larabee?"
"Why d'you think I asked Buck t'come along?" Chris gave Peso's rump a pat to send Vin on his way and went to roust the others out. It was going to be a long day.
+ + + + + + +
Vin figured Chris would lead Roche along the stage route to show the agent the territory. Vin had ridden that trail more times than he could count, and took the short cuts he had discovered over the course of his explorations. He dropped back to the stage route when he was five miles out of Julestown, near where the attack had taken place. He reckoned he had nearly an hour before Chris led the other riders along the route. He dismounted and led Peso down to the trail worn by the wheels of the stagecoaches that passed this way.
Four Corners to Julestown was the shortest leg of the stage in a chain of way stations, forts, and small towns that were strung out like beads along the frontier. Not twenty miles north, the Chinese workers were laying track for the trans-continental railway, and the stage lines would become more fragmented; many not surviving at all. In his relatively short life, Vin Tanner had seen the death and rebirth of the West. It changed so fast, it was like to make him dizzy.
He brought his mind back to the task at hand. He stood in the track, his sharp eyes searching for the path the bandits had taken. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since the grasses had been beaten down by hooves; a less acute observer might have missed signs that Vin picked up on -- a broken branch, a slight imprint in the dust, a hollow in a tussock of grass where a man had lain full length and watched the trail, much as Vin himself had done the day before. A shred of tobacco and a discarded cigarette paper caught his eye. He picked it up and put it in the pouch at his waist. You couldn't arrest a man 'cause he rolled cigarettes, but if he was right about the origins of the bandits, it might narrow it down from fifty, to ten men in Purgatorio. Ten men, he could deal with.
He mounted Peso and followed the trail of bent and broken grasses westward until the grass withered away to sand and stone. A muddle of hoof prints indicated that this was where the group had split -- the smoking man to his picket post, the others farther along the trail. Vin returned to the tussock and lay supine, as the man had. The grass was crushed deeper at one point, and Vin positioned himself, so that the elbow supporting his rifle was in the exact spot. It was an uncomfortable reach so the man was taller than he was, and heavily built, judging from depth of the matting. The sun rose higher, and a glint in the grass caught Vin's eye. Nothing more than a hair, a single reddish blonde hair. Vin grinned to himself. A tall, heavy-set man, right-handed, rolled cigarettes, and redheaded. From a field of possibly ten, Vin figured he had it down to one. Well, maybe two, if the man had a brother.
He left the picket post and rode slowly up the trail to the point of the attack. The scene told the story: The slew of dust where the driver had reined in sharply, the ruts where the wheels had dug in, a great smear of dark earth where the lead horse had gone down, most likely shot by one of the bandits. The latent violence of the attack disturbed Vin. He had known the bandits were ruthless, this showed them to have been vicious as well. He drew Peso to a halt and dismounted to walk the site. There were brass shell casings scattered in the grass. He picked them up. He would find out what kind of ammunition the stage driver and his shotgun used. He kept his eyes on the ground, and bent to pick up a pinch of dirt. It was still faintly damp and iron-scented when he held it to his nose. Blood.
He walked a bit more, his eyes pealed for tells, but found little. Once the attack had taken place, the violence had spilled over into chaos. He could see that the riders had split and ridden off in several directions to confound followers. Vin knew he could have followed one thread, in the hope that they would weave together at some point, but not in the time he had before Chris and the others arrived. He rode back to the picket point, hobbled Peso so he could graze, and settled in with a canteen of water.
+ + + + + + +
Chris did not push the pace of the ride, figuring the more time he gave Vin to search the site of the hold-up, the more he would learn; and the more time he had to ride beside Roche, the better bead he could draw on the man. So far, the first part of his plan was working perfectly; the second was a miserable failure. Roche's dark eyes darted from point to point, but what he was looking for, he didn't say, and even JD's eager questions were met with one word answers, until the boy finally gave up and fell back to ride alongside Buck.
When JD was out of earshot, Roche finally spoke. "What was Travis thinking when he set that boy up to be sheriff?"
The tone was sour, but the question was a reasonable one, and Chris decided to answer it. "I reckon he saw honesty, courage, an unshakable sense of right and wrong -- the sort of qualities a lawman ought t'have."
"And the rest of you are just along for the ride?"
Chris grinned. "You might say so." He took advantage of Roche's slightly more cordial attitude. "Why'd the Western send one man when ten'd be more like t'get the job done?"
"You don't know that one man, Mr. Larabee." Roche's eyes glittered beneath the brim of his hat.
"No, sir. I don't. But I know Judge Travis." Chris kneed his horse into a trot, figuring he'd given Roche something to think on. It didn't stop him from feeling the imaginary daggers Roche was throwing at his back.
+ + + + + + +
Vin heard them before they saw him. He had been dozing lightly, his hat over his eyes, half-aware of the soft sounds of Peso's grazing and the birdsong in the trees. He felt the tremor in the earth along the length of his body even though they weren't riding hard. He had been thinking about what he had learned, and wasn't sure he was willing to share that information with Titus Roche. Some things a man kept counsel to himself and to those he trusted. He coiled his body, got up from the dusty grass, retrieved Peso and moved down to the road as Chris and the others arrived at the site.
They gathered there, Peso edging away from Roche's mount in a mirror reflection of Vin's distrust. Roche got right to the business at hand. "Well, you've had your time, Mr. Tanner. What have you learned?"
Vin pulled hard on Peso's reins, finally bringing the gelding to a standstill. "The attack took place jist down the road, you c'n see the wheel marks, the place where the horses went down, and someone was shot -- don't know if the blood was the driver's or the guard's. Looks like they died right there ... no signs of blood trails. They had one man, a lookout I reckon, up on that ridge. The others waited up there --" He gestured to a point parallel to their position on the road. "They might have exchanged some sort of signal with the picket. Then they rode down fast. They shot one man, and then most likely the lead horse. The other Western fella --" Here Vin paused, the unemotional tone of his recitation suddenly crackling with anger. " -- seems like he was gunned down in the road. The bandits took what they wanted, and rode off in different directions. My feelin' is that at some point they rendezvoused with each other, but there ain't no tellin where."
There was a moment of silence among the men, as if Tanner's vivid recitation of the brutal attack were playing in their minds. JD's throat was working visibly against his emotions. Buck looked at Vin with hot, unhappy eyes. "You gonna track 'em, Vin?"
"I reckon that's up to Mr. Roche," Vin said. His gaze rested thoughtfully on Roche. "What about it? Do you want these bastards or not?"
Roche regarded the tracker coldly. "We're going to Julestown to talk to the sheriff."
"The longer you wait, the further away they git," Vin replied evenly. "And the fainter the trail. I'm good, but I cain't track somethin' from nothin'."
"Julestown." Roche pronounced. He picked up his reins.
Chris's green eyes darkened. He looked at his fellow peacekeepers. "You heard the man. Let's get movin." He exchanged a look with Buck, an old and meaningful expression from their war days, and Buck gave a slight nod.
"C'mon, JD. Let's take point. I'm tired of breathin' dust."
Chris and Vin rode a bit in silence, purposely allowing the others to draw ahead of them. When he judged it to be safe, Chris turned to Vin. "You mind tellin' me what you didn't tell Roche?"
Vin's mouth curled. "Oh, I got a fine line on the shooter. He was kind enough t' paint me a real nice picture. Only thing is ta find him."
Chris grew cold. "You know who he is?"
"Not who, but I'd bet I know where." His blue eyes took on a distant, unhappy look. "If'n I c'n slip out from under Roche's nose, I'll do a bit of snoopin' around Purgatorio."
"You ain't going there alone, partner. Don't even think it."
"Hell, Chris. You cain't go with me. They all remember you from our last dust-up -- you'n Buck, at least." A shadow darkened his eyes as he thought of the troubles ahead. "Chris, I got a standin' invite t' Purgatorio, thanks t' Eli Joe. No one's gonna question my right ta be there. You know it's the only way we're gonna find out what really going on here."
"Does that invite include mention of that five hundred dollars your hide is worth?" Chris' voice went hard to disguise the fear he felt building around his heart. He shook his head. "Let's hear what the sheriff in Julestown can tell us before you start makin' plans for your own funeral."
Vin cast a sidelong look at the gunslinger's knife-sharp profile. "I got a plan, and it don't include me bein' six-foot under," he said, the faint reproof in his voice making Larabee's mouth quirk at the corners.
"Save it." He looked at the riders ahead of them, nearly obscured by dust. "We'd best catch up, before Roche starts looking at us cross-eyed."
+ + + + + + +
Sheriff Tyler was a small, wiry man with the sharp features and gingery hair of a fox. Chris knew him slightly, and had no quarrel with the way he kept order in Julestown. He wasn't a man you asked for favors, or offered one unless it was requested. His distrust of Roche was evident, but at least he wasn't expected to be the sacrificial lamb of the Western stage company.
He took them to the undertaker's to view the bodies; something Chris wasn't too anxious to see, and which JD clearly dreaded. He'd seen men die, had even killed when he had to, but the cold reality of murder still left him shaking. As they drew near the small building where the bodies were kept, Chris caught his arm, holding him back. "You don't have to go in there, JD."
"I'm the sheriff of Four Corners, Chris. I'll be alright." He stuck out his chin, and Chris was reminded of Adam and the way he had looked when it was about to storm. I'm a big boy, Pa, he'd insist, and then shut his eyes tight against the lightning. Lord God, had he ever been so young?
Chris firmed his grip. "I know, I just wanted to say it."
"Thanks, Chris." He tucked down the brim of his bowler and followed Larabee inside.
Tyler tore off a chaw of tobacco, and offered the pouch to Chris. "Takes the edge off the smell," he said. Chris declined. He'd walked battlefields where hundreds had died and lain for days. He'd survive this.
"You gonna offer some to Roche?" he asked, and Tyler's eyes glinted. He rolled the pouch up tight and stowed it in his shirt.
The bodies were laid in coffins, and the odor of death was thick in that small room. Roche paled and covered his mouth with his bandanna. "Merciful God, what a stench!"
Chris and Vin stood over the bodies. Tyler pointed to the coffin on the left. "That's the guard. Tim Davis." He lifted the lid. Davis looked younger than JD. He had been shot through the heart.
Vin nodded. "Reckon he died fast."
"You sure you want to see the driver? Name was Tom Halloran. He was a good man. Had a wife and four kids in Vista City."
Vin nodded. "S'alright. Cain't be nuthin' I ain't seen b'fore." He waited until Tyler had pulled the lid aside. He stood still for a moment, then closed his eyes, the skin drawn taut over his cheekbones and pale with anger. "I seen enough." He turned to Chris. "Man was executed, Chris. Those bastards made him kneel down and they blew the back of his head off, right there in the road. That's the blood I saw."
"Shit." He heard JD gasp and leave the shed, wondered if he was being sick. He felt nauseous himself, from the heat and the stink, and the cold-hearted brutality of Halloran's murder. "Let's get out of here, before we all puke."
The sickness remained even in the clean air and sunlight. Buck stood next to JD, his ebullient nature quelled, his expression solemn. "What're you gonna do, Chris?" he asked.
Roche's head snapped up, angrily. He was smarting from being thwarted by Chris Larabee at every turn, at being shown to be weaker in the foul atmosphere of the morgue; at the deference even Judge Travis showed to the man. Roche had heard of Larabee's reputation, but only half-believed the dime-novel legends that were spread through the west. He was not about to be cowed by shadows. He rounded on the gunslinger as he spoke; issuing a challenge and expecting it to be answered. "I'm in charge here, Mr. Wilimington. Not Larabee, not this boy sheriff, or that half-savage tracker of yours!" His hand drifted towards his gunbelt as a warning.
Larabee's hand was at his weapon before Roche's fingers even brushed his holster. Dear God, the man was faster than a striking rattler! Roche recognized his error. He raised his eyes to Larabee's and met the cold green gaze. No fear, just icy, controlled rage that burned like a flame, and left no doubt that if Larabee had intended to shoot him, he would now be staring at the sky.
Chris spoke softly, his voice every bit as cold and deadly as his eyes. "You're wrong, Roche. Now, I don't mean no harm, but I ain't lettin' my friends wind up dead like those valuable Western employees, back there. We're going back to Four Corners and tell Judge Travis what went on here. And if you've got a notion of drawin' on me, you damn well better think twice on it 'cause you'd be dead before the idea left your mind."
Roche had gone white, his jaw knotted hard. He held Larabee's gaze without flinching, and held it for a good while. He gave a slight nod. Larabee stepped back a few paces, giving Roche breathing room. "Agreed. We let Judge Travis decide."
Chris' hand slid away from his gun. "Let's ride. It'll be near dark b'fore we git there." He turned to Tyler who had been watching the entire scene without blinking. "Thanks for your cooperation, Sheriff."
Tyler moved his chaw around and spat. "I don't give a shit who takes care of this mess, Larabee. I just want the murderers caught. Them four kids deserved a daddy."
"Yeah, they did." Chris' voice was soft with compassion. "We'll be in touch."
They rode back to Four Corners in near silence. Chris was content to let Roche take the lead and drift back to ride alongside Vin. Neither man spoke for a while, until the shadows were long and the sun was sinking beyond the horizon. Vin's eyes narrowed against the last rays, and he drew a deep breath.
"You made an enemy back there, Chris."
"He ain't the first."
"Might be the last." There was a soft humor in the tracker's voice, but also concern, which made Chris smile.
"Might be, though I doubt it. I still got the rest of the night."
Vin chuckled at that and ducked his head so the shadow of the brim cut off the golden light that had fallen across his face. "Travis ain't gonna protect you, Chris. Not if it's Mary that Roche is holding agin him."
"I know."
It was full dark by the time they rode into Four Corners. Men and horses were all weary. Roche paid the stable hand to take care of his mount, and told them he would expect Chris and whoever else wanted to be there to meet him at the jail in an hour. The others looked after their own horses, and in unspoken accord wandered over to the saloon. As soon as they had drinks in hand, they settled around their table.
Chris inhaled the fumes of his whiskey, wishing it could penetrate the lingering taste of death at the back of his throat. JD still looked pale and shaken, had scarcely said two words even to Buck. Chris poured another jolt of whiskey into JD's glass, and when the boy gave him a wary look, Chris spoke quietly. "Go ahead. You've earned it today."
"Those men ..." JD's voice shook. "They never had a chance."
"No."
"I mean -- who would do something like that? Why?"
"Ain't no 'why', JD. It just is." Vin's hand came down on his shoulder, just a brief touch, but JD nodded, acknowledging the gesture with gratitude. Vin wasn't much older than JD, but he'd seen a hell of a lot of living and dying in that short time. He'd discovered that cruelty wasn't inbred, but taught. And some men took to the learning easily, and with relish, because it gave them power. So there was a 'why', but Vin wasn't about to acquaint JD with the knowledge and destroy what innocence there was in those hazel eyes.
He slid down in the chair next to Chris. "You seen Ezra?" he asked.
"Not yet. It's about time for him to make his evening appearance. Those cowboys are hopin' to get back some of what he took yesterday."
Vin looked over at the rowdies a few tables away. "They keep drinkin' like that, and Ezra's gonna be laughin' all the way to the bank."
As if on cue, the gambler materialized out of the back room of the saloon. His attire that evening was a burgundy coat and embroidered vest. Impeccable ruffles appeared at his wrists as he shot his cuffs, and when he smiled, his golden incisor gleamed. He pulled a paper out of his pocket and set it in front of Chris. "My mother sends her regards, Mr. Larabee."
Chris read the wire, folded it, and put it in his coat pocket. "Thank her for me, Ezra.
"Well, what does it say?" JD asked, showing the first signs of interest since that afternoon. "Is Roche a crook?"
Chris' eyes were very bright, as he turned to Vin. "He may not be a crook, but he is crooked."
"Well, what does that mean?" JD puzzled.
"Means the man ain't been caught," Vin said quietly. "Chris?"
"Seems he left St. Louis in a hurry. A 'scandal of a personal nature,' according to Maude."
"That tells us about as much as we knew before," Buck said. "Hell, I've been run outta towns due to 'scandals of a personal nature,'" he joked.
"Anyone die?" Chris asked harshly. "A woman killed herself over somethin' that man did. Maude said she'd write later. She's still hunting down the details." He looked around at his fellow regulators. "It don't seem like much, but it's something we didn't have before. No one brings this up to Roche, though." He pushed away from the table. "Vin, JD, time we were off to see Judge Travis."
+ + + + + + +
Chris had feared that Roche would expect to meet at the Travis house. He didn't want to see Mary and Roche in the same room until he had figured out what was behind the Judge's fears and Roche's threats. Meeting in the jail gave him the advantage of home turf, and he was determined to make the most of it.
When Roche and Judge Travis arrived at the jail, Chris and Vin had already taken the more civilized version of the high ground; Chris at the desk with JD at his side, and Tanner settled in a chair near the back wall, where he had an uninterrupted view of the door and the entire sweep of the room. His hands were folded still on his lap, but the mare's leg rested across his knees; a latent warning that Chris intended Roche to heed.
Travis looked calm to all outward appearances, but Vin, sitting in the shadows and watching like a hawk, could sense tension in the set of his shoulders and a sidelong slide to his eyes when he stood next to Roche. Chris motioned to the chairs he had drawn up. "Might as well sit," he drawled, and a smile tugged at the corner of Vin's mouth at that deceptively hospitable invite.
Judge Travis cleared his throat. "Mr. Roche has told me of the events at Julestown."
"That's a cold way of sayin' murder, Judge," Chris' eyes narrowed. "Did he tell you the driver was executed?" When the surprise showed on Travis' face, Chris turned accusingly to Roche. "Why didn't you?" he asked.
"Dead is dead," Roche answered. "Whether it was chance like the guard --"
"Warn't no 'chance'," Vin interrupted. "Man was shot through the heart."
Roche turned like a snake on the tracker. "Come now, Mr. Tanner," he scoffed. "That's highly unlikely!"
"There was a man up on the side o' that hill. A marksman. A sniper." When he saw the scornful doubt in Roche's eyes, he continued, "You think a man cain't make a shot like that?"
"Could you?" Roche asked, unbelieving.
"He could," Chris answered when Vin remained silent. "Between one heartbeat and the next." The words were chilling, and Chris had intended them to be; along with the rifle and Vin's quiet presence. He wanted Roche to know who he was dealing with.
Judge Travis looked at Roche. "What was the cargo that coach was carrying?"
"Mail. A small payroll shipment. Nothing of great value."
"'Cept the lives of two men," Vin leaned forward. "Makes you wonder why they'd bother bein' so vicious, don't it?"
"Does filth need an excuse for cruelty?" Roche asked. He rose in a swift, compact motion that sent Vin's hand towards his rifle, and brought Chris upright from his slouch. "Gentlemen, this is going nowhere. Clearly, we need to have the shipments guarded."
"W need to find the filth," Larabee snarled. "Before anyone else gets killed!"
JD had remained silent through the exchange, knowing that his words would count for little with Titus Roche, but he chose this moment to speak up, because the answer seemed entirely simple to him. "We could do both -- I mean, I'd be willing to ride shotgun, and you n' the others could find the outlaws." his bright hazel eyes appealed to Chris, then went to Judge Travis', eager and waiting for his thoughts to be acknowledged.
"I don't want to be starin' down at you with a hole in your heart, JD," Chris said. The words were gently spoken, but the vision they raised made JD swallow hard. Chris looked at Orrin Travis, his face lined with care and his hands nervously clenching and unclenching on the arms of his chair. Roche was simmering just below the boil; the undercurrent of tension was thick between them.
From the shadows, Vin's husky whisper came like smoke."Give me and Larabee thirty-six hours from dawn to find the bastards. If we can't, then we guard yer stagecoaches 'til they're caught." Even as he spoke Vin wished he had Ezra Standish's gambling heart, because his own was pounding furiously in his chest at the thought of what he had said he would do. He cast a quick glance at Chris, and read what he hoped was acceptance of his statement. Larabee's eyes had narrowed their focus on him, but there was no doubt or surprise in them.
"Twenty-four hours from dawn," Roche countered. "The next run from Davis to Eagle-Bend starts then. I won't risk that cargo, gentlemen."
"Twenty-four hours?" JD gasped. "That ain't enough time!" He appealed to the Judge but Travis only nodded.
"Can you do it?" he asked Chris.
Larabee sought out Vin, and saw a brief nod, just barely tipping the brim of his hat. He could do it. Hell, he had to do it.
"We'll do it," Vin said grimly. Lord, twenty-four hours ... from dawn, he thought with a wry acknowledgment of those hours when he would not sleep, but would lie awake just killing time ...
PART TWO
Titus Roche sat in his room in the Grand Hotel -- it seemed every smudge of a town west of the Mississippi had the gall to call the local hostelry Grand. God, he hated it! He'd be glad when his job was done and he could collect his reward and return East. Not to St. Louis, not since that girl's death. Silly bitch hadn't the sense to see that her father had brought it on himself. Roche had offered him the most generous terms for his cooperation. A few numbers altered, that was all. A word dropped here and there in the right circles ... a trifling matter. But in the end, he had refused, and if Roche hadn't come across the note spelling out his deceit, everything would have been lost. But he had discovered the betrayal, and had bent his efforts to disgrace, scandal, and blackmail. The man's daughter was tarred with the same brush as her father and cast off publicly by her fiancé. The whole social world of St. Louis knew of it. That she had been found hanging had astonished no one. Her neck had been small, it hadn't taken her long to die. Roche had quit St. Louis, because of the association with her father. It was better to be safe.
Roche smiled to himself. He had always had a talent for homing in on the weaknesses of other men. All men had their vulnerabilities: greed, lust, cowardice, self-respect. Roche knew how to play on them so gently that his victims -- he preferred to think of them as clients -- were grateful that he was so willing to help them cover their foibles. He did not demand anything so crass as money; no, his payments were made in information. A man paid blackmail money willingly, once. But information paid dividends far beyond financial interests. Those dividends had led to his position with the Western Stage Company, it had given him access to accounts, to government contracts, to shipments of arms and money. And it had made him a player in the destiny of the West.
The era of the stagecoach was rapidly drawing to a close. The advent of the railroad across the vast reaches of the west would drive it to its knees. However, the narrow steel ribbons of track could not reach over the entire terrain -- short-line stage routes would remain profitable for years to come. But there were too many fragmented companies for any one person to take advantage of those profits. Titus Roche and a few other men were stealthily snatching up those routes; taking small, bleeding bites out of the wounded giant of the Western Stage. Time was of the essence, however. Not willing to wait until the Western bled out, his consortium was determined to deal it a death wound by forcing the government to pull out of the lucrative mail and payroll contracts that were keeping it alive.
The plan was simple and effective. One by one, the stage lines were under siege. Hired guns were abundant. Five lines had already fallen; and Davis-Vista City run was one of the last two in the territory and time was tight. Hiring the sniper had cost a bit more, but Red Harper had proved well worth the investment. The first two waylaid stagecoaches had been a gadfly's sting; annoying and painful. The third brutal attack was meant to draw blood. The next one would sever the tendons of the beast, and then Orrin Travis would use his influence and power to kill the Western outright, leaving Roche and his compatriots to feed on the corpse.
Roche had not left the Judge's cooperation to chance. Mary Travis was a beautiful woman, but with a penchant for meddling where she was not wanted. Roche had not threatened, oh no. He was far too careful for that. He had laid out the Clarion News and shown Travis that Mary was putting herself in danger. Hadn't her husband died for less? Roche had heard there were men willing to rid the West of one less crusader ... he might even know of such men. Was it so much to ask for the Judge's support if it saved Mary Travis' life? Sweeter than honey and as subtle as poison, that was Roche's blackmail.
Travis' regulators were more worrisome than Roche liked to admit; they had to be made ineffective. Larabee was scary-sharp, and that half-tame tracker wafting in and out like smoke was enough to give Roche the heebie-jeebies. The kid sheriff might have done him a favor by getting Larabee and Tanner to chase after the robbers. They would be isolated, more easily eliminated. The others would follow Travis' orders. Pity the kid would likely die for it, but that was the price one paid for success.
Roche pulled his watch from his pocket. It was past ten. He had an appointment to keep, one that he had made a week ago, but that now was of vital importance. He left his room and used the back stairs, avoiding the front desk. It was not far to the livery stable. Roche stood beneath the lantern for a moment and lit a pipe. A man stepped from the shadows. He was hatless, and the light from the lantern turned his red hair to flame.
Roche nodded. "Good. You came."
"It's dangerous for me here, Roche." Harper's pale blue eyes were constantly on the move, as if every shadow held a threat. He stood poised lightly on the balls of his feet, a curiously mobile posture for a man his size. Every movement spoke of an alert sense of place, and the quick reflexes of a man whose life depended on them. Roche wondered how he could remain still for the length of time that was required for his services as a sharpshooter. He was quick and lethal, that was all that mattered.
"I appreciate that, Harper. I wouldn't have asked you to come here if it weren't an absolute necessity. I have a new assignment for you."
"Yeah?"
"You ever hear of a shootist called Larabee?"
Harper's eyes narrowed. "Chris Larabee -- sure I have. Man's got a reputation as a killer. Heard he was fast."
Roche thought of the movement of Larabee's hand towards his gun, and nodded. "He is. He's one of Orrin Travis' hired guns here in Four Corners. He and an ex-buffalo hunter named Tanner have it in their minds to get in our way. Tanner fancies himself to be something of a marksman."
Harper spat into the straw. "I done buried a lot of men who thought they was better'n me -- faster'n me. I ain't afraid of Larabee and his man."
Roche's teeth gleamed in his smile. "Excellent. Because I'll pay you an extra thousand when you lay Vin Tanner and Chris Larabee dead at my feet."
+ + + + + + +
It was a ghost wind; that first breeze stirring in the pre-dawn, like the breath of spirits who had died, sighing over the new day that they would not see. It stirred Vin's hair, the chill fingers of it brushing the back of his neck and whispering against his cheek. He shivered in his buffalo hide coat as he waited for Chris at the livery stable. A man who didn't carry a timepiece, he was instinctively sensitive to the passing of the hours, and every beat of his heart was another tick off the deadline.
He had slept very little the night before, spending it in the obsessive cleaning of his weapons, the mare's leg that lay along his thigh, and the Winchester rifle he carried in a sling on his saddle. Then he had dozed, alert to every sound outside his wagon. He had long ago lost the habit of deep sleep, and there were times when his body ached for it. He supposed staying alive was an even trade-off for a good night's rest.
He prepared Peso with the same thorough attention to detail that he gave his guns. He made sure that the gelding's shoes were firmly nailed on his hooves, and paid for that effort with a bruising nip on his shoulder. He looked for any small wounds that could fester, checked him for soundness in the long cannon bones. Peso endured the inspection with poor grace; if he had stood patiently, Vin would have been worried. When he had finished with Peso, he moved on to his tack. Frayed reins and worn girths could cost a man dearly on the trail. He went over every inch of leather, his fingers sensitive to every scar and scrape.
He was just finishing when Chris came into the stable. He watched Vin in silence for a moment, then moved on to his own inspection. His taut economy of motion was that of a man with a mind to get past an unpleasant task. He exchanged a wry glance with Vin. "Ready?"
"Ain't like I got a choice," Vin said and led Peso into the pale light outside. He was surprised that they were not alone. Nathan, Buck, JD, and most surprisingly of all, Mary Travis were there. "So y'all couldn't sleep, neither?" he drawled, hoping to hide the foolish pleasure that their company gave him.
Nathan stepped forward and handed Chris a leather satchel. "Some medical supplies. I ain't never knowed one of you t' get by without bleedin'."
Chris lashed the satchel to his saddle. "Thanks, Nathan." He turned to Buck. "You watch out for the others, hear?"
"I will."
"JD -- don't you get any notions in that head of yours about ridin' shotgun until we figure things out. That tin star ain't thick enough to stop a bullet, I don't care what kind of pressure Roche brings to bear. Mary?"
Her head came up a little defiantly, certain that he was about to place strictures on her. He didn't, but his concern warmed her. She hadn't yet figured out what there was between them; she looked into his green eyes, wondering if the answer was there, and found them quite unfathomable. His hand just brushed her sleeve in a gesture that was as close to a caress as he would allow himself, and she caught his arm before he could withdraw it. "Be careful, the both of you." She felt the hard, spare muscles of Chris' forearm tense for a moment before he pulled away from her touch.
"Yes, ma'am." Vin tipped his hat in the way men had of acknowledging a woman's worries whether or not they would be heeded, and was rewarded with a tremulous smile. Mary darted one last look at Chris as her cheeks warmed. Then he turned to his horse, and he and Vin mounted and headed out of Four Corners.
The small knot of well-wishers stood looking after their retreating backs until they were past seeing. Buck laid a sustaining hand on Mary's shoulder. "I'll walk you to the Clarion, if you like, Mary."
She knew it wasn't that he was afraid she would come to harm, but a rather a characteristically gallant offer of comfort that she appreciated in the cold light of dawn. "Thank you, Buck. I'd like that." As she walked, trying to match his lanky strides with her own, she thought this would be the longest twenty-four hours of her life. She didn't think she could bear it, if not for knowing they all felt the same.
+ + + + + + +
They stopped first at the site of the robbery, where Vin led Chris to the sniper's covey and told him everything the small clues had revealed. When he mentioned the red hair, Chris became suddenly still. "Wait -- tell me again," he said, terse and suddenly alert.
"Fella was taller'n heavier than me. Rolled cigarettes, was right-handed, and had red hair. Picked up his shells, too." He gave Chris a hard look. "Remind you of someone?"
"Red Harper." Larabee said. "Shit, Vin. We just landed ourselves in a heap of trouble."
"You know him?"
"Not face to face. He was up in Lawrence, used to work for one of the range bosses up there -- forcin' farmers off the land. They say he killed twenty men without being seen. Just picked ‘em off as they rode past. He'd moved on by the time --" Chris fell silent, and Vin waited, wondering if he would continue. " ... by the time I left Kansas." He drew a breath. "And he's fast, Vin."
Vin nodded. He and Chris didn't talk about the past; it held hurts too painful for either man to share except in brief flashes of intimacy that revealed how deep those scars ran. He sank down to a crouch and ran his fingers over the grass where the assassin had lain, imagining the hollow still held the warmth of his body. "Good thing there's two of us, then," he said, squinting up at Larabee.
Chris was staring into the distance, and thinking about killing. As fast and as deadly as Vin was -- and Chris knew him to be both -- he did not have the killer's soul that Chris harbored in his breast. He suspected that beneath Tanner's homespun, laconic exterior, lay a fierce intelligence that reveled more in the hunt than the kill. He had never seen him pursue death for pleasure, though there were times when he had recognized a look in those blue eyes that seemed to comprehend that particular bent, as if he had lived in that place and moved beyond it. Chris had killed with cold, vicious intent, but he could not say that it gave him pleasure. He knew men who got hard with the thrill of taking life, and he had a nasty feeling that Red Harper was the sort to find a rush of gratification in watching a man die.
"Are you ready to hunt?" Chris asked.
Vin nodded, his eyes already seeking the thread that would lead him to the lair of the criminals responsible for the robberies and murders. "We'll walk ‘til I pick up a trail. Damn, but I wish I had those two days back!" Frustration roughened his voice as he looped Peso's reins around his wrist. He'd followed colder trails than this one, but hardly ever with so much at stake. His hope was that the culprits had been over-confident and careless in their flight from the scene; and eventually, he was proved right. After an hour of walking, begrudging every minute he had to spend on foot, he found what he was looking for: a convergence of four separate riders. Bruised grasses and stirred pools of dust betrayed their passage. Vin stood looking westward, where the trail led. There was a cold knot of dread building in his gut. He waited for Chris to come alongside him, and he saw the same unhappy draw to the gunslinger's mouth that he felt on his own. "Well, pard. I reckon our questions have been answered," he said softly. "Don't see as we have a choice other than to ride down there."
Chris did not need to ask where down there was. "I ain't lettin' you go into Purgatorio alone."
"You have to, Chris."
"No." Larabee shook his head. "I'll lay low, but I won't let you into that nest of vipers without back-up."
Vin sighed in exasperation. "Hell, Larabee. I ‘ve been there b'fore an' come out alive."
"You don't know Red Harper."
"Well, he don't know me, either!" He swung into Peso's saddle. "Give me two hours, Chris. I ain't plannin' on movin' in. I'll meet you at those rocks," he jerked his head towards a stand of boulders in the near distance. The stubborn line of his mouth and the set of his angular chin brooked no argument, even if Chris had any hopes of mounting one.
"Two hours, partner. And I'll be ridin' in as the last second ticks off."
Vin smiled, his eyes lighting. "I'll hold ya to it, partner." He loosened the Winchester in its scabbard and let his jacket swing free of the mare's leg on his thigh. A man wasn't shy about showing his weapons when he rode into Purgatorio. The laughter that had lit his face died, and Chris saw the steel come into him; straight-spined and predatory. He spurred Peso and was gone like a falcon in the dive.
+ + + + + + +
Ezra was losing badly. It didn't often happen, but as with all gamblers, his lucky streak seemed to have run its course. He looked around at the sly faces of his opponents, and figured he was done. He was about to try one last bluff, when JD's appearance saved him from losing half of what he had won the night before.
He strode in as purposefully as a boy his age could stride, and then stopped in front of the poker table. "Ezra, I know you don't like being interrupted, but I --"
Ezra's eyes blazed at the opportunity to escape with his shirt intact. "Mr. Dunne, Mr. Dunne ... Now, I have been known to take umbrage at unwelcome intrusions, but I assure you, if you are here in your capacity as the sheriff, I am at your disposal." He folded his cards and smiled at his fellow gamesters. "Gentlemen, I must quit your fair presence. Duty calls." He rose from the table and laid an arm around JD's shoulders. "What can I do for you, son?"
JD pulled a paper from his pocket. "This came in from St. Louis. From your mother. I figured you'd be looking for it."
Ezra plucked it from JD's fingers. "Indeed." He scanned it quickly, surprised by the length. Maude had not spared her words. Then his eyes darkened and he read it again, more slowly. "My, this is an ugly tale to be sure. When my mother goes diggin' for dirt, she does not hesitate soil her fingers, I'll grant you that. Have you seen Judge Travis?"
JD shook his head. "No. He n' that Roche fella rode out earlier. Something about the taking a look at the road outside Four Corners."
Ezra considered for a moment. "That might be for the best. How about Mary? Is she at the Clarion?"
"I reckon so. Buck walked her over there this morning after Chris and Vin rode out."
Erza clapped JD on the arm. "Thank you, Mr. Dunne. I think I will pay that dear lady a call."
"Ezra! Wait -- what does the wire say?" He took off after the gambler, stumbling in his haste to catch up with him as he walked quickly towards the newspaper office.
Ezra scarcely heard him. His mind was tied up with Maude's revelations. He had sensed a feline delight in his mother's tone -- like a stalking cat. Maude might be a self-involved, mercenary con artist, but she had an unerring sense of justice and spared no malice in meting it out where she felt it necessary. She detested men who took advantage of women, physically, emotionally, financially. Ezra didn't think he had much of a conscience of his own, but that trait had been bred into him as surely as he was his mother's son. Roche's sins might not be criminal here in Four Corners -- however, his actions were an eloquent testimony to the sort of man he was. And perhaps reason enough in themselves for Travis to separate himself from this business with the Western Stage once and for all before any more lives were lost.
He opened the door to the Clarion and peered in. "Mary?"
She came out of her back room, wiping her hands on a rag. When she saw him, her eyes opened wide in alarm. "Ezra, is something wrong? Have you heard from Chris?" Her concern for the gunslinger was evident, and Ezra wondered what it was about those two disparate souls that spoke to each other. It was a fleeting thought, and not one he had time to ponder on at the moment.
"No, I have not heard from Mr. Larabee, or Mr. Tanner. But I have received a wire from my mother. Did Mr. Larabee tell you that Maude was doing some investigation of Mr. Roche's background?"
‘No, he didn't." Mary looked troubled. "I wasn't aware that there was anything to be investigated."
Ezra handed Mary the wire. Like Ezra, she read it once quickly, then raised troubled eyes to his, before she read it again. "It's unsavory, Ezra. But hardly evidence. People can say a lot of ugly things. Particularly when money and scandal are involved."
"Maude would not waste her time on mere gossip. Trust me, if there is any truth to that story, she's found it out."
"I don't know ..." Mary shook her head. "To suggest that Roche drove the girl to suicide -- how can you prove something like that? And even if you could, what does that have to do with the Western Stage? What does it have to do with Orrin?"
"Surely a woman with your contacts knows someone in St. Louis who can verify that information," he suggested. When she still looked doubtful, he played his ace. "Chris Larabee is dependin' on the truth, Mary. Roche left St. Louis not three days after that girl died. And ... look what the girl's father told Maude -- there is a lot of money changin' hands, according to him, and Roche is right in the middle of the action."
"Speculation is not a crime!" Mary exclaimed.
"But murder is!" Ezra answered back, sounding more like Chris than his usual detached self. "My Lord, Mary! If you don't want to believe Maude, believe me! Roche is as crooked as they come, and no one -- not you, not Judge Travis, not the almighty Western Stage Company -- is beyond fallin' prey to that man."
His words frightened and angered her. "Orrin wouldn't--"
"What wouldn't Judge Travis do to protect you and Billy from the predations of a creature like Roche?"
The color left Mary's face. "Ezra, am I in danger? Is Billy?" Every mother's fear was in her voice. "Is that why Buck Wilimington has been walking past my window every fifteen minutes since dawn?"
Ezra shook his head. "I don't know, Mary. But I assure you that Chris Larabee would not have left this town if you were in any sort of peril. As for Mr. Wilmington, I'm sure he is just bein' his gallant self in Mr. Larabee's absence."
Mary's chin came up. "I'm not going to let Titus Roche harm my father-in-law, or my son." She reached for the shawl hanging at the back of her chair.
"Mary, wait! You can't go chargin' after them alone."
She paused, and laughed softly. "Ezra, I was going to the telegraph office to wire a friend of mine who works for the newspaper in St. Louis. I haven't quite reached the point where I would ride off and confront that man with nothing more than Maud's words."
"I'm goin' with you."
"That isn't necessary, Ezra."
He clapped his hat on his head. "I shudder to think on my fate at Mr. Larabee's hands if any harm were to come to you, dear lady. This is an entirely selfish gesture on my part, I assure you." It wasn't. He knew it, and so did Mary. She might be going to face Roche armed with the truth, but it was heartening to know that she would have cold iron on her side as well.
+ + + + + + +
Purgatorio was the sort of place where men's names were not spoken aloud, but whispered with fearful asides and meaningful glances. Half the denizens of the town had prices on their heads, and the other half were only too willing to betray them to collect those bounties. Thieves, drunkards, whores, murderers ... and the most successful businesses were the saloons and the undertaker. You could always smell fresh sawn pine when you rode past that establishment.
Vin felt the weight of stares on him as he rode into town. Heard the whispers running through the crowd, and felt an uncomfortable itch between his shoulder blades. His reputation was about the only shield he had in this place, and he made sure that his weapons were cleared and his face utterly impassive when he reined in at the saloon. He slid from Peso's back, and with his Winchester lightly balanced on his shoulder, went from the bright street into the semi-dark barroom.
He stood at the long bar. The mirror he faced was dingy and cracked, but it served the purpose of giving him a view of the room when his back was turned. "Whiskey," he ordered, and the scrawny, scared-lookin' man behind the bar set a bottle and a glass in front of him. Vin fixed him with a cold, blue stare. "I'm looking for Jake Esteban. He still work here?"
"Later tonight," the man squeaked.
Vin's brows drew level. "Where's his rooms?"
The man shook his head, "Don't know." But his eyes shifted nervously to the upper hall, and Vin nodded. "'Preciate your cooperation, Mister." He picked up the whiskey bottle and was gone before the man could protest.
There were three doors facing onto the hall, and he chose the one that was the most scarred. He rested the butt of the Winchester on the floor and knocked. "Jake -- it's Tanner. Open up."
He heard movement, and stepped aside from a clear shot by the occupant of the room. The door opened a crack, and a single, dark eye looked into his. The creases around that eye deepened as recognition struck, and the door opened a fraction more. "You alone?" Esteban rasped.
"Fer now. I need ta talk. Let me in b'fore someone decides I'd make a good trophy." He jammed his boot in the door in case Esteban changed his mind, and forced his slim body through the opening. "Good thing I ain't gained weight, there, Jake," he grinned. "I'd a thought you didn't want t'let me in."
"Tanner, you ain't exactly welcome in town after you and that gunslinger shot up the place last time you was here."
"And it's real nice to see you, too." The room was dim, but Vin could see that Jake Esteban was unarmed, and smiling. "I ain't gonna stay long. I jist need some information, and I figured you t'be the man who had it."
Jake grunted. "Let me get dressed. And put that rot-gut down. I got some tequila in the chest there. You drink that whiskey and you'll be half-blind by sunrise."
Vin poured a glass of the pale liquor and drank it slowly as he waited for Jake to pull on his trousers and hitch his suspenders over his beefy shoulders. He and Esteban went back more than a few years. Jake had once run a trading post, and had befriended the skinny, silent youth who had come to trade buffalo hides and Indian blankets. He hadn't questioned why a blue-eyed white boy was living with the Comanche, or why he drifted in and out of the post like a wisp of smoke whenever other folks came in, or why he vanished for months at a time. The day Vin had appeared during a hold-up, gunned down three men, and saved Esteban's woman from being raped, Jake had sworn that if Vin ever needed anything, all he'd have to do was ask. It had been a shock to find Jake in Purgatorio after years of wandering, and re-acquaintance had been uneasy for Vin, used to betrayal. But it seemed those bonds still held.
Esteban poured his own tequila and sat on the edge of the bed, looking at Tanner. He was still slight, but the breadth of his shoulders spoke of a man, not a stripling. He stood with a dangerous grace, and his blue eyes were hard and steady as he waited for Esteban to settle. Jake tipped the tequila down his throat. "What do you want, compadre?"
"You heard anyone talkin' about the robberies on the Western Stage?"
"Maybe." Jake's eyes were wary. "You still working for the law?"
"Would it matter if I was? ‘Cause if it does, I'll walk outta here right now." The soft voice didn't waver. "I ain't aimin' t'make any trouble fer ya, Jake. But there's lives at stake, here -- friends I made that I don't wanta lose to these bastards. If there's anything you kin tell me, I'd be obliged."
Jake rose and paced the small room. "I don't know what you want me to say. This place ain't exactly shy of men who're willin' to do that kind of work. Haven't heard any names in particular."
Vin sighed. "You see a man here -- tall, heavy-built. Red hair. Goes by the name, Red Harper?"
Jake stopped cold in his pacing. From his expression, Vin knew that he had hit a nerve that vibrated clear through Esteban's body. And he saw something in Jake that shook him deeply. Fear. The same as he had seen in Orrin Travis, and this in a man who lived in Purgatorio. He reckoned he had his answer.
"You n' me go back a few years, Jake. You know I wouldn't be askin' you if it wasn't important. He's kilt two innocent men, already. One of ‘em was pa to four kids."
"Shit." Esteban ran a thick hand through his hair. "Get outta here, Vin and forget about Red Harper. You wanna live, don't you?"
Vin smiled. "'Bout as much as anyone else, I reckon. But I gave my word, and I ain't about to go back on that now."
"You‘ve got more guts than sense, amigo." There was a grudging admiration in Esteban's voice. "Y'always did. I ain't forgot what you did that day."
Vin took advantage of Esteban's gratitude before he could harden his resolve to pose a question that instinct had prompted. "You ever see Harper talkin' to another man -- big, dark-haired. City clothes and manners?" He was startled when Jake nodded.
"Yeah, I seen him."
"When?"
"About three -- no, four days ago."
Titus Roche. Damn, Harper was Roche's hired gun! Elation burned through him as he hefted his Winchester. "Thanks, Jake. I c'n sneak out the back way if it'll make you feel easier." He looked over his shoulder at Esteban. Jake's back was turned, his heavy shoulders bowed.
"Harper's a killer, Vin. Fast, sharp. Cold."
"Yeah, I know. But I ain't goin' into this alone. Not like the old days."
"The old days?" Jake faced him. "Back in the old days, you used to take my advice. Get outta Purgatorio, Vin, before you're bein' fitted for a pine box. I don't want to see you dead."
There was nothing more to be said, now that Jake had answered the questions that needed to be asked. Vin tapped the brim of his hat. "You take care, Jake. I'll be seein' y'around."
"I hope so, amigo. Even if it's to say good-bye."
Vin went down the back stairs, cautiously working his way to the front of the saloon where Peso was tethered. As calmly as if he had nothing more serious to do than take a leisurely ride, he left Purgatorio.
A few minutes later, the scrawny bartender came out of the saloon and pointed down the road Vin had taken. He spoke to the man at his side. "That long-haired fella went that way, Mr. Harper. Heard his name was Tanner, Vin Tanner."
+ + + + + + +
Chris sat in the shadow of the rocks, feeling the chill of evening slowly draw the warmth from the boulder at his back. He was not prone to nervous twitches; a man could get killed by sending off signals like that, so he stayed motionless, seeming as still and as quiet as the twilight, despite the nerves jumping in the pit of his stomach. He'd been on edge ever since Titus Roche strode into the jail with Orrin Travis. Nothing had played out right -- not Titus' story, not the murder of the two Western employees, not the appearance of Red Harper. He felt in his bones that those events were all related, and the key was just beyond his grasp. Larabee didn't like anything being beyond his grasp. Made his fingers itchy.
The sound of hoofbeats brought him alert and tense into a crouch, his gun ready in his hand, his eyes narrowed. Tanner. He stayed hidden until Vin reined in, then he slowly came up out of his stance. "Thought I'd have to go in after you."
Vin slid from the saddle and brushed the dust off his clothing. He sank down into a cross-legged sit, bending forward to ease his aching back. "Lord, I'm stiff as a broom handle. Must be gittin' old as you, Larabee."
Chris gave Tanner an amused glance. "Reckon y'are. Can't take bein' in the saddle for eighteen hours a day -- next thing you'll be sittin' in a rockin' chair." He handed Vin a canteen and watched as he drained nearly half of it, drinking in deep thirsty gulps. When he finished, he wiped his arm across his mouth and fixed Chris with a penetrating look.
"We got trouble, Chris. Talked to Jake Esteban. Told me that he saw Red Harper dealin' with a man who sounded an awful lot like Roche."
Chris should have been surprised, but wasn't. The tumblers of his mind all clicked into place and the door opened. "Roche is behind all of this."
Vin nodded. "Don't know the whys n' wherefores, but it seems so. Shit, Chris. We shoulda seen it all along."
"Maybe. But I reckon if a man like Orrin Travis was taken in, then we've got good company." He looked at Vin, still sitting and looking as if he was about played out. "You wanna camp here? Ain't much use in tryin' t'find our way in the dark."
"Na, I kin ride, Chris. Might be better if'n we git outta here. Hair on my neck is risin'."
Chris' eyes narrowed. "You followed?"
A smile touched the corner of Vin's mouth. "Wouldn't put it past anybody in Purgatorio. Accordin' t'Jake, we ain't exactly welcome in these parts. And five hunnert bucks talks loud."
Larabee didn't like the idea of pushing so far beyond their strength and with darkness at their backs, but he didn't see that they had much choice. He convinced Tanner that five minutes more rest wouldn't make much difference before they both mounted and rode out of the shelter of the rocks.
They traveled as quickly as they dared in the twilight. As full night fell, a pale moon rose over the landscape. Chris was grateful for the illumination, even though it made it easier for any enemy eyes to see them as well. He glanced at Vin. The tracker's hat was pushed off his head; no need for the sheltering brim in this cool light. The moonlight leached color from his face, silvered his cheekbones and shadowed the severe angles of jaw and chin. The tension he saw there made Chris shiver.
"We bein' followed?" he asked Vin.
"Don't know." Tanner's blue eyes were scanning the horizon. "Not followed, but somethin' ain't right, Chris. I kin feel it." His gaze suddenly sharpened and in one of those intuitive seconds between life and death, he yanked hard on Peso's bridle, driving the gelding into Chris' horse. A shot rang out and Chris grunted and reeled in the saddle, his body falling forward against his mount's neck. Vin grabbed the reins before the startled horse could bolt, and with all the strength in his wiry frame, hauled Peso, Chris' horse, and Larabee across a hundred yards of scrub and gravel into the shadows of a stand of mesquite trees and boulders.
Semi-conscious, Larabee's reflexes somehow held him on his horse until Vin settled both mounts down, and was off Peso's back. He grabbed the gunslinger around the waist and pulled him from the saddle, dragging him into a deeper pool of shade. Another shot skipped across the dirt, making Peso dance. Vin dashed out, retrieved both horses, and rolled back into the cover of the thicket as two more shots rang out, kicking up dust and stone splinters. He reached for the mare's leg at his thigh and lay prone, waiting for the flurry of gunfire that never came.
Shit. He lay flat for a few more minutes, one hand steadying the gun, the other clutching Larabee's shirt. Finally, he drew a breath and lowered the gun. "Chris?" he whispered. "Chris!"
A faint moan. In the darkness, Vin couldn't see where Larabee had been shot. Didn't help that he was wearing his customary black, either. Vin ran his hands over the gunslinger's upper body, and paused when he felt the warm blood drenching his left shoulder. He turned him and found a corresponding wetness in the back. The bullet had passed through. Vin gently slapped Larabee's cheek. "C'mon, cowboy. Wake up -- Larabee!" He risked crossing the few feet to the horses for a canteen of water and the medical kit Nathan had provided. He yanked the bandanna from his throat and soaked it, squeezing a few drops of water on Chris' lips and forehead.
The blond head moved restlessly, and green eyes opened, a bit dazed but otherwise lucid. "You just call me cowboy?" he whispered roughly.
"Knew that'd git yer dander up," Vin grinned, relieved that his friend was sensible. "Ya been shot, Chris. Need t'take a look see at how bad it is."
Chris winced. "Shit, I c'n tell ya it hurts."
Vin's mouth quirked in a grim smile. "Reckon I knew that." He opened the placket of Chris' shirt and slipped it back to reveal the wound. "Ya want good news, er bad news?" he said after he had finished his assessment.
"Got a choice?"
"Good news is the bullet went through clean. Bad news is yer bleedin' more'n ya should be. Lay still n'I'll patch ya up."
He rustled through the leather pouch. Bandages, ointments, some sort of astringent powder that Vin knew Nathan used to stanch blood flow, a flask of what the healer termed *medicinal* brandy. Vin gave Larabee a hard look. "I'm gonna pour a few drops a' this inta the wound. Brace yerself."
Larabee reached up and took the flask in his hand. "Do me more good this way." He took several deep swallows and handed the brandy back to Vin. "Now I'm ready." His eyes were glittering even in the shadows. Vin nodded curtly and tipped the liquor into the wound, front and back. Chris' breath hissed out in a foul curse, and then he fell silent and still, not unconscious, but intent on bearing up under Vin's rapid, but effective treatment.
"Sorry, Chris. I ain't got Nathan's touch, " Vin apologized as he packed the wound with the powders and lint, binding it in place with a long strip of linen.
Chris's eyes crinkled. "Reckon I c'd say th'same." His words were slightly slurred; pain, blood loss, and Nathan's brandy all taking their toll. He tried to quell his shivering, and failed. Vin went to Peso and pulled the Winchester out of its scabbard and a blanket from the back of his saddle. He found Chris' poncho stowed on his saddle and carried it back to where Larabee lay, covering him with it. He shook out the blanket and tucked it close around Larabee's body. With his hand on his Winchester, he lay next to his friend, determined to wait the night out.
The moonlight turned the rocky landscape into a phantasm of shadows and light. It was too bright for Vin's liking; if not for the shelter of the rocks he and Chris would have been sitting ducks for Red Harper. Vin didn't doubt for an instant that he was the sniper. Warn't no bounty hunter out fer five hunnert bucks. Question was, how patient was Harper? Was he gonna lie in wait for dawn, or take his chances another time? Vin's brow furrowed. He knew what he would do ... he'd wait for dawn, but then he was a patient man. He sensed the Harper was not. Cigarettes gave him away -- more ways ‘n one, Vin figured. Man was a fool not to think about the tells tobacco left. Lucifers, ashes, the smell of it on a man's clothes; the drift of smoke that'd give him away in bright sunlight. No, Harper was a good shot, but he wasn't no tracker, and Vin smiled in the moonlight and slid his spine lower down the rock at his back.
Chris had stopped shivering, and that he was sleeping at all was a telling sign that he was hurtin'. Otherwise he'd be crouched next to Vin watching with the same intensity. Vin heard the horses moving as they settled, too. Peso was as good as a sixth sense when it came to scentin' trouble. Vin wouldn't sleep, but he allowed his body to rest at ease, and his mind to roam where it willed. He hoped Larabee would be up to riding in the morning, because they couldn't sit where they were and stay alive.
+ + + + + + +
Red Harper knew he had hit one of the two men -- he'd seen him reel in the saddle. It had looked bad, but it wasn't a clean kill, the darkness and the quick movement of the other rider had prevented that. Didn't matter to him if it was Larabee or Tanner he'd wounded. Only problem was he had to finish the job if he wanted that bonus from Roche. He could stay where he was, wait for dawn, and pick them off then, or he could get the advantage of complete surprise and head for Four Corners. The idea of killing them on home ground was appealing. Two clean shots. He'd contracted with Roche to take down the stage between Vista City and Four Corners. The stage, Larabee, and Tanner. It was all in a day's work; and when that day was over, he'd be rich. Harper moved from his hiding place, retrieved his horse, and set out for Four Corners.
+ + + + + + +
Tracking the passage of the hours through the movement of the stars, Vin waited out the night. Chris slept heavily for a while, but eventually became more restless, whether from pain, or his natural inclination to sleep lightly, Vin couldn't say. He watched Chris' features shift from one expression to another, and wondered if his own face was as expressive in slumber. Lord, he hoped not ... Finally, when Chris seemed to be lost in a distressing dream, Vin woke him with a touch on the side of his neck. He sure didn't want to startle the gunslinger awake. A man could regret doin' that, Vin knew. It was another trait he shared with Larabee.
Chris' eyes opened, and he moistened his lips. "Something wrong?"
"You was about t'wake the dead, so I figgered I'd better stop ya." He passed over a canteen of water. "Better have some a' this. An' if yer up ta ridin' we should head on back ta Four Corners b'fore Harper starts shootin' agin."
Chris grimaced as he shifted his shoulder experimentally. "I can ride. Not too far, or too long, but I reckon I'll make it. Besides, we got what we came for."
Vin laughed softly. "Think it'll be that simple, huh?"
"Simple as hell, partner." Using Vin's shoulder as a prop, he levered himself upright. Vin rose and set his arm around Chris' waist.
"You sure ‘bout this?" he asked, not liking Chris' pallor or the way the sweat had started on his forehead.
"You sayin' I got a choice?" Chris raised a blond brow. "C'mon, let's ride."
Vin's misgivings were clanging like warning bells, but he nodded. Wasn't much else he could do; they had no food, water would be a problem, and this was no place for a wounded man. He gave Chris a boost into the saddle, and they moved out.
After an hour, Chris knew he had spoken too soon. He felt a clammy moisture saturating the bandage on his shoulder, and a growing chill that spread from the wound clear down to his fingers. He bit down hard and kept his face slightly averted to hide his expression from Vin. The rising sun seemed to be growing dimmer rather than brighter, as if a veil of fog were overlaying its rays. He felt tired enough to drop from the saddle ...
"Larabee!" Vin grabbed his good arm. "You alright, there?" His blue eyes bored into Chris'. The gunslinger was pale and sweating. Vin pushed back the corner of his poncho and saw a darker stain glistening against the fabric of his shirt. "Dammit, yer bleedin' agin, why d'ya keep it quiet?"
"You'd have stopped?" Chris asked huskily, one brow slanting up.
"Long ‘nough t' patch you up. Hell," Vin eyed the sky overhead. The sun was risin' on seven o'clock, he figured. "C'n ya hang on fer another hour?"
"If I have to. Ridden in worse shape ‘n this." But his voice sounded woefully thin to Tanner's ears.
The tracker reached into the leather saddle bag for the brandy flask, and opened it. "Drink this. Maybe it'll keep ya goin'. I ain't aimin' t'leave ya behind, Larabee, so don't think it."
"Ain't aimin' on being left behind, ‘less I'm dead, Tanner."
In truth, Vin doubted Chris'd remember much about that last hour. Vin had ridden hurt plenty of times, and knew it took all a man's strength just to stay in the saddle. Hating the necessity, but understanding the need, he slowed the pace of their ride as much as he dared; ride fast, and Larabee wouldn't keep the pace, ride slow, and he'd likely bleed t'death. Hell.
By they time they rode into Four Corners, Chris was listing in the saddle, and Vin was edging Peso as close to Chris' mount as the stubborn gelding would stand so he could steady Larabee with his arm. Two figures on the boardwalk, silhouetted against the glare of the morning sun, turned toward the sound of the horses and Vin breathed a prayer of relief. Mary Travis and Buck. Buck broke into a lope, reaching them just as Chris' eyes rolled in his head, and he slipped sideways right into the big man's waiting arms.
Mary's hand went to her breast, as if to still her heart. Chris' long form lay lax in Buck's hold, his blond hair flopping off his forehead, his right arm dangling. There was a dark stain seeping through the woven poncho he wore. Aghast, Mary looked up at Vin.
"What happened?"
Vin swung down from Peso's saddle. "He was shot. We ‘se about five miles out of Purgatorio --"
"Purgatorio!"
Vin gave her a twisted smile. "Ya wanna catch a snake, ya gotta get ‘em in their pit," he said, as if that would explain everything. "Anyways, it happened last night. It was too dark fer us t' ride in, so we started out this mornin'. I's hopin' we'd get here b'fore Chris bled through them bandages I put on him last night." He sighed. "It ain't too bad, Mary. Seen worse." His slight body took on a pronounced lean. He was suddenly weary, wished he could lay himself down, and knew he could not. "I'll git Nathan," he said, pulling himself upright.
"No." Mary took his arm. "You'll go inside and have some coffee. Buck can get Nathan as soon as he settles Chris in." She looked up at Wilmington. "Take him to my room."
"Mary?" Buck queried.
Vin saw her cheeks bloom with roses, and thought it was a shame Larabee had t'be unconscious and miss that sight. She just smiled. "I don't think he'd fit in Billy's cot, Buck. Go on, take him up." Buck went inside, Mary close at his heels. She turned back to look at him. "I'll be down in a minute, Vin."
Torn between his desire to be with Chris, and his own need for sustenance, Vin lingered in the doorway. In the end he decided Chris had more folks fussin' over him than was good fer a body, and wandered into Mary's kitchen. There was a pot of coffee on the stove. He touched the side of the pot. Warm, not hot, and when he poured it into his cup, it was grainy with grounds. He wasn't inclined to be picky. He put two spoons of sugar in it to counteract the acid, waited for the grounds to settle, and took a deep, grateful swallow. He closed his eyes to ease the ache behind them, feeling heavy and bone-tired through the rest of him. He'd have to find some resources down deep t' keep goin'. Coffee would only git him so far.
"Vin, are you hurt?"
Mary startled him to awareness. He blinked at her. "What?"
"There's blood on your jacket."
He looked down in surprise. "Naw, guess it's Chris' from when I drug him off his horse."
"As soon as I take this water up to Buck, I'll make you some fresh coffee. That must be like mud by now."
"That's mighty kind of you, Mary, but I cain't stay. I's hopin' the judge'd be here. There's somethin' he needs ta hear. You know where he went?"
"No. Possibly with Titus Roche."
"Shit." His cheeks flamed. "Sorry, Mary. But that's what I's afraid of."
The kettle on the stove began seething as the water came to a boil. Mary moved it off the heat. "I'll be right back, Vin. Don't you go anywhere. I think I need to know what you were going to tell Orrin."
"Mary, I ain't got time --"
"You do." She gave him such a stern look that he subsided meekly. When she returned, she cut off a slice of bread and set it in front of him, along with butter and a crock of honey. When he moved it aside, she moved it right back in front of him. "You need to eat, Vin."
Because she wouldn't back down, he spread butter on his bread and drizzled honey over it. He had a sweet tooth, he was near starving, and he knew that she was right; if he didn't fill the hole in his belly, he'd be falling off Peso. While he ate, she brewed up another pot of coffee.
"Tell me what's going on, Vin," she said when he was on his third slice of bread, and his second cup of fresh coffee. There was some color in his face again, and despite the shadows beneath his eyes, they were alert, without the dulling fatigue she had noticed when he first rode in.
He finished chewing his bread and drained the last of his coffee before he spoke. "I went to Purgatorio, Mary. Man there I c'n trust, told me ‘bout a gunslinger, name of Red Harper. Seem's him ‘n Roche is mighty cozy."
"This Red Harper is the man who shot Chris?"
He nodded, his eyes grave. "He shot them Western fellas, too. He'n Roche are a team. An' whatever shit they're inta --"
"Orrin is involved with, too?" Mary shook her head. "That's impossible! Orrin would never do anything illegal, Vin -- you know that!"
"Ain't a matter of doin' it willingly. That's why I gotta git goin', Mary." He rose, steady on his feet now that he'd been fed and was relieved of the burden of Larabee's care. "You know where they might'a gone?"
"Vista City?" Mary guessed with a helpless shrug. "That's where the stage line begins."
He settled his hat on his head. "Take care of Chris, Mary. Let me take care of the judge."
"And yourself," she said. "Take care of yourself, Vin." She gave his arm a quick squeeze before he touched the brim of his hat in his customary salute. He was about to leave when Buck came down the stairs.
"Vin, he's askin' for ya. Mary, I'm goin' for Nathan, now. Chris is gonna be fine." Buck grinned at the tracker. "Said ya did a damn fine job of doctorin', Vin."
"Hell, I jist got him likkered up on Nathan's brandy, so's he didn't know what I'se doin'." Vin tipped his hat to Buck, his relief plain on his face as he went up the stairs.
Chris was propped up against the headboard, looking nearly pale as the linen he lay on, but for the brightness of his green eyes that betrayed his impatience and his fever. "Buck says Orrin ain't here," he rasped.
"Mighta gone up to Vista City with Roche. I figgered t'head up that way. Shoulda known we wasn't gonna get time t'do what we needed."
"Vin, don't you go up there alone," Larabee warned, not liking the look in the tracker's eyes and the set of his jaw. "Don't start thinkin' you can take on Harper *and* Roche."
Vin's eyes burned. "If I hafta, I will. Too many folk's ‘re dead, and I ain't standin' by waiting t'see who they're goin' after next. Ain't lettin' it be you, Chris."
Chris mouth turned up at the corner. "Remember when Orrin played dead, pard? Might not be a bad idea fer me to do the same."
Vin shot the gunslinger an incredulous look. "Larabee, you lost yer mind along with half yer blood? Ain't no way yer fit t' ride t' Vista City."
"Don't go alone," Chris repeated. "At least take JD with you."
"JD ain't here --" Buck stood in the doorway, Nathan at his back. "He's gone with the Judge and Roche." He saw the look that passed between Larabee and Tanner, and his face hardened. "You all want t' tell me what's goin' on?" he asked.
"Shit," Vin rubbed his eyes. "Roche is as crooked as they come, Buck -- he hired a gunslinger name of Red Harper t'kill those Western fellas. Reckon he's aimin' t'do the same t'us. I gotta go, Chris." He brushed past Buck and Nathan, light and quick. Chris pushed himself upright, starting to swing his legs around before Nathan stopped him with a glare.
"Don't think it, Larabee."
Chris stubbornly persisted, and Nathan just let him, until it became obvious that he wasn't able to stand, much less rush off after Tanner. He fell back against the pillows. "Buck, go after him," he growled.
"I'm halfway there, Chris. Nathan, don't let him git any ideas ‘bout comin' along."
Nathan grinned despite his worry. "I got drugs, Buck. Knock him right out if'n he sets one foot off th'bed."
"Like hell you will," Chris threatened.
"Like hell, he will," Mary's soft voice rejoined, and Chris knew he was lost, then. He'd argue with Nathan from dusk to dawn, but he couldn't argue against those blue eyes.
"Buck?" Chris appealed. "Bring'em back alive."
"I will, Chris. I will." Buck was gone then, nearly as quickly as Vin. Defeated, Chris let Nathan tend to his wound, and tried to figure how long it would be before his strength returned.
+ + + + + + +
Vista City wasn't a place with much of a vista, JD Dunne decided. He was standing on the stoop of the Vista City jail surveying the town. Bigger than Four Corners, built of the same sort of ugly clapboard buildings; hardware store, dry goods emporium, more than its fair share of saloons and gambling halls. Every bit as dusty and hot, even in the early morning. The only vista he could see was the long stretch of dry land that surrounded the town, and the road the stage would travel down. He and Judge Travis were waiting on it, and on Roche, who had gone to the blacksmith to have his horse's loose shoe hammered back on.
JD was a little afraid of the Judge; not in the same way he was afraid of dying, or of Chris Larabee -- but the thought of all those years of schooling and lawyering behind that taciturn countenance made him feel young and awkward. He felt a vague tug of guilt for not tending to Larabee's admonition about riding shotgun, but he figured if the Judge was there, then he would be safe enough. No one would shoot a territorial judge, would they?
He gave Travis a sidelong look. "Stage should be coming soon, Judge Travis."
Travis nodded. "Should be." His mouth was drawn hard. He could scarcely look at Dunne's earnest young face. The sight of all that innocence and determination made him feel a thousand years old. Roche, damn him, had forced the issue of the boy riding shotgun when Larabee and Tanner had missed the twenty-four hour deadline.
That they had missed the deadline had Travis more worried than he would admit. They were men he trusted implicitly, but the frontier was a dangerous place -- the reasons for their absence could have been as innocent as a horse going lame, or as deadly as a bullet in the night. It was the latter thought that had the Judge's stomach burning with acid. He looked at Dunne's bright eyes, and could only nod.
"Never rode shotgun before."
The edge of nerves in his voice made Travis wince inwardly. "You'll be fine, son. I'll be inside, and Roche won't be far. We'll make it through."
"Oh, I ain't afraid Judge, just ..." he fumbled for the word, and decided silence would serve just as well. He wasn't afraid to get up on that stagecoach; no more scared than he had been at the Seminole Village or any of the other tight corners he'd been in since he'd come West, but he sure would have felt more confident if his fellow peacekeepers were along for the ride, and not scattered between Vista City, Four Corners, and God knew where else. He would have liked knowing Buck was at his back, with Nathan and Josiah close by, or Ezra with his fast gun and easy laughter. Chris Larabee and Vin Tanner, well, that went without saying, they'd been the first real heroes he'd seen, and he still couldn't think of one without the other coming to mind. They were the people he trusted, his family, and right now, he missed them something fierce.
A rumble in the distance and a cloud of dust billowing on the road announced the arrival of the stage. JD's hands went instinctively to his Colts and he pushed his shoulder away from the post he had been leaning against. He pulled himself up to his full height, and Orrin Travis was reminded of nothing more than his grandson, Billy, out to prove he was as big and as tough as any other boy in town. He damned Roche for making this trip a necessity, and kept praying that Tanner and Larabee would come riding down that road to deliver them from evil.
The stage driver reined in, raising a swirl of dust beneath his wheels. He would drop off his sacks of mail, take on his new cargo, change horses, and continue on his run. The entire process would take less than half an hour. JD watched with interest. He gave Judge Travis a curious look. "Sir, there ain't no shotgun rider with him, now. Why does he need one between here and Julestown?"
Travis' narrow mouth hardened. "Just wait, son." He jerked his chin towards the road into town.
JD watched, his eyes wide. More dust than before, and a wagon accompanied by a troop of blue-coated cavalry. JD thought of Vin's comments about the Army guarding its own. "They ridin' with us, Judge?"
"No. They have more pressing duties. Mr. Roche has guaranteed that their payroll will be delivered by the stage company in return for future contracts."
JD shook his head. "Don't seem right, Judge. They ride in here with a whole troop, and ride out with just me."
Travis gave him a grim smile. "Should make you feel real proud, Mr. Dunne."
JD thought it just made him feel scared, but he'd rather die before he admitted it to Judge Travis or Titus Roche. JD studied the activity around the stage and the wagon. Two armored chests were being loaded into the passenger compartment on the stage. The only passenger on this run would be the judge.
"Well, that's quite a sight, isn't it, Mr. Dunne?" Titus Roche had come up behind JD, and he jerked in surprise at the sound of that voice. "Feeling nervous, son?"
JD didn't like anyone he didn't know calling him ‘son,' particularly not this man. His brows drew level. "I'm fine, Mr. Roche. Ready to ride out." He patted his guns. "When are we leavin'?"
"Soon as we get the go ahead from Captain Stevens. Orrin -- a word?" He turned and went inside the jail. He made certain the door had closed and Dunne was away from the open window before he spoke to Travis. "Kid seems nervous."
"He's a fine and steady young man, not a kid," Orrin said tautly. "And if anything happens to him, I'm not the man you'll need to worry about."
"You mean those other six peacekeepers you've hired?" Roche sneered.
"They're all good men who've been dealt a hard hand in their lives, and they've done a hell of a lot for Four Corners."
"Larabee is a hired gun, and that half-wild friend of his, Tanner -- he's nothing but a bounty hunter. And where the Hell are they? If they're so damned dependable, then there wouldn't be any need for that boy sheriff of yours to ride shotgun."
Travis had no answer for that but his worries. "Roche, when this is over, I pray to God I never see your face again."
Roche only smiled and kept his thoughts to himself. When this is over, old man, you will be dead. He looked out the window at the stagecoach. The cargo was loaded and Captain Stevens was talking to Dunne. Roche went over the plan in his mind; he was depending on Red Harper to do his part. Apparently, he had already taken care of Larabee and Tanner, as he'd been told. Roche licked his lips. The thought of those two bodies rotting in the sun was just about as much satisfaction as he would allow himself until the entire plan was played out to the end.
+ + + + + + +
Buck was relieved to see Peso tethered outside the jail; he hadn't relished riding hell bent for leather after Tanner. He took the steps in a single long stride. Vin was loading shells into his belt. An empty box of rifle cartridges was on the desk, the Winchester slanted across his knees. He was intent on his work, his fingers nimble, his mouth set in a line that boded ill for his intended targets.
Buck leaned against the wall. "You huntin' loaded fer bear, pard?"
"That fuckin' bastard is gonna pay for all the miz'ry he's makin'. Ain't gonna let him leave these parts alive, Bucklin."
The profanity from the normally soft-spoken Tanner caused Buck to raise his brows. "Are we talkin' about Roche?"
"Talkin' about Red Harper, the slimy sonofabitch ... an' after I shoot th'fuckin' heart outta him, I'm goin' after Roche ..."
"Vin, Chris don't want --"
Vin raised blazing blue eyes to Buck's. "Chris ain't thinkin' clear --" he snarled.
"Now, hold on there, Tanner. Seems to me yer the one ain't thinkin' clear." Buck crossed his arms. "S'posin you go in there guns blazin' and get yerself kilt? Reckon you figger yerself t'be immortal here, but y'ain't. Somethin' happens ta you, what about Judge Travis? What about JD? You given one thought t'them?"
The tracker didn't answer; he just continued loading his gunbelt. The only sign of his emotion was a betraying flush on his high cheekbones. As Buck waited for an answer, the color faded from Tanner's face. His anger was quick to come to the boil, but it cooled equally fast, leaving only pure reason and deadly intent. When he looked up at Buck, his task finished, that calm gaze sent a shiver clear up and down Buck's spine. Lord, he'd seen that look in Larabee's eyes, and knew it meant death.
"Chris ask you t'come with me?"
"Yeah. Wasn't about t'let you ride alone. And knew he couldn't stop me from goin' after JD. That boy ..." Buck shook his head.
Vin set the Winchester on the desk, rose, and buckled on his gunbelt. He fastened the leather tie around his thigh and holstered the mare's leg. He glanced up at Wilmington, his mouth losing its grim line in a half-smile. "Ya ready?"
Buck's irrepressible grin flashed out. "Full-loaded and huntin' fer bear." But the worry in his eyes remained, easily visible to Vin's perception.
He tapped the brim of his hat to Wilmington. "Let's hunt."
Buck had hunted with Tanner before, but not for human prey, and he found the experience unsettling. He'd never given much thought to the tracker's skills; they'd always seemed as easy to Vin as breathing. This hunt went beyond seeking physical talismans, to pursuing the mind, and Buck, while not short of his share of wiles and wits, found Tanner's intellectual focus daunting. Vin scarcely said ten words in a day, and those grudgingly; his shy manner bespoke an innocence that left Buck gasping at times, yet in this world of predators and prey, he was entirely comfortable, while Buck felt about as out of his element as JD. They were traveling quickly, and for the life of him, Buck couldn't see what Tanner was following. Finally, tired of trying to figure it out, he asked.
"Tanner, maybe I'm goin' half blind, but I cain't see no trail that you're followin'."
Vin gave him an amused, assessing look. "Ain't followin' no trail, Buck."
"Then what the Hell are we doin'?"
"Huntin'," Vin replied patiently, as if he were talking to JD Dunne. "Huntin' ain't always findin' a trail. Can be jist findin' the right place t'bide yer time."
They had reached a point nearly halfway between Vista City and Four Corners where the road ran through a gully cutting between steep, rocky inclines on either side. Vin drew in Peso's reins and stood in his stirrups, squinting along the horizon. Buck's mount came to a halt at his side. "See somethin'?" he asked.
Vin reached inside his jacket and pulled out his spyglass. He swept it along the ridge opposite them, then closed it. "A perfect spot fer an ambush. See them rocks up there?"
"Yeah."
"Like a blind fer a hunter. Man could hole up there fer a long time jist waitin' fer what might come."
"You think that Harper fella is up there?" Buck felt suddenly naked beneath the cloudless blue sky. He glanced at Vin. The tracker's clear profile was lifted to the horizon, his eyes narrowed, as if what lay on the other side of the rocks was laid open to his vision. He raised a brow at Buck.
"He ain't up there. If he was, I reckon we'd a' been dead fer a while. But I'm thinkin' that we'd have a clear view a' the road up there. Ready?" He urged Peso into a lope and headed up the incline. Buck followed, still feeling as if they were being watched by unseen eyes.
Peso picked a sure-footed path to the crest of the ridge, and once he was able to see the land spread before him, Vin knew he had chosen the right spot. The entire swale of the land stretched out before him; the long, narrow ribbon of the road and the plateau that lay between Four Corners and Vista City. He extended his spyglass to check the range, then satisfied, he snapped it shut. "We'll make camp here. There's a spring runnin' outta the rocks on the other side a' the ridge."
"How long are you plannin' on stayin' here, Vin?" Buck asked uneasily. "Don't ya think that Harper knows this place?"
Vin cast him a speculative look. "Mebbe. But he ain't here now, and if he takes a notion to come this way, it'll be the last one he has." He grinned, his teeth very white in his dusty, unshaven face. He headed Peso towards the spring, knowing the both of them needed water, and wishing that he had eaten more than those three slices of bread at Mary's. Had a few strips of beef jerky in his saddlebag, but didn't feel much like chewin' on it. He dismounted and let Peso drink, then Buck's thirsty mount. When the horses were settled, he and Buck filled their canteens and carried them back to the lookout point.
Buck pulled out his turnip watch. "Stage should be arrivin' in Vista City real soon."
"Means it'll be ‘bout two hours b'fore it gits close ‘nough fer us t'do anythin'."
"What if Harper makes his move before then?"
"He won't. Too close t'Vista City and the cavalry."
"You seem mighty sure a'yerself."
Vin tilted his chin up, considering Buck's statement. "I been watchin' him, Buck. He's got his ways a'huntin', too." His eyes glittered with his thoughts. "Me n' Chris scairt him outta hidin' yesterday. But he's gotta git back t'his old patterns ta take down a stagecoach."
"Think them Mexicans'll be there?"
Vin's gaze narrowed. "Yeah, I reckon so. But they warn't no Mexicans, Buck. I never picked up no sign a'them outside Purgatorio."
"Roche's men?" Buck asked.
"Yeah." The word was a sigh, and Buck saw that the tracker was looking, as Nathan put it, down t' grit and gristle.
"How long has it been since you slept, Vin?" Buck asked.
Vin gave him a weary grin. "Hell, Buck. If I's t'start countin' I'd run outta numbers real quick."
"Then maybe you'd better catch some now, pard. B'fore ya fall asleep waitin' fer Harper t' show his ugly face."
Vin scrubbed a hand across his stubbled cheeks. "Cain't say I'm inclined t'argue." His voice held a yearning note as he thought of how much he longed to lay his body down and rest.
"I'll keep watch, Vin. Wake ya if anything seems peculiar."
"Thanks, Bucklin." He handed Wilmington his spyglass before he tipped his hat forward and lay down, cushioning his head on his arms. Buck watched him, marveling at the tracker's ability to sleep on any surface, at any time. But he also knew how shallow that sleep was, how deceptive its peace. He settled his body behind a boulder and focused the spyglass on the road. It looked like it stretched to the end of the world instead of from one dusty town to another. He let his thoughts travel along that road, towards JD Dunne and Orrin Travis. He wasn't much of a man for praying, but he did then; a quick, scarce-thought, but heartfelt whisper to the Almighty that they might be delivered from evil.
+ + + + + + +
Roses. Chris woke to the smell of roses. He breathed it in, thinking of his ranch, and the rose bushes Sarah had planted outside the bedroom window. In the summer, their heady fragrance drifted in, filling the room with moonlight and perfume. Sarah ... He reached for her, and pain shot through his shoulder, making him gasp at the suddenness and the coldness of it, like a knife twisting in him.
"Shhh, Chris. It's all right." A cool hand on his forehead, but not Sarah's voice. The realization filled him with loss and regret. He opened his eyes and Mary was bending near him, stroking his hair. "You were dreaming."
He was horribly thirsty. He tried to moisten his lips, and Mary understood. She raised his head and held a cup to his mouth. He drained it, and she poured more from a pitcher on her bedside table and gave him that, too. "Thank you," he whispered. Using his good arm, he pushed himself upright with a grimace. He waited until the room stopped spinning before he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
Mary held his shoulder, staying him for the moment. "Nathan said you should rest."
"I've rested." His eyes glinted with humor. "Never thought I'd be resting here, though."
Mary blushed, but she smiled at him, unfazed by his teasing. "Funny what you never think you'll be doing," she said. She held out her hand. "I brought you a clean shirt."
"Even though I should be resting?" Again the lightness in his voice as he took the shirt and cautiously threaded his arm through the sleeve. Mary bit her lip, wanting to help, but unwilling to risk the might-have-beens of so intimate a gesture. The buttons defeated his pride, and he looked at her, one brow raised in silent inquiry.
Mary's chin came up, holding that jade green gaze with her own. He loomed over her, his breath stirring her hair. His warmth eddied through the woven fabric of his shirt. Her fingers fumbled a bit with the first button before her confidence reasserted itself.
"There," she said with a small sigh when she had finished, and for a moment, her fingertips were splayed across his chest. Proximity between them was a dangerous dance, and he was as shaken by it as she was, and as equally determined not to reveal it. Briefly, he let her steady him, but his strength returned and he stepped away, suddenly aware of the lengthening shadows in the room.
"How long was I asleep?" he asked.
"About two hours."
"Any word from Buck or Vin?"
"No." She saw him measuring the time in his mind. "You aren't thinking of going after them?" Her answer came in the set of his jaw. She reached for him once more; he moved away from her touch, quick and lithe.
His gunbelt was at the foot of the bed. He picked it up, and paused, knowing he could not buckle it himself. "Are you gonna help me?" he asked.
She shook her head silently, daring him to argue.
"Fine." He slung it over his good shoulder. Lord, but it was heavier than he recalled. The knowledge of his weakness only fueled his determination. "I'd appreciate it if you'd give me a few minutes before you tell Nathan."
Her eyes filled with tears and anger. "Damn you, Chris Larabee! Are you so determined to get yourself killed? Vin and Buck are grown men, both perfectly capable of taking care of themselves."
"What about JD? What about Orrin?" he asked ruthlessly. "Billy's lost his father. Is he gonna lose his grandpa as well?" His words hit her most vulnerable point, leaving her pale and reaching for the bedpost for support.
"Chris --"
"I'm just tryin' t'keep that from happenin', Mary."
His voice was softer, but his expression was grim. She knew he would not back down, and knew also, that she could not hold him against his will, no matter what she wanted. He was stronger than she was, and his heart was too true to dismiss any obligation lightly. She valued that in him, even though it angered her to know that he was willing to discard his life; as if it would not matter to the rest of the world whether Chris Larabee lived or died.
Mary sighed, seeing all this, and finally accepting his nature. "You will fall out of your saddle," she said with a wry smile.
Chris laughed softly. "Never have, and I don't reckon I'll start now." The flash of humor vanished quickly. "I'd take something t'eat with me, if you don't mind, Mary."
She nodded and went downstairs. As soon as she left the room, Chris sank back on the bed. She was right; he would fall out of the saddle. He groaned and hauled himself back to his feet. Like hell, he would.
PART THREE
The stage pulled out of Vista City as soon as the payroll was loaded. JD had watched Captain Stevens and his men as they hauled the two heavy chests into the passenger compartment. Judge Travis climbed in, his legs wedged up against one of the chests.
"You all right there, Judge?" JD asked. "Looks like mighty tight quarters."
Travis smiled grimly. "Won't be the most comfortable stage ride I've ever taken. You be careful up there, son."
JD nodded and tipped his bowler in a brave show for Travis. He didn't want to appear concerned or worried. Or least of all, scared. He wore a badge and carried two Colt Lightnings at his waist. And there were six men who depended on him to do his part to get the Judge and the payroll safely to Four Corners.
Titus Roche rode up on his big chestnut. His gaze lingered on boxes in the coach, and for a moment, JD thought he had never seen a look like that in anyone's eyes; pure greed, and glittering lust. It made shivers run across the back of his neck, raising his short hairs. Roche turned to JD, the expression sliding away, so that JD thought that his impression might have been nothing more than a trick of light as the sun struck off Roche's eyes. "We'll be leaving soon."
JD climbed up on the box next the driver. He gave the man a sideways look. He was middle-aged, and tough as leather; like he'd seen it all and done it all. He spat into the street and nodded to JD. "Ya old enough t'be a sheriff, boy?" he asked, not unkindly.
"Judge Travis hired me himself." JD's chin came up. "I c'n shoot as well as the next man. Reckon that's good enough."
The driver grinned and gathered the reins in his hands. "Name's Gordon. Yours?"
"JD Dunne." He held out his hand, then realized that Gordon had his fingers full of reins. He blushed at his clumsiness, and the driver laughed.
"That's all right, Dunne. Ya ever seen a man drive a six-horse hitch b'fore?"
"No, sir. Not up close. Driven a four-in-hand, though."
Gordon eyed him with respect and nodded shortly. "It's an art, Dunne. It's an art. The railroads'll make it a dyin' art in a few years. Damn shame about that. Day it happens, I'll lay me in my grave."
JD shivered again. "Wish ya wouldn't talk about graves," he muttered under his breath, and Gordon laughed out loud.
"You'll be fine, son. Should be an easy four hours."
Roche appeared at the driver's side. "Let's move out, Mr. Gordon. We have a payroll to deliver."
"Yes, sir." Gordon gave the reins a flick, hollered out a "Gee-Haw!" The team's ears pricked up, and they moved out, alive to the driver's touch on the reins.
+ + + + + + +
Vin's instincts would not let him sleep beyond the demands of exhaustion. Moving so silently that he startled Buck when he came beside him, he reached for the spyglass and swept it along the opposite ridge. "He's there," he whispered, half to himself, half to Wilmington. "I'll be back." And slid as silently away before Buck could respond.
He took his Winchester from the sling, gave Peso an absent-minded pat to his rump, and went looking for his prey. His certainty that Harper was nearby rang so loud in his mind that he had to pause and force himself to caution. He could not traverse the gully at this point without Harper seeing him; and chances were that his vantage point was as hidden as their own. He doubted that Harper was foolish enough to take a shot at him, revealing his hide. There was a narrow crook in the rocks, and Vin slipped into the crevice. It was such tight quarters that he had to lean slightly backwards and rest his spine against the rocks to see the road and the opposing cliff, but the angle of sight it provided was superior to the place he and Buck had taken for their own. He settled there, aching and uncomfortable but alert for any sign of movement.
A hawk circled overhead, and Vin watched as it hunted. The bird did not dive, or settle. Vin wondered if Harper was watching the hawk, too. He just wanted a sign, something to show that he was right in his instincts about the gunman. He had an hour to find him before he swooped like the hawk on the stage and JD Dunne.
When the hawk drifted away from the cliffs, Vin slipped out of the crevice. He moved stealthily over the rocks, pausing to be certain that he wasn't seen until he came to a place where a tumble of bramble bushes and thick brush spilled down into the gully. They would provide cover for him to traverse to the other side; but before he took that advantage, he would have to warn Buck.
He returned to their watch point. Wilmington was still crouched by the rocks overlooking the road. Vin scuffed his boots lightly over the soil to warn Buck of his approach, then stepped forward once he was sure the gunman wouldn't shoot first. His pistol was cocked and ready, but as soon as he saw the sloped brim of the tracker's hat, he lowered his weapon. "You find him?"
Vin hunkered down alongside him, and shook his head. "Not ta see him. But he's there. There's a place I c'n cross over ta the other side. Thought I'd reconnoiter, see if I c'n draw him outta hidin'."
Buck frowned at him. "I don't like the sound of that, pard."
Blue eyes glinted beneath the shadow of his hat brim. "Yer soundin' like Larabee, Bucklin."
"He sure as hell wouldn't let you go off alone."
"Well, much as I appreciate the thought, I gotta do this solo. Ain't a matter of choice." He rose off his haunches and began checking his guns. He was obsessive about them, as would be any man whose life depended on his weapons.
Buck watched him work, long, slim fingers moving over the guns like a man might caress his lover. But there was nothing gentle about that expression on that fierce, fine-boned face, or the bleak look in Vin's eyes. Buck understood that he wasn't a man like Chris Larabee, who spent blood without remorse because he believed his soul to have been damned long ago. Vin Tanner felt each bullet; didn't matter if the man on the other end was deserving to die, or was aiming his own weapon at the tracker. He meted out death when necessary and at a painful cost to his soul. Even for a bastard like Red Harper...
"Shit, Vin," he sighed heavily. "You be careful."
"Always am." He flicked up the tang sight on the Winchester, squinted along it as if testing its alignment. Satisfied, he laid it back down. His mare's leg was like an extension of his arm, but it had never been meant for long-range shooting. Still, its weight was a comfort against his thigh. Reckoned he was as ready as he would ever be.
"Bucklin, I ain't promisin' ta find Harper before he c'n hit the stage," he said soberly. He hoped the words carried the weight of his concern; in his worst nightmares, he was always too late to prevent disaster. This was not a dream that he could shake off in the morning light.
Buck understood, and nodded. "I hear ya. Don't worry about that, Vin. You jist take care of that sonofabitch as best you can."
Vin gave a short nod. "I'll be goin' down that defile there," he jerked his chin toward the path he intended to take. "Don't know when I'll be back." He slipped away, astonishing Buck as always with the ease of his motion. Smoke against a cloudy sky didn't disappear as completely as Tanner when he set his mind to invisibility. Spooky as hell, but reassuring to know that if he couldn't pick Tanner out, neither could Red Harper. Buck heaved a sigh and settled in to resume his vigil.
+ + + + + + +
Mary kept her word to Chris. She didn't tell Nathan when he left. She watched him ride out of town, his lean body slightly hunched with pain, but otherwise sitting solidly in the saddle. She knew he had been in the war, and from the scars she had seen on him, that he had been wounded. No doubt he had ridden hurt before, and would do so again. But that didn't mean that he had to be out there alone. As soon as Larabee was out of sight, Mary threw a shawl over her shoulders and went to the saloon in search of Ezra.
He was sitting at his usual table, alone, playing solitaire, and cheating. She tried to stifle a smile as she watched him pull a card that he had no right to, according to the rules. That he would resort to subterfuge when there was nothing at stake but pride, was an indication that the gambler's mind was elsewhere. As soon as he heard her footsteps, he swept up the cards in a tidy pile. "Mary." He greeted her with a half smile. "Have you heard from your friend in St. Louis?"
"No, nothing yet."
"And how is our patient? Though that is not a word I would apply under any circumstances to Chris Larabee."
"He just rode out of town."
Ezra's chestnut brows peaked. "I take it Mr. Jackson is unaware of this escapade?"
Mary felt her cheeks warm. "I promised Chris not to tell him." Her chin came up defiantly. "But I never said I wouldn't tell you. Ezra, please go after him!"
He looked at her for a moment, then a slow smile spread across his face and he shook his head, soft laughter in his voice. "You want me to ride after Chris Larabee and bring him back to Four Corners?"
"No, I want you to go with him, Ezra. He's weaker than he realizes, and he won't admit it."
"Mr. Larabee would not admit it on his deathbed. The gentleman gives new meaning to the word obstinate." He fanned his cards, then gathered them up. "However, dear lady, if it will put your mind at rest --"
"It will. Thank you, Ezra."
He tucked the pack of cards in coat pocket. "I hope that someday, Mr. Larabee will come to appreciate how fortunate he is." He checked the chamber on his Remington sidearm and sprang the mechanism on his sleeve pistol to make certain it was in working order. "You will continue to be careful, Mary? "
"You don't have to worry about me, Ezra. Just take care of yourself," she reminded him gently.
"I assure you I will take no unnecessary risks," he said solemnly; but he snapped the brim of his hat to a rakish angle, and gave her a flash of a grin before he left the saloon. It wasn't the unnecessary risks that had her worried, however, but the necessary ones that watching the backs of his fellow peacekeepers required.
+ + + + + + +
Vin slipped silently down the defile, using the thick brush and mesquite bushes to screen his movements. Even in motion, he blended into the landscape, and when he was still, his form was indistinguishable from the rocks and shadows. Ezra Standish might poke fun at his ill-fitting clothing, but the loose, rumpled garments blurred his silhouette against the background of rocks and desert, leaving no clear shape of a man to be a target.
Adept as he was, and confident in his skills, he could not entirely suppress a soft breath of relief when he was across the gully and on the same side of the road as Red Harper without being shot at. He made his way in equal silence and stealth to the crest of the ridge and began searching for a trail.
Once he found the first sign, it was simple. A man who had no reason to believe he was being tracked had no reason to avoid leaving a trail, and therefore could be followed as clearly as if he was leading the way with a lantern on a dark night. Vin noted every sign of his passing -- broken branches and swirls of pebbles where he had reined in and paused to search for the perfect blind. Vin bent and retrieved a discarded lucifer -- Vin held the head of the match to his nose. The scent of sulfur was dull. It had been struck a while ago.
Harper was either damned careless, or baiting a deliberate trap. Vin had once told Chris that there was a fine line between hunter and hunted. The trick was to keep the advantage.
With an eye to terrain, taking advantage of every boulder, shrub, and shadow to screen him, he flitted easily over the ground Harper had taken; but there was still no sign that he was drawing near to his hide. If Harper was watching, he would have to make his move, soon. And once he did, he would betray his position.
Vin had been at that balance point more times than he could count. He needed Harper to think him vulnerable, when he was not. The sun was settling lower, the shadows growing longer. And the stage would be coming down the road ...
Aw, hell. He was growing tired of this game, and it was time to fish or cut bait. And then he caught it -- the faint acrid scent of burning tobacco borne on the light breeze from the west. Couldn't see anything, not with the sun striking in his eyes, and he didn't relish the thought that Harper had the light at his back. Still slow, still cautious, he dropped into a low crawl. He could not see the blind, not with the tumble of rocks ahead of him, but the scent of tobacco continued to tease his nostrils. A trickle of sweat worked its way from his temple down across the slant of his jaw. He made his way to a slight depression in the ground where a mesquite bush provided a screen. The mesquite was a dusty brownish-grey, the same color as his hide jacket, his hat. The fringes on his jacket and the strands of his hair ruffled in the same breeze that moved the branches. He nestled the butt of the Winchester into his shoulder and set his cheek against the wood. Then, taking deliberate aim at a rock about fifteen feet from where he believed Harper to be, he breathed in, exhaled, and fired.
+ + + + + + +
Chris heard the sound of hoofbeats coming up fast behind him. Instinct told him to reach for his gun, but the realization that it was most likely one of his fellow peacekeepers, and the thought that in order to draw his pistol he would have to move his wounded arm, made him pause, and cautiously rein in his mount. He wasn't surprised that someone had come after him. The surprise was that it was Ezra. He gave the gambler a sidelong, crooked smile. "Out for a ride?" he asked.
"I see you made good your escape, Mr. Larabee, however ill-advised that may be."
"Mary tell ya?"
"Mrs. Travis is a woman of rare perception and determination."
"You c'n go back and tell her I ain't bleedin' and I ain't fallen off my horse, yet."
Ezra took in Larabee's pallor, the shadows beneath his eyes, the way he held himself in the saddle. He shook his head. "However, you are lookin', as Miz Wells would say, ‘a mite peaked.' And rather than risk the wrath of either of those two ladies, I think I had better accompany you on this rendezvous."
Chris wouldn't say that he was grateful for Standish's presence, but truth be told, he was. He nodded once. "Then let's pick up this pace. Time's runnin' short." He eased his mount into a lope, hoping that what he had told Ezra would hold true. He wasn't bleeding, not yet. But he sure as hell didn't feel like he had much strength in him, either. Right now, all he could think of was tipping the odds in favor of Vin and Buck. He half-smiled at his own thoughts. If tipping the odds was what he intended, then having a gambler on his side might not be such a bad idea.
"Mr. Larabee, have you given any thought as to what we are ridin' into?" Ezra asked. "Might we want to develop some sort of plan, if I may be so bold?"
Chris' mouth twisted into a wry smile. "I was kinda thinkin' of shootin' first and askin' questions later, but I'm open to suggestions."
Before Ezra could frame an answer, they heard the first gunshot from up ahead. All notions of formulating a plan fled. With a glance of dismay, they spurred forward. It seemed they would play the hand they were dealt.
+ + + + + + +
The first shot nearly sent Buck upright from his crouch, and startled an oath from him. He recognized the flat crack of Vin's Winchester, followed by an answering bark from another rifle before the echo died from the gully's walls. Shit! He couldn't see a thing, only knew that Vin had flushed out Harper somewhere. Between the shadows, the glare of the afternoon sun, and the landscape carved into ravines and scattered with boulders, he was blind. But Vin and Harper weren't his primary concerns. That ribbon of road winding through the gully was his focus. He could only pray that Vin was able to handle Harper without assistance.
Two more shots sounded in quick succession; then silence. Buck raised his head cautiously. Nothing. He peered into the haze of sunlight and saw a ripple of dust on the horizon. Still faint, but drawing closer, he heard the thrum of hoofbeats on the hardpan road. The ripple resolved itself into the oncoming stage. Then he caught sight of more dust on the horizon and his heart sank to his boots. Three riders -- no, four -- and he didn't think they were guardian angels. They angled towards the stagecoach like wolves coming down on a hapless fold. They had to be alongside the coach before the road entered the defile running between the cliffs, or risk being cut off. Buck swung his rifle up, sighted, and fired without any real hope of hitting a target -- they were too far away, and he was no Vin Tanner -- his intention was to draw their fire away from the stagecoach long enough for JD and Judge Travis to provide some defense.
Buck continued loading and firing, trying to keep the riders as far from the coach as possible. He was confident enough in Vin's selection of their vantage point not to fear becoming a target himself. Still, it was a bit of a shock to be showered with stone chips from a ricocheting bullet overhead. Damn, but he hated being pinned down!
There wasn't a thing he could do about it, but keep shooting. He gave a crow of triumph when he saw one of the riders drop his gun and clutch his shoulder. Not down, but certainly disadvantaged, and proof that they were now in range of his rifle. A second telling ricochet kicked up a splinter of rock sharp enough to cut a deep slash in his forehead, and the feel of the warm blood on his face only raised Buck's temper to the boiling point. Lord God, he thought. Why don't JD and the Judge give me a hand here?
+ + + + + + +
What Buck didn't know, and what JD knew all too well, was that one of the first shots fired by the bandits had struck Gordon high in the chest, and JD was now trying to control the stage, six panicked horses, and the unconscious driver. He had other things on his mind than getting at his Colts. He was still slightly stunned by the speed and the ferocity of the attack. One minute, they had been rolling along at a good clip, no peril in sight, and the next thing he knew, four riders were on the horizon, rapidly drawing close enough to start firing. Then had come the wet smack of a bullet striking flesh, and Gordon had half-fallen across his lap.
"Judge!" JD screamed down, but between the sound of the runaway horses, and the gunfire that was erupting around them, Travis could not hear his cry for help. At least JD hoped that was the reason as he had a sudden sick thought that perhaps Judge Travis couldn't answer. There was no way he could bend down to see if Travis was all right. Experienced as he was with handling a four-in-hand, trying to gain control of six runaway horses heading towards a narrowing defile lined with rocks and boulders was enough to make him wonder why he had ever come West.
It was true what they said about your life flashing before you. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed. Then he slid Gordon's body so that it lay crosswise across the footrest. He threaded the reins through his fingers, and bit by bit began shortening the ribbons of leather, letting his fingers communicate the message to the team that they were back in the control of someone who knew what he was doing. And slowly, after what seemed like hours rather than the minute it was, he felt the team responding to his commands. Hey, he thought, I can do this! And just when it seemed the worst was over, he felt a sharp, deep sting in his shoulder blade. His fingers went numb, and he lost the reins. It didn't even come to him that he had been shot until he felt the spreading warmth on his back, and the pain became harder and colder and sharper. Clinging to consciousness, he reached for the brake, and pulled it towards him.
The leader of the team, a big bay gelding, felt the conflicting signals coming from the driver. The slack reins were giving him his head, but the tug of the brake on the coach was contradicting that freedom to run. A bullet zinged past his ear, and the instinct to bolt in the opposite direction made him veer into his equally confused partner. The others followed, and the stage left the road, jouncing over uneven terrain, slippery gravel, and rocks. The front wheel of the stage struck a rut and the rim broke, splintering spokes and oversetting the coach. JD and the driver were flung from the seat, and the body of the coach came to rest on its side, wheels spinning, the horses frantic to escape the harness that held them, and the bullets that continued to fly.
Above them, on the rim of the ravine, Titus Roche reined in his mount, looked down at the destruction, and laughed.
+ + + + + + +
His grandfather had taught him first, discovering those gifts that were inbred; the sharp eyesight, the nerves, the patience to watch and learn, the instinct to survive. Then had come his time with the Comanche, and he had learned from them how to see what needed to be seen; to think like one's quarry, to move soundlessly, to watch the way nature taught her children to stalk. By the time he was seventeen, he knew what it was to be a hunter.
It had taken a war to make him a killer.
As much as Vin fought against thinking of himself that way, it was true. The Army hadn't been loathe to recognize that a youth with deadly aim and the ability to seemingly vanish into the mist was far too valuable to be wasted as cannon fodder, and had used his talents in ways that made him wake at night in a cold sweat; and even now, years removed, still haunted him like a pale, whimpering ghost. But it was a habit that once learned, never left a man, no matter how much he denied it. It returned like blood flowing back into a deprived limb, painful and familiar.
He felt it in his bones, in his body, in his senses. The fading light struck harder and clearer, sounds were sharper, the scent of gunpowder and smoke more intense, the outlines of rock, brush, land and sky almost painful in their clarity. He could feel it settling around his heart; an icy fist closing tight around emotion and humanity. The ache of it was fit to kill him, but it was the way it had to be if he was going to live.
He fired his second shot, this time aiming over the faint drift of gunsmoke lingering in the air. And was startled when the answering report came from an entirely different angle.
Vin's eyes widened, and a hard twitch of a smile came to his mouth as like recognized like. Might make things interestin', he thought. Figured he and Harper shared wartime experiences, but there were still things he knew that Harper did not. Time would come to bring those into play, but not yet. Vin dodged through the cover of rocks, moving as swiftly and silently as the lengthening shadows. He caught a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, a shadow where no shadow ought to be. The Winchester spat again; this time, met with silence.
Making sure of his cover, Vin raised himself in a low crouch, moving crabwise into the nearest stand of sheltering rocks. He dove behind them, skidding on the gravelly soil, and cursing at the noise he must be raising. He lay still, waiting for the wind to kick up again, or for Harper to make his move.
The next shot came not from Harper, but as an echo from the other side of the gully. Buck! The answering volley made Vin's body tense, adrenaline and instinct warring with sense as he fought the urge to spring up and rush to Buck's defense. *No, he thought. No. Y'ain't no fool t'go leapin' out, waving yer rifle like some damn greenhorn. So jist settle, Tanner. Settle.* He closed his eyes and listened. The shots were coming from the west, still sounding far enough away that they could not be doing much harm to Wilmington. Then why was Buck ...
He heard it then, the unmistakable rumble of wheels and the thunder of hooves coming at a gallop. The stagecoach, JD, Judge Travis, and unholy disaster waiting to claim them at the entry to the ravine. All Vin could see in his mind was Harper, taking slow and careful aim at the young heart of JD Dunne. The memory of his own wry voice whispered in his ears: *Hell, I wasn't plannin'on dyin' with a broom in my hand anyway.* Hadn't had much to live for back then. Shit, hadn't had much to die for, either. Now at least he had something to regret leaving. He cocked the lever on his rifle, wondering if it sounded as loud to Harper as it did to himself. He drew a deep breath. If he were a prayin' man, he would have signed the cross on his breast. As it was, he cast a prayer upwards, hoping that wherever he was, Josiah would catch it and send it on to the Lord.
He wasn't fool enough to leave his cover with his gun blazing. A whisper would do as well as a scream in this sort of battle. He slipped from the boulders, weaving a jagged path that brought him closer to where he figured Harper was holed up. He wanted desperately to be able to see the road and the stagecoach, and was close enough now that his sharp eyes could pick out the flash and puff of smoke from Buck's gun on the other side of the ravine, even though Wilmington had the good sense to keep his body crouched low.
There was a slot in the rocks just ahead of him; a narrow crevice shielded by a thorn bush and a large boulder. The ten feet of open ground between him and that slot stretched like ten miles. Where was Harper? Vin tried to block out everything; the gunshots, the thunder of the onrushing stage, his own heartbeat, the coppery taste of fear in his mouth. All he wanted was a sign, just a sign from his enemy. "C'mon you sonofabitch. Raise yer fuckin' head," he whispered savagely. Hell, Harper wouldn't do it without a lure. He would know Vin was desperate to stop him from gettin' a shot at JD.
Vin tried to moisten his mouth, but had no spit. He looked at that slot, at that ten feet of inviting vulnerability, and made his decision. He coiled his body like a springing cougar, and launched himself into the open. Two steps into that traverse, he heard Harper's gun spit lead.
It was a telling shot, but flawed. Harper's aim was evidently thrown off by the suddenness of Vin's movement. The bullet ripped through the flesh over Vin's hipbone, biting deep and crossing a nerve so that his right leg buckled beneath him. He knew he was hit, but his momentum carried him forward despite his near collapse. He dropped into a tight ball and rolled, reaching that narrow slot just as Harper took another shot at him; striking him in the thigh.
He scrambled under the thorn bush and into the crevice, so tight that he could scarcely pull himself upright without scraping flesh. He jerked his bandanna from his neck, twisted it, and tied it around his thigh to stem the blood flow. Harper was firing fast and hard, sending stone chips raining down on Vin, but he was blind now, and could not inflict damage. Vin sucked in a few deep breaths, willing away his pain. He inched forward, his body only inches away from the rim of the gully and looked towards the road that the stagecoach was barreling down at suicidal speed. Vin pulled his spyglass from his shirt and swore as he took in the runaway stage, JD working the reins, and the gunmen in pursuit.
He raised his Winchester, flicked up the sight, and began firing at the pursuing horsemen. Two went down under his deadly aim before JD was shot. Vin muffled a cry of rage as he saw the boy jerk like someone'd punched him in the back, and lose the reins. Too late, too late. Just like his nightmares. Sweat started on his forehead, and slipped stinging into his eyes. He dragged his sleeve across his face, clearing his vision in time to see the stage teetering for a moment on its shattered wheel, and then overbalance with a crack of splintering wood, and the scream of terrified horses. JD was flung clear of the wreckage, and lay still, looking even at that distance, fragile and broken.
A volley from across the way told Vin Buck had seen it too, and was now loosing a savage barrage of fire into the ravine. He heard something else, too. Horsemen coming fast down the eastern road, their gunfire starting to echo as they entered the deepest part of the gully. Vin twisted his body. Lord God, he'd know that horse and rider anywhere; Chris Larabee ridin' in, gun blazing, never mind the hole in his own shoulder, and followed in close pursuit by Ezra Standish. The sight of them gladdened Vin nearly to the point of forgetting his own peril.
He was brought back to that awareness by a sharp, stinging ricochet that drew blood from his cheek. He startled, then realized that he was abandoning his first tenet as a hunter. Leave the emotions behind. He closed his eyes briefly. There were four men down there who had to be kept alive; and one sharpshooter who could decimate those lives in the blink of an eye. How he was going to get out of this mess, and prevent that, was something he didn't have much time to ponder on.
He flexed his body, testing his wounded hip. Fresh blood welled and he could feel it soaking his trouser leg, but at least the stinging nerve had quieted, and he was confident he could place weight on it again. The bullet in his thigh was painful, but it didn't feel like serious damage had been done; the bone wasn't broke, and the bleeding had slowed to a sluggish pulse. Question was, could he get out of the slot without Harper swooping down on him like a hawk?
He could go out the way he had come in, and chance that Harper was distracted by the activity in the ravine; a faint hope at best. He peered around the boulder to his right. Didn't seem like a good choice considering that was where he felt Harper was holed up. Going forward would get him nothing but a headlong slide into disaster. His narrowed gaze turned left. The rocks that formed the slot angled back slightly from the rim of the gully, and the thorn bush overgrew that narrow ledge, leaving a smidgen of wriggle room. Vin thanked the Lord that he was built every bit as skinny as that ledge; a bigger feller would risk a tumble down the rocks.
He lay as flat as he could, and pushing the Winchester ahead of him, stealthily edged forward, slanting his body around the rocks until he was stretched out full-length on his belly. His leg and hip fired pain that seemed to fizz up his backbone and jolt into his skull. He continued creeping forward, ever conscious of the drop to his right. The thorn bush raked his body and snagged in his clothing and hair, but he continued inching along until he felt a breeze brush against his cheek. That breath of air told him he had found a way back from the ravine to more even terrain. The setting sun struck through that opening, blinding him to what lay beyond it, and he cursed, squinting against it, as the light dazzled from his eyelashes.
He closed his eyes and laid his head down on his arms; weary, hurting, and now, starting to shiver, whether from shock, strain, or just the chill of the lengthening shadows, he didn't know. He had been so focused on getting himself along that ledge that he had ignored the gunfire from the ravine, trusting the others to do what was needed from that quarter. A bullet zinged an inch from his head, and he jerked in alarm. For a brief moment, he thought that Harper had him in his sights, and then as the impression settled, he realized the shot had come from his right. He was screened from Harper, but Jesus Christ, he was clearly visible from the other side of the ravine!
Ain't no time ta take a rest, Tanner. Git a move on. Gritting his teeth, he shoved the Winchester ahead of him, resuming his crawl towards safety. A second bullet tore through his sleeve, burning flesh, and a third kicked up the dirt no more than two feet from his head. Shit, shit! Never did much care t'be target practice. He drew his knees up and rolled, trusting that his recollection of the lay of the land was correct and that he was not launching himself down an embankment lined with rocks and thorns.
+ + + + + + +
It was Ezra who noticed Vin's precarious situation first. He had paused to reload his pistol, glancing up when he heard a shot, and saw Tanner, just a slim, dusty shape moving along a ledge that looked about as wide as an inch.
"Jesus God, Almighty..." he breathed.
Larabee heard that whisper in a lull of gunfire. He loosed one final shot, bringing down the fourth outlaw, and turned to see what had so startled the gambler. Standish was staring at the cliff face, his eyes wide. Chris followed the direction of Ezra's stare and felt his stomach clench in fear. The same setting sun that struck Vin's eyes, lit his body in painfully clear relief against the cliff. Chris could see what Ezra had not been able to just a few moments earlier; the dark bloodstains on his flank and thigh. Then a shot rang from above Chris' head and Tanner jerked as the bullet scorched his arm. He slewed around and saw a dark shape moving along the ridge overhead.
Roche.
"That bastard's mine!" Chris spat savagely and took off before Ezra could protest that a man with only one good arm shouldn't go rock climbing after a man with gun. He was about to follow Larabee when he heard a quick slide of rock and Buck's hoarse shout.
"Mr. Wilmington --"
Buck grabbed his arm before he could speak. His face was white beneath a coating of red dust and redder blood that leaked from a cut over his eyebrow. Ezra had never seen a look closer to despair on that face; it made him feel queasier than he already did.
"The stagecoach, my God, Ezra -- it overturned!" Buck gulped. "JD --"
Ezra cast a desperate glance back at the ledge in time to see Vin roll aside and vanish from sight. Chris was making his way up the opposite slope faster than he had any right, given that a few hours earlier he'd been out flat. Ezra sighed. There was nothing he could do to help either Larabee or Tanner, but there might be something he could do for Buck and JD. He nodded, and followed Buck as he made his way as quickly as he could to the site of the accident.
The stagecoach lay on its side, one wheel still turning lazily. Two bodies lay on the rocks nearby. Ezra went to the driver and laid his hand on the man's throat. Dead. He'd been shot, but that wasn't what had killed him, the gambler figured. The pool of blood at the back of his head spoke of a more catastrophic injury. He left the driver and went to Buck's side as he knelt by JD.
"Is he --" the words stuck in Ezra's throat. "How is he?"
Buck looked up at Ezra, relief and fear written plain on his honest features. "He's alive. Busted up, but alive."
Ezra pulled a flask from his jacket and held it out to Buck. "Perhaps this will help rouse him?"
Buck slipped his hand beneath JD and lifted his head. "C'mon, kid. Buck's here. Wake up ... JD, ya hear me?" He tipped a small amount of brandy onto the boy's lips, and JD responded with a small cough, and then a groan. He opened dazed eyes. "Buck? ‘m I dead?"
"Not by a long shot, son. Just lie easy."
"Got shot, Buck."
"Yeah, I noticed. Ain't too bad. C'n you move yer arms an' legs?"
JD nodded. "Think so. Yeah. Hurts ..." he bit his lip. "I coulda stopped the stage if I hadn't been shot, Buck."
"I'll bet you could have," Buck said gently. "Just lie still. We got a bit of moppin' up t'do before we can mosey outta here."
JD's eyes widened in sudden memory. "Judge Travis was inside the coach."
"Aw, shit," Buck cursed. "Ezra!" But the gambler had heard and was already at the overturned coach.
"Need some help here, Buck." For once, Ezra's elegant speaking had left him as he tugged futilely at the door. "The door's jammed --" With a last hard pull, and a scream of splintering wood, he succeeded. A hand reached over the sill, and grabbed Ezra's wrist, nearly stopping the gambler's heart until he heard the familiar gravelly voice.
"Are you going to help me out of here, son?"
"Judge Travis?" Ezra tried to suppress his gasp of relief. He might have failed Mary in his promise to watch after Chris Larabee, but at least the Judge seemed to be in one piece. "Sir, are you all right?"
"I will be once I'm out of here. Pull, damn you!" Ezra pulled.
Travis emerged, dusty, bruised, and limping, but otherwise unhurt. "What the hell is going on?" he asked gruffly. "Did you get that bastard Roche?"
Ezra shook his head. "If Mr. Larabee has his way --"
"Mr. Larabee did not have his way." That voice made both Travis and Ezra look up in surprise. Chris slid down the last few feet of incline and walked slowly over to the coach. "The sonofabitch vanished." He took off his hat and slapped it hard against his leg. "Shit."
"My sentiments, exactly, Mr. Larabee. But we do have other concerns," Ezra suggested with a tilt of his head towards Buck and JD.
"Hell ..." Chris said wearily. By now, JD was propped up in Buck's arms, looking nearly translucent he was so pale. Chris stood over him for a moment before he sank to his knees. "How're you doin', son?" he asked gently.
JD glanced up in surprise at the softness he so seldom heard from the gunslinger. "I'll be all right, Chris. Just bruised up some, and I got shot." Why that fairly prosaic statement should make Larabee go pale, and startle him upright, JD couldn't say.
Vin. Chris' blood drained from his face. He whirled with a flutter of black duster. "Ezra, with me. We gotta get Vin."
+ + + + + + +
He had been right. There was no precipitous drop on the other side of the rocks, just more rocks and thorny bushes to take their toll on his already battered body. Vin lay on his back, exhausted and too wary of attracting unwanted attention to move. He felt the length of his rifle alongside his arm, and he stretched out his fingers, seeking the lever, hoping to hook it and bring it closer to his body. He found the purchase he sought and inched the Winchester along the ground, then wrapped his hand around the narrow neck of the stock, carefully swinging the barrel to slant across his hip. He worked the lever, wincing at the sound that seemed as loud as an explosion in the vast silence around him. Then he lay in wait for Red Harper and the shot that he felt must come.
The footsteps approached from behind him, not what he had expected. He tried to roll to his stomach, hoping to reverse the angle of the rifle, but his body betrayed him with weakness, and when he raised the barrel from his hip, it was caught by a strong hand and held immobile.
"Don't think ya want ta do that, cowboy. Seein' as it's gonna take me and Ezra both t'get you down from here."
"Chris?" His gaze traveled up the length of Larabee's dusty, black-clad body. His eyes opened wide for a moment before they lost focus, and his hand slipped nervelessly from the trigger.
It was a brief lapse of consciousness, brought to an end by the bite of brandy on his tongue and a sharp stab of pain as Ezra removed the blood-soaked bandanna from his leg. Vin opened his eyes a slit. "Y'all ‘ve gotta find some new way of torturin' me, ‘cause this one's gittin' old real fast," he rasped.
He heard Chris' soft laughter, and felt it as well, propped as he was against Larabee's chest. He tilted his head. "Did ya git ‘em, Chris? Harper and Roche?" The movement of the gunslinger's chest as he exhaled a sigh was answer enough. "Shit."
"They're gone, both of ‘em, Vin. Slipped away with the shadows. Guess neither of ‘em wanted to fight in the dark and figured we were all too busted up t' give chase."
Vin frowned. "Are we?"
Again that soft laughter, more rueful this time. "Hell, yes, I reckon we are."
A sudden vision flashed back to Vin. "JD?" he asked, his eyes fearful.
Chris nodded. "Yeah. Oh, he'll be fine, but it'll take some mending time. Buck and Ezra's the only ones in decent enough shape t' nursemaid the rest of us poor cripples."
"Speaking of which, may I have the use of your neckerchief, Mr. Larabee?" Standish extended his hand, and Chris passed it over. He posed a silent question to Ezra as he did, and the gambler's eyes flickered a response. "We should remove ourselves from this uncomfortable position, Mr. Larabee. I believe our compatriot will withstand the trip." Meaning, Vin was in no immediate danger, but required more care than the rough doctoring that Ezra was able to provide.
Chris held Ezra's flask to Vin's lips one more time. "Take a good swallow, pard. You're gonna need it."
Vin complied. Weak as he was, he wanted to be away from this place. Using Ezra's shoulder for support, with Chris lending a hand when necessary, they made their way to the camp Judge Travis and Buck had set up for the night.
When they got there, Buck was gone, JD was sleeping, and Judge Travis was standing guard by the stagecoach. Chris left Vin's side. "Where's Buck?" he asked, knowing that he wasn't going to like the answer.
"There is ten thousand dollars in Federal payroll in that coach. Somehow, I just didn't feel easy guarding it all night with two killers out there on the loose. Mr. Wilmington went to Vista City to bring back the cavalry."
Chris spat. "Should've been their duty to begin with." He gave the Judge a hard study. "We need to talk when we get back to Four Corners." He stalked away, cold anger burning in the pit of his stomach when he looked at JD and Vin. Buck had brought down their own horses before he had left, and Chris went through the saddlebags, hoping that he still had the medical kit Nathan had packed. He found it, plus blankets, and his poncho. No food, because none of them had expected to be out this long. It was going to be a slow, cold, hungry night. And for the two wounded men, possibly deadly.
+ + + + + + +
The fire he built gave off scarcely enough heat to blunt the chill of the desert night, but Titus Roche wasn't in a mood to appreciate it, if it had radiated the warmth of a cast iron stove. He was burning with anger, cursing the day he had ever set eyes on Chris Larabee and those men who rode with him. His plans had gone to Hades, his money, his reputation, his life, because of that black-clad devil.
Ten thousand dollars in payroll wasn't even the beginning of the cost. Fuck the ten thousand dollars -- he would have had a hundred times that much had his plans come to fruition! Instead he was looking at a life on the run. An outlaw. He might still salvage something if he could wire his bank in St. Louis; but to do that, he'd have to get through Larabee and his gang of renegade peacekeepers. He needed Red Harper, but he hadn't seen hide nor hair of the bastard since he caught sight of him riding away from that God-forsaken gully where his dreams had wrecked right along with the stagecoach.
He kicked a branch into the fire, raising sparks and smoke, scattering the coals.
"You might regret that later, Roche. Gets mighty cold out here at night."
Roche went for his gun, but Red Harper already had drawn a bead on him. "God damn you!" he cursed, and moved his hand away, knowing how deadly the gunslinger could be. "Thought I'd never see you again."
Red Harper's teeth glinted. "We have a contract, Mr. Roche. A thousand dollars each when Larabee and Tanner are laid dead at your feet. Remember? You still honoring that deal?"
Roche hawked and spat. "You didn't do so well this afternoon, Harper. Lettin' that no good tracker get away from you!"
Harper's smile made Roche take a step back. "I marked him, didn't I? Left a trail of blood behind him." He looked overhead at the frosty stars. "Night like this could kill a man if he's weakened enough. You keep your end of the bargain, Roche, and I'll keep mine."
"I'll keep it, Harper. Believe me, it will be a pleasure to pay you." His eyes glittered hard and cold. "If we ride tonight, we can make Eagle Bend by dawn. Before word can spread."
"And then?"
"We go back to Purgatorio. And wait for Larabee and Tanner to come hunting."
+ + + + + + +
Buck returned with the cavalry, bringing food, blankets, and something more precious; a doctor to look over JD and Vin. He was gruff, not ungentle, but efficient, slapping a rag soaked with chloroform over JD's nose, flipping him over, and taking the bullet out with a speed that told Chris he had been battle-trained.
Vin was more resistant. He didn't like being touched; made him feel exposed and itchy, and he rejected the chloroform, even though he knew it was gonna hurt like hellfire. He nearly refused treatment, but accepted the logic of getting the bullet out of his leg, if he was going after Harper and Roche. And he *was* going after them, tomorrow. He thought on that as he felt the surgeon's probe dig deep, letting pain fuel his determination, even when it nearly made him puke. The surgeon's speed was a mercy, the agony, brief; when it was over he bolted down a shot of whiskey and collapsed against his saddle with a groan of relief.
"Thanks, Doc." The surgeon was wiping his bloody hands. He fixed his patient with a sharp look.
"You could have had it easier." He started winding a length of linen around Vin's thigh.
Vin shook his head. "Hate not bein' full awake. Rather be hurt than half-there."
"You in the war?" The doctor glanced up from his bandaging. The expression shadowing those blue eyes took him aback momentarily, but it was gone before he could put a name to it.
Vin laughed softly. "Would y'have hurt me more if I's on the wrong side?" His smile slanted up, and the doctor saw how young he must have been during that conflict. A boy. Now a man so wary that he wouldn't take the comfort of anesthesia when he needed it.
He tied off the strip of cloth. "Let me take a look at that other wound."
"Ain't no --" The futility of arguing with the doctor forced Vin to admit what he had been hoping to hide. "It's jist a scratch, ain't hardly worth the time." He moved the blanket aside reluctantly, flinching at the touch of the cold air on raw flesh.
The doctor's hands were gentle in his examination, sensing that his usual brusque treatment would set this man to flight like an injured wild creature. "Should be stitched," he suggested.
"But it don't hafta be?" Vin's mouth was set in a stubborn draw, and the doctor frowned at him.
"Listen, son. If I thought you were gonna lay in bed with your feet up, I'd leave it go. But you don't look the type. You want to ride tomorrow, then let me take care of it for you. If not, you'll lose more blood, get weak and slow. Can you afford that?" Bristly brows over level dark eyes, made Vin reconsider.
"Hell. Then git it over with, Doc."
Chris had heard that exchange, and came over with the whiskey bottle. He poured a goodly amount into Vin's cup. "Drink it."
"Don't want --"
"Drink," Chris ordered. Vin drank, and the effect of the liquor on his empty stomach and weakened body blunted the doctor's treatment to the point that he was able to bear it without shaming himself. Still hurt like the Devil was playin' piano on the nerves running up his spine, and made the sweat start on his forehead and his stomach go all shivery inside. When it was over, and he was bandaged up, he thanked the Doc for his trouble. Then, exhausted, half-drunk, and tired enough not to care, he curled tightly into what body warmth he had left and fell asleep.
The doctor rose to his feet, meeting Chris' eyes with a rueful smile. "He always this ornery?"
"Hell, no. You got him in a weakened state." He held out his hand. "Thanks for lookin' after him and JD."
"Thank Captain Stevens. I'm here at his request."
"They gonna be alright?"
The doctor looked over to where JD was sleeping with Buck sitting near if he should wake and need something. "They should be. Don't know why that boy ain't addled six ways from Sunday, but the young are tougher than we realize. As for Mr. Tanner -- I'd be happier knowing he was going to get some rest for the next few days, but I figure he's like you, Mr. Larabee."
"Me?"
"You've been favoring your left shoulder all evening. You need to have it looked at?"
Chris shook his head. "It's been doctored. I'm fine."
The doctor's eyes glinted brightly. "That's what I thought you'd say, son."
"I'll make sure Tanner don't kill himself tomorrow." The real challenge would be making sure no one else would, either, Chris thought grimly..
"Good. Keep him warm, tonight. Make sure he eats something when he wakes up. No more whiskey, Mr. Larabee. Water."
"Fer him or me?"
The doctor laughed out loud then. "Both of you!"
Orrin Travis crossed over to them. He was still limping from a badly bruised ankle, and his face was haggard. He listened to the doctor's assessment of the wounded men, feeling guilt draped over him like a lead mantle. But he had a duty to fulfill, and by God, he would do it. He wasn't foolish enough to put the entire blame on his own shoulders, but he would do his damnedest to rectify it. He would have no more blood on his hands; not from these men who had risked their lives more times than he could count.
He faced Larabee straight on, eyes level. "I'll be riding back with Captain Stevens to Vista City. There's official business that needs my attention. I'll see you back in Four Corners tomorrow." He saw Larabee's face harden and knew the gunslinger was thinking that he was dodging accountability. "Roche won't get away with this, Chris. I'll make sure every law enforcement officer in the country knows exactly what he is."
"Shame you didn't see that a lot sooner, Judge." Larabee's voice was cold, and Travis could only respond to that painful accusation with a short nod.
"We'll have that talk, Chris. I owe you that much, and more."
Chris kept a tight rein on his temper and his tongue. He watched the cavalry troop ride out, and went back to the fire. There was a camp kettle of soup on the boil, and he realized that he was famished. He was also tired enough to stand there staring at the kettle as if he wasn't sure what action to take next. His knees seemed to buckle of their own accord, and he sank down cross-legged, too weary to do anything else.
Ezra was the first to admit he looked after his own skin first, but Larabee's exhaustion was so evident that he dished out a mug of the soup and handed it to him. He gave Chris a penetrating study. "Mary Travis would kill me with my own gun, if you were to return to Four Corners in less than the condition you left it, Mr. Larabee." He had watched the exchange with Travis, and didn't know who he sympathized with more: Larabee, who was bleeding right along with JD and Vin, or the Judge, who had been facing an impossible choice.
"Miz Travis is a remarkable woman," he said evenly. "And courageous in a way that borders on the edge of reckless. It is no wonder that the Judge values her safety and that of her son more than his own life."
Chris turned to him. He had a sudden flashback to the night of the dinner; Roche bending possessively over Mary's hand, kissing it in a way that he had no right. "Did Roche threaten Mary? Did she tell you that?"
Ezra held up his hand as if that could ward off the sudden flare of Chris' anger. "I believe that if he had directly threatened Mary, she would have made certain that he would never be able to procreate. However, if Roche had made that threat to the Judge ..." Ezra let his voice trail off suggestively. "You do the mathematics, Mr. Larabee, and tell me if it adds up."
It did. Chris ate his soup in silence, as he worked things over in his mind. Ezra had confirmed his worst fears, and it was suddenly urgent that he get back to Four Corners as quickly as possible. When he had finished, he went to see how Vin was doing. He was still huddled tight, his hands fisted in a wad of blankets beneath his chin. Judging from the tension in his body, he wasn't deeply asleep. He looked cold, and Chris thought that getting some of the soup down him would give him some heat in his belly. He touched Vin's shoulder.
Vin came awake fast, forgetting that he was hurt and tried to sit up; the pain in his leg jolting him into a gasp. His hands were clawed, ready to wrap around his assailant's throat, but Chris was faster, catching Vin's wrists in a secure hold until awareness returned.
Vin blinked into Chris' concerned face. "Shit, Larabee. You got some sorta death wish, wakin' me up like that?"
Chris released his clasp, and gave him a wry smile. "You couldn't fight off Nettie, the shape you're in, pard." He offered a mug of soup. "Thought this might help."
Vin pushed himself upright, surprised that he was hungry despite his pain. The soup was hot, thick with barley and chunks of beef and onions. It didn't have a heck of a lot of flavor, but it was a heartening weight in his middle, and he ate it eagerly. When he had finished, Chris settled in beside him and lit a cheroot. "Better?" he asked.
Vin nodded. "Reckon I'll be up t'ridin' tomorrow. An' b'fore you look at me cross-eyed, Larabee, the doc said I could, and I intend t' finish what got started here."
"The doc said you could ride back t'Four Corners, not go chasin' after Red Harper."
"Ya aimin' t'stop me?" Vin asked, his eyes glittering dangerously in his pale face. All humor was gone from him, and Chris knew better than to argue with the man when he was set on something. He'd learned the strategies of a flank attack in the war, and had discovered that in order to make Tanner see reason when he was fired up, you couldn't go at him head on, but had to find a vulnerable point that he didn't suspect.
"Hell, no! I want Harper as much as you do, and Roche even more. But I ain't fool enough to think I c'n take‘em down easy, when I'm tired, hungry, and hurtin'." His green eyes challenged Vin to refute the argument.
He couldn't. Not feeling the way he did. He drew a deep sigh. "Don't want ‘em t' git away, Chris. I ain't bein' proud r'stubborn. I jist don't want any more folks t'git hurt. I got a bad feelin' about this, an' I want it t'be over."
Chris echoed his sigh. "Yeah. I'm with you there." He ground out his cheroot and settled lower on his spine. "And I'll be with you when you're ready to ride, partner."
"Reckon I knew that." Simple words with the weight of utter faith and trust behind them. It was all he said before he lay down and curled into himself again.
Chris reached for two of the blankets the Cavalry had left, and spread one over Vin, and one over himself. Suddenly his entire body was aching with fatigue and he didn't think he could stay awake if his life depended on it. The sounds of the night were all around him; the horses stamping softly, Buck's rhythmic snores, the click and shuffle of Ezra's cards as he played out a hand of solitaire, the yelp of a coyote in the distance. He listened as Vin's breathing deepened and slowed, this time into true sleep. He sat there, his eyes closed, but allowing the uneasy edge of his nerves hold him alert, like a dozing cougar.
PART FOUR
Dawn came clear and hard and left a layer of frost glittering on the rocks. In the attenuated early morning light, the scrapes, bruises, and various injuries suffered the previous day stood out in sharp relief, and made worry gnaw at Chris' gut. JD was making an attempt to brazen out how much he was hurting, Chris suspected for as much Buck's sake as his own. But the kid was tough and resilient, and that cocky attitude of his would carry him back to Four Corners just fine.
Vin looked like death warmed over; his fine features hollow and pale with pain and the cold he seemed to feel more sharply than the others. He was hunched over a cup of coffee, looking as if a stiff breeze would knock him over. Probably would, and then the damn tracker'd get surly with whoever tried to help him up, stubborn bastard that he was, Chris thought sourly.
Vin took a sip of coffee, and without looking up spoke in a soft rasp. "If'n ya don't stop studyin' on me, Larabee, I know a Comanche trick ‘r two t'make ya stop, an' ain't none of ‘em pleasant."
Chris turned away so the others wouldn't see his smile. Surly was a good sign. Meant Vin was healin'. "Well," he drawled, as deadly slow as Vin ever was in speaking. "Reckon we'd better ride, partner."
Chris let Buck take the lead, choosing the pace to suit JD's injuries. He figured if he had taken point, Vin would have been griping about the pace; wanting to go harder than was wise for him, and JD would have gamely stuck with the tracker out of sheer pride. Better he should think that JD was the one causing concern.
Vin rode beside Chris, anxious for speed, and suspecting all along that Larabee had put Buck in the lead on purpose. As much as he wanted to be mad at the man, deep in his heart he was grateful that he wouldn't have to prove to the world that he was all right. His leg hurt like the blazes, and if not for the terrain bein' so rocky, he would have hooked it over the pommel like a lady riding sidesaddle so the muscles wouldn't be forced to work guiding Peso. And his hip ... Lord, the stitches the doc had set were pulling something fierce, making his outraged nerves send up an unholy protest at their abuse. His back ached like a sore tooth, he had a simmering headache from the whiskey he'd drunk the night before, and all in all, he couldn't rightly recall feeling so awful without being close to dead. He cast a sidelong glimpse at Larabee, wondering if it would be worth making Chris mad enough to put him out of his misery ...
Chris felt rather than saw that glance. He'd been holding his mount slightly back from Peso just to keep his eye on Tanner, and make sure he wasn't about to slide out of the saddle. They would be back in Four Corners in less than an hour. Vin would be lucky to make it that far, if looks were any indication of how he felt. The man didn't have enough flesh on him to disguise how much he was hurting; those fine, stark bones betrayed him too easily. Vin was tough; his spare frame could take a hell of a lot of punishment, but it was still just flesh and bone, not leather and iron like he seemed to think.
Chris lightly spurred forward so he was directly alongside Peso. "You hangin' on there, partner?"
Vin turned exhausted, amused eyes to Larabee. "Could ask you the same thing. Yer lookin' frayed about the edges yerself, cowboy." There was no sting behind the taunt, and Chris smiled.
"That ain't gonna make me mad enough t'shoot you, Tanner."
Vin laughed, then bit his lip as pain flared. "Mighta knowed ya'd figger that one out." He breathed a sigh. "Reckon I'll make it home alright, Chris. What ta do once we git there, that's gonna take some ponderin'."
"S'long as you're ponderin' it flat on your back."
"Cain't afford t'lay low, Chris." Vin was too tired to force any anger into his voice.
"Can't afford not to -- and you know it. You're in no shape -- hell, look at us, Vin. We all need rest. One day, that's all I'm askin'."
"Shit, Chris. They could be ta Hell and gone by then."
"Could be, but I'd be willin' to bet they're not. A shootist like Harper's got a reputation to protect. Ain't gonna let some no account bounty hunter take the shine off it. And Roche'd stick around just to watch him kill you."
"I ain't the only one he's gunnin' fer, Chris. Or you fergot that hole in yer shoulder?" Chris made a derisive sound in his throat, and Vin spoke after a moment of silence. "Harper ain't jist a gunslinger -- he ain't jist a fast on the draw and leave ya in th'dust kinda shootist'. He's like me, Chris."
"A marksman?"
Vin's mouth quirked in a slight, grim smile. "Reckon that's a polite word fer it, but hell, I ain't never been po-lite." His acidic tone mocked his own drawl. "A sniper. Harper's trained, same as me. Prob'ly during the war."
For a long time, the only sound was the even clip of their horses' hooves, before Vin spoke again, his voice heavy with regret. "They got us young n' sharp-eyed. An' told us we's doin' the righteous work of the Lord, servin' our country. Told us we was heroes, not killers." Vin spat. "Made us real proud t'be able t'shoot a man whilst he's takin' a piss on a dark night." He sighed. "You don't never fergit somethin' like that. You c'n put it away, ‘times even fergive yerself. But not fergit it."
"War made us all killers, partner," he said softly, remembering.
"Did ya like it, Chris? Killin'?"
"No." That came later. After Sarah and Adam were ashes and pain.
"Harper likes it. Likes t'lie in wait, watchin' fer his shot. Likes t'feel that trigger under his finger and know he c'n take a life like snuffin' out a candle." Vin snapped his fingers, and Chris blinked. He'd nearly been mesmerized by Vin's soft voice, speaking unbearable truths, but for one: Vin Tanner was nothing like Red Harper, and he never would be.
"Is he better than you?"
"Figger that's somethin' I'll hafta find out the hard way." Vin's mouth twitched again. "Tell ya, though. He keeps smokin' them cigarettes, he'll be findin' out how good I am."
"I'd like to see that," Chris commented dryly.
"Hell, Larabee. Nathan'll kill ya first fer runnin' out on ‘im, ‘fore ya git a chance."
The words were light, but an uneasy caveat that lay beneath them made Chris give him a sharp, hard look. There was a small furrow of pain between Vin's brows, and Chris didn't think it was entirely physical. They rode the rest of the way in silence, arriving in Four Corners as the town was stirring to life.
+ + + + + + +
Mary saw them first and came running from the Clarion offices with an ink-stained rag still clutched in her hand. She hurried over to Chris, grabbing at his stirrup before he had a chance to dismount. There were about six questions all warring for expression in her eyes, and Chris was too tired to answer any of them immediately. He dismounted, just brushing his fingers lightly across Mary's arm for reassurance, before he went to Vin's side. He waited as Vin painfully swung his wounded leg over the pommel, and using Chris' shoulder as a crutch, kicked his other foot free of the stirrup and slid down.
"Thanks, pard." Chris caught him lightly around the waist until he was steady. "Reckon I'll go git some rest ..."
"First place you're goin' is t'see Nathan, Tanner. No arguments."
"Hell, Chris. Ain't nuthin' wrong with me that a few hours a'sleep won't cure." He stepped away from Chris' support and managed to catch himself just before his knees buckled. This time it was Mary at his side.
"You're hurt, Vin!" She scolded gently. "You should see Nathan." Blue eyes implored. "Please?"
Vin shot Chris a look that would have been mortal if there'd been lead in it before he limped over to Buck and JD. "C'mon, JD. Reckon you n'me gotta git looked at b'fore we git any peace."
"I'm fine, Buck!" JD protested. "Just a little sore, honest. The doctor said --"
"Son, you was so woozy, that man coulda been a horse doctor and ya wouldn't a cared." He was smiling, but there was an underlying concern there; he didn't like the way the boy's eyes were bright and hot, or the flush beneath the growth of beard.
"He wasn't no horse doctor, was he Vin?" A hint of doubt behind the scorn.
Vin shook his head. "Don't know, JD. He was with the cavalry, an' everybody knows they treat their horses better'n their men. Right, Buck?"
"Right. So's ya better let Nathan take a look at what he done ta you." Buck winked at Vin. "C'mon, you too, Vin. Don't wanta scare JD, here."
"Dammit, Buck! I ain't scared!" JD protested, and was promptly escorted towards Nathan's clinic by Buck and the limping tracker.
Chris watched, chuckling softly to himself, and then turned to Mary. "Thank you. Vin wouldn't have gone if you hadn't given him a push."
Mary's eyes were grave. "What happened out there, Chris? Where's Orrin?"
"The Judge is fine. He went with the cavalry to Vista City last night. Said he had official business there."
"What happened?" she repeated.
Chris sagged against his horse. "Mary --"
"I'm sorry, Chris. You should be seeing Nathan, too." He looked very haggard, very tired. Impulsively, she laid her hand aside his cheek, and for a gratifying moment, he allowed that touch; soft, warm, and comforting, until he remembered who he was, and who she was.
He stepped back from her. "I will. He'll have his hands full right now."
"You need to rest, " she said.
"I need coffee and food." He cast a look at the saloon. It wasn't entirely true. He needed a drink -- a stiff whiskey knocked back down his throat and burning in his gullet. He could taste it cutting through the dust, he wanted it so bad. But Mary was looking at him with worry shining in her eyes, and about a thousand questions that he owed her answers to, given what she had done for him. "Come along, and I'll try to answer some of those questions you're bitin' back on."
"All right." She paced beside him in silence, gauging the gravity of the situation by his preoccupation. He didn't say a word until they were seated at a table, and he had his coffee in front of him. His hand shook slightly as he raised the cup to his lips. Mary cast a glance at Inez, who nodded and returned to the table with a bottle of whiskey.
Grateful, Chris poured some into his coffee, and set the bottle aside. Any more and he'd fall asleep with his head in his plate of eggs. But it sure tasted fine going down, and even if the warmth and strength it gave was transitory, at least he could face Mary's questions.
"What happened?" Mary asked when he had finished eating.
He answered her patiently, but with as few words as possible, confirming her suspicions about Titus Roche, and causing lines of worry to form at the corners of her eyes. "Should I be concerned for Billy?" she asked.
Chris shook his head. "I don't think the boy's in any danger, Mary. Not since Roche's been found out. It's you I'm worried about."
"Me?"
"Vin and me have got a pretty fair idea of where Roche and Harper are headed, but until we have proof, I'd like it if you'd let Ezra keep an eye on you."
"Do I have a choice?"
"No." His fingers came down on hers, warm and hard. "Promise me."
"I-I promise." As if he had held out a Bible to her.
He withdrew his hand and shoved himself from the table. "I'm going to see Nathan. I'll send Ezra along."
Mary nodded. For a moment she regarded him with that warm gravity that made an ache rise in him. Then a mischievous light danced in her eyes. "One more question. Chris, was he really a horse doctor?"
Weary, hurt, facing a future that wasn't much brighter than his past, Chris Larabee cast back his head and laughed.
+ + + + + + +
"That hurt?" Nathan asked as he prodded a bruise along Vin's ribs, making his patient nearly leap from the chair.
"Jesus! Ya go stabbin' a man with yer bony finger, ‘course it hurts!"
"Might be cracked."
"It ain't cracked. Had cracked ribs b'fore," Vin said rebelliously. "Are ya finished?"
"You know I ain't. Drop yer trousers and lemme see that hole in yer leg."
"Aw, shit .." He snatched the blanket Nathan was offering and obeyed the healer's command reluctantly. He'd had about enough poking and prodding and was ready to bolt, bullet wound or no, just to get away from being touched again.
Nathan sighed. Treating any of the other men was enough of a chore. Ask ‘em if something was wrong, and the answer was the same, I'm fine. Bleeding all over the floor, and they was fine. But treating Tanner was a whole other animal. You had t'be gentle, ‘cause he'd been hurt so bad in the past, but touch him too soft, and he'd break away like you'd held a lit match to him. Shy as a virgin bride, too. Which Nathan sure as hell couldn't figure out, since he'd lived with Comanche and Kiowa, been in the Army, and in the wilderness -- none of which disposed a man to modesty as far as Nathan could see. Sadly, he reckoned there was times in Vin's life when all he had left was a dignity of soul afforded by the privacy of his body, and that Nathan understood all too well.
Comprehending, he nodded. "I'll be quick, I promise. Jes' need t'see what's going on."
"I ‘preciate it, Nathan. I do," Vin said softly. "But I'm fine."
"Yeah, I know." He finished his examination. The doctor had done a good job on both wounds; they were clean and ought to heal well as long as Vin didn't abuse them. Nathan would have liked to tie him down for forty-eight hours or so, but that wasn't going to happen unless hell froze over. He straightened with a sigh. "Yer outta here, Vin. Git some rest. Stay off that leg fer a while."
Vin left the clinic, grateful for the freedom even if he still found it astonishing that someone could not only care that he was hurt, but make an effort not to hurt him more in tending to it. He went to his wagon, stripped off his bloodstained and filthy clothes, then wrapped in several blankets, lay down to take the first easy rest he'd had in three days. For a while his brain continued to fire worrisome thoughts about Red Harper and Roche, but eventually exhaustion claimed him and he sank down into a deep sleep.
When he woke, the reddish light of sunset was coming through the canvas. He stretched cautiously, feeling every bruise, ache, and stitch, but his mind was clear and his headache was gone. Deciding that he needed to be clean more than he needed to listen to Nathan's cautions, he went to the bathhouse and had a long soak to take the ache out of his back and ribs. Then feeling cleansed and hollow, he went to find some food.
Buck was in the saloon, sporting a rackish white bandage around his forehead and nursing a beer. He nodded to Vin and straightened one of his long legs, shoving the chair across from him free so Vin could join him. Inez brought him some savory stew and a beer, and when he had eaten, things seemed a lot more in focus than they had a few hours earlier. He sat back in his customary slouch and eyed Buck.
"Chris been here yet?"
"Last I saw of Larabee, he was too sound asleep ta snore. How're you doin'?"
"Better." Short answers were the best. "You?"
Buck grinned. "Better."
"JD?"
"Well, when Casey showed up all distressed over his bein' shot, JD decided she made a pretty good nurse. She was sponging his *fevered* brow when I left. And he was lovin' every minute of it."
Vin chuckled. "Smart kid."
"Smarter ‘n you an' me, pard. All we got was Nathan."
Vin sighed and slid an inch lower in his chair. "We gotta figger out what t'do, Buck. I was ponderin' on it, an' I got a plan." He frowned, ran a hand through his hair. "Reckon I oughta wait fer Larabee, so's I don't hafta explain it twice."
"You won't have long t'wait, Vin. Chris just came through the door. I swear the man gives me the spooks sometimes. Durin' the war --"
"I's there, an' I don't need t'hear what it was like," Vin snapped, effectively startling Buck into silence. Then with color staining his cheeks, he softened his tone. "Don't like talkin' ‘bout it, Buck. Got other things on my mind."
"Sure, pard." Buck knew something of Vin's wartime experiences; enough to know that they had not been much like his own. He'd heard Lee had once said that it was a good thing war was so terrible, else they'd grow too fond of it -- knew exactly what the man meant, too. But he an' Chris had fought side by side; through the terrible, the glorious, and the absurd. And they'd talked on it plenty, too. Sarah, listening to them recount close calls, would get a tight, scared look sometimes, and when the talk had died down, she'd come and set a hand on Chris' shoulder, as if to make sure he was all right.
Chris came over and saw Buck's somber expression."How's JD doin'?" Casually, but with an eye to whether or not that was the issue at hand.
Buck grinned. "Kid's in clover, Chris. With Casey hoverin' over him like he was the most heroic thing she's ever seen. Don't worry none about him. I'm mighty proud a' that boy. I taught him everythin' he knows about women."
Vin snorted. "Reckon' that'd fill about a teacup."
"Now, too much at one sittin' c'd harm the boy ... all that charm, why it'd be like ..."
"Like steppin' in a pile a' bullshit, Buck?" Chris set his beer down with a thump, interrupting before Vin got disgusted and left the table.
Vin buried his laughter in his mug, and Buck just sat way back in his chair and regarded Chris with a lazy smile. "Takes a special man t'come out smellin' like a rose, Larabee -- and it ain't you!"
Vin made a strangled sound in his beer, choking until Chris gave him a whack across his back. "Ain't ya gonna shoot him, Chris?" he wheezed, struggling through tears of pain and mirth.
"It's tempting, real tempting. But I reckon he might come in handy in this little dust-up we've got waitin'." He drank deeply. "I thought you might have somethin' in mind."
His green eyes were sharp and hard, without a trace of weariness as they swept from Buck, to Vin. That look gave Buck a jolt in the pit of his stomach. It was not an expression you wanted to see in the eyes of a friend. He glanced at Vin, and got another jolt. The tracker's expression was a mirror of Larabee's. Lord, he was in the company of killers. He'd taken enough blood of his own -- quick and hot-tempered as he was, but not like Chris, not like Vin Tanner. To stalk and strike, that was not in him.
Vin's mouth curved into a bitter smile. "I reckon I do." He leaned forward from his slouch. "I'm willin' ta bet that Roche and Harper ‘ve gone to ground in Purgatorio. It's jist the sorta lair them snakes'd crawl to. That's where we gotta go." He looked at Chris, who was giving him a hard study.
"No." Flatly, leaving no room for argument. "You set foot in Purgatorio and you're a dead man. You know that."
"Hell, Larabee, I know that. I ain't loco. Didn't say I was gonna ride down the middle a' town, now did I?" Amusement glinted in his blue eyes. "Ya don't go reachin' inta a rattler's nest."
"How are ya gonna git the rattler out?" Buck asked. He canted his head towards Chris. "Cain't send him in, neither. And I have a feelin' that they wouldn't look too kindly on me. I already bit ‘em in the butt once."
"I was thinkin' about Josiah. Roche and Harper don't know him. Ain't never seen him. Anybody starts askin' questions, he c'n say he's one of them itinerant preachers, used to ride with Larabee, ‘til he figgered there warn't no way a savin' him." Vin's drawl was truly wicked, and Chris' mouth curled.
"Amen, brother. Where the hell is he anyways?"
"Prob'ly at that old chapel of his, pilin' on rocks," Buck said with a sad shake of his head. "Doin' his penance. You want me t'go after him?"
Chris gave him a small, tight smile. "If you don't mind, Buck. I'd appreciate it."
"Since you ask so nice, Mr. Larabee ..." Buck reached a long arm behind him and snagged his hat from the chair he had set it on. "Ya want me t'send him right on?"
Vin shook his head. "No. I need ta talk t' him first. Don't want him goin' in there blind." He gave Chris a sidelong look. "I got a friend there, name of Jake Esteban. Might be some help."
"Your sure about that?" Chris asked softly. "Somebody set Harper on us after we left Purgatory last time."
"Not Jake," Vin insisted. "I'd trust him with my life."
"I hope you're right, partner," Chris said grimly. "It just might come to that."
Buck listened to the silence that seemed to shiver over that small table. Blue eyes had locked with green, wordless but speaking more than words. There was an odd reassurance in that communication; no matter how deadly or grim the situation, these two men would see it through. He'd known Chris nearly half a lifetime, Tanner scarcely a heartbeat in comparison, but they were inseparable in his trust and confidence. He stood up. "I'll be back with Josiah. Rest easy, boys." His jaunty grin called only the faintest smiles from the other two men.
Vin rose from the table, straightening with a soft groan. Leg, hip, ribs -- shit, they all hurt. "Damn, Larabee. I must be gittin' old as you."
"You keep runnin' into bullets and fallin' down hillsides, and it's as close to old as you're gonna get." He stood next to Vin, steadying him until he was firm on his feet. "You up to this, partner?"
"Long as I don't hafta walk ‘cross the border, I'll make it." He smiled wearily. "As soon as Buck's back with J'siah, you come an' git me." He settled his hat, tapped the brim, and limped out of the saloon.
Chris' beer had lost its flavor. He set it aside and got a whiskey at the bar, then drifted outside to the boardwalk. He surveyed the town, quiet that evening except for the ambient noise from the saloon behind him. There was a light in the Clarion offices, and Chris recognized Ezra leaning against a post and smoking a cigar. Damn! What was Mary doing there this late? He set off at a quick-step, slowing when Ezra raised his hat.
"Fire, Mr. Larabee?"
"Why is she still here?"
"Well, that is something that you will have to ask Mrs. Travis. She has not elaborated to me, lowly minion that I am this evening."
"Get some dinner, Ezra. I'll keep Mary company for a while." He caught a glint of Ezra's gold incisor as the gambler grinned in the darkness. He ambled off, and Chris opened the door to the Clarion.
Mary was sitting at her desk. She was trying hard to look as if she were working, but when she dropped her shielding hand, her eyes were red-rimmed and weary. "Chris --"
All that was protective in him, all that was gallant that he would deny, rose to his heart. He crossed to the desk and took her shoulders in his hands, raising her to face him. It was not a gentle hold, for he was not by nature a gentle man, nor she a woman who required it. He was strong, and she felt that strength flowing into her body from his hands until she lifted her face to his.
"I'm all right," she said. "Truly."
"Are you?" he asked with a quizzical lift of one golden brow. "The Judge is safe. Billy is safe, and I'm sure as hell tryin' to make sure that you will be, too."
She bit her lip, trying not to blurt out that he was the cause of her worries. She knew him well enough to realize nothing would set him to flight faster than her fears for his safety. "I am," she insisted. She stepped away from his clasp, missing his warmth. "This came earlier. From a friend of mine in St. Louis." She held out a flimsy paper to him.
Chris read it. "It figures that scum like Roche would be involved in something like this. Did he do it?"
"They don't have proof. The girl's father insists that she was God-fearing and church-going -- that she would never kill herself." Mary shook her head. "I-I don't know. But I believe that Roche is responsible in some way for her death."
"We'll get him, Mary. I swear it."
She paled. He had that look about him, all hard-edged bones, and icy jade eyes that left little doubt as to his meaning. The warmth his touch had left on her arms faded. She reached for her shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders. "Will you walk me home?" she asked.
He nodded, feeling as if he had lost something that had nearly been in his grasp, but unsure what that was. He had been what he was for too long to drop it like a duster at his feet. And the shadowing sadness in Mary's eyes told him that she knew that as well.
She turned the lamp off, leaving the office in near darkness; not dark enough to dim the silvery blond hair that caught the light coming through the windows. It haloed her face with radiance. Chris opened the door, and she went out into the night. He paced behind her, his duster fluttering in the light breeze like the wings of a dark angel.
+ + + + + + +
Vin came instantly awake at the sound of footsteps outside his wagon. His hand shot out to his mare's leg next to his bedroll and he rose soundlessly to his feet despite the stab of pain from his hip and thigh. He worked the lever on the gun, the click nearly inaudible, and was about to shove aside the canvas flap with the barrel when he heard Buck's soft hiss. "Tanner, you up?"
The mare's leg lowered and Vin's heartbeat slowed. "Up enough t'bout put a hole in yer sorry hide. Ya don't go sneakin' up on a man when he's sleepin'," he whispered hoarsely. "You got Josiah with ya?"
"Left him at the church so's he could git cleaned up. He was out there, pilin' up rocks in the middle of the night. I ask ya, Vin. What's a man doin' heavin' around a bunch a stones in the dark?"
Vin pulled his buckskin jacket on, grabbed his hat, and strapped on his holster. He stepped down from the wagon gingerly. "Reckon ya'll have ta pose that question to Josiah. Me bein' partial to sleep, an' all."
"Oh, I did. Man said: If sin don't stop at night, penance don't neither." Buck mimicked Josiah's somber tones, his eyes narrowed with mirth at the same time. "Don't understand it, Vin. Me bein' partial to sin, an' all." He crowed with laughter, pleased at his own wit. The only response from the tracker was a deepening of the line at the corner of his mouth.
"I'll meet ya there, Buck. I'm gonna git Chris."
"He'll be there." When Vin's brow lifted curiously, Buck explained with a glint in his eye. "He was at Mary's. Standin' outside her door like he was guardin' the US Mint."
Somehow, Vin wasn't surprised. "Let's go, then. Only few hours ‘til dawn, and we got things that need doin'."
They met at the church; Chris coming from Mary's as soon as Ezra took up the post, Nathan, Vin, and Buck arriving together. Vin cast an uneasy eye at the healer who was watching him from beneath lowered brows. Didn't matter, there wasn't nothin' Nathan could do to stop him from leaving Four Corners.
He sat, his chair partially in the shadows on the edge of the lantern light. He had taken off his hat, instinctive to him when he was in Josiah's church. Even now, with the grim business at hand, there was something sacred about the small space, a protection over them all that he wished he could carry with him. He leaned forward, gathering his thoughts.
Chris could see it was difficult for him; a man who didn't like being at the center of anybody's attention, even if he was among men he trusted with his life. "Vin, ya got a plan?" he asked softly to give the tracker a way in to speaking.
Vin lifted his head. "Any of ya not believe that Roche and Harper've gone ta ground in Purgatorio?"
"You got proof?" Josiah asked.
"I will, as soon as the sun rises an' I c'n see. But I know, here ..." He laid his hand flat against his chest. And then, seeing skepticism in Buck's eyes, he flushed slightly. "Be'sides, they been there b'fore. Where else's they gonna go?"
Josiah nodded. "All right, Vin. Say they're holed up there. You n'Chris ‘ve got yer own personal lynching parties waitin' there, seems ta me."
Vin drew in a breath and turned to him. "That's why we need ya, preacher. Yer th'only one of us ain't got a noose or a bullet waitin' in Purgatorio. And I ain't sendin' ya in without backup." He reached into his pocket. "Man runs the saloon there, name a' Jake Esteban. Mention my name an' show him this." Vin opened his hand. A plugged silver dollar rested there, glinting in the light.
Chris laughed. "Take it that's your handiwork, partner."
"Damn straight." Vin flashed a rare, wide grin. "Jake bet I couldn't do it. Lost that one." He flipped it to Josiah, who caught it from the air and held it up to his eye.
"Mighty neat shootin' there, Vin."
Vin nodded once, his cheeks still showing a slight flush of pride. "Jake'll know I sent ya."
Josiah tucked the coin safely away and leaned back in the pew, fixing Tanner with a speculative look. "So far all you've told me, Brother Vin, is that I'm going inta Purgatory and looking for Jake Esteban. Seems that's only half of the picture."
"Well, the other half ain't so pleasant." He gave Josiah a hard and steady look. "Need ya t'bait the trap, Josiah. Need ya t'let it be known that me an' Chris is on their tails, lookin' ta bring ‘em in dead or alive. Figure that's t'only way t'flush them rattlers out."
Buck broke in to the momentary lull as the others weighed Vin's words. "How the hell are you gonna make sure they take that bait? What's to keep ‘em from holin' up in Purgatorio till Hell freezes over, pard?"
"Same thing as got ‘em there, Buck."
" ‘Vain hopes, vain aims, inordinate desires, Blown up with high conceits engendering pride,' " Josiah intoned solemnly. His blue eyes narrowed. "Pride, brother. It's gotta rankle with Roche, that you got in the way of his schemes."
Again that short nod of comprehension from the tracker. "That's why ya gotta offer me n'Chris up on a silver platter, J'siah." Vin's soft voice had the impact of a shout in that silence. Buck moved uneasily in his chair.
"I don't rightly like the sound a' that, Vin."
"Shit, Buck. I don't rightly like doin' it, but I know it's gotta be done. Least this way I c'n choose my ground. Not like b'fore. An' this time, won't be no one else fer me t' worry on." He looked at Chris. "Jist keep Roche off my back, partner."
Chris' answering grin had all the warmth of a snake's. "Be my pleasure, partner."
Suddenly all that seemed awry with that scheme came into focus. Nathan, whose presence had nearly been forgotten by the others, spoke. "Now hold on, you two! Neither one a you's at full strength. Jesus, Tanner! Yer scarcely able t'walk and pale as paste! An' Larabee -- two days ago you was flat on yer back! Now, you're talking ‘bout goin' up against Harper and Roche with no back-up? No way in Hell!"
"You gonna stop me?" Chris said lazily.
"You gonna shoot me if I do?" Nathan retorted.
"Might."
"Like Hell! Buck, talk some sense inta that man," the healer appealed.
"I don't like it, Chris. Nathan's right."
Larabee rose from his chair. "You got a better plan, Buck?"
"How about one that don't involve you bein' out there like a staked goat, or Vin playin' hide n' seek with a fuckin' sniper?"
"It ain't no game, Buck." Soft, entirely deadly. "Warn't no game durin' the war, an' I never took it as such." Vin uncoiled from his chair. "Cain't afford distractions -- havin' other folk on my mind, in my way. I ain't after no glory, ‘r out ta prove I'm the better shot. That ain't my way. Never was. I's a bounty hunter b'fore, brought ‘em in dead ‘r alive. Preferred live, but never blinked at th'other. Ain't gonna blink now." And he didn't, meeting Buck's eyes without flinching, steady in his resolve, even though it was not an easy thing he had revealed.
He turned to Josiah. "Will ya do it, Josiah?"
"I will," Josiah nodded gravely. "I'll leave at first light."
Vin looked around the room, inviting further objections, but they had been silenced. Then with a piece of charcoal from the stove, he drew out his plan. An hour later, he rose stiffly from his crouch, very conscious of Chris' tactful stance at his side, and the unobtrusive hand beneath his elbow, steadying him. "Reckon we ought'a git some rest. Still got a few hours b'fore dawn." He glanced at the gunslinger. "Chris?"
"With ya all the way, partner."
"Bucklin?" The test. Wilmington shook his head. "I still don't like it, but I reckon you know what yer doin'. And since Larabee's the most stiff-necked, stubborn sonofabitch ever born, I ain't gonna try to change his mind."
"Well, I appreciate it, Buck," Chris said with wry twist to his mouth, but grateful that he wouldn't have something else to justify to his oldest friend. "Right now, that rest sounds like a fine idea, Vin. Meet you at the livery first light?"
Tanner nodded, touched his hat brim to Josiah, and limped silently into the night.
Chris watched him go, then turned to Nathan, still glowering in the corner. "You want to say what you're thinkin' b'fore you choke on it?" he asked the healer.
Nathan had to bite back his smile at Chris' perception. "I done spoke my piece. I reckon you're gonna be alright, Chris. But I ain't so sure about Tanner. He ain't in no shape t'go chasin' around the way he's imaginin'. "
"Lay it out for me, Nathan."
"He's goin' up against an able-bodied man. Fast, prob'ly agile on his feet. Well-rested and fed. Vin's got a bad leg, a deep wound over his hip -- lost more blood than was good fer anybody. Takes time to replace blood, Chris. Time and rest. The right kinda food." He shook his head. "Hell, y'ain't paid me no mind b'fore. Don't know why this should be different."
Chris closed his eyes and drew a breath. "I'll do what I can t' make sure he'll be all right."
"Yeah," Nathan said bitterly. "You will. But who's gonna be on your tail, Larabee?"
The gunslinger's slash of a mouth twitched slightly. "I'm grateful for the concern, but I can look after my own. Been doin' it fer a while now. B'sides you just said I was fine."
"I said you was gonna be alright -- never said fine. You bring both a' yourselves back alive an' in one piece. Then we'll talk gratitude."
Chris turned away to hide his burgeoning smile. It was still a surprise to him that anybody cared whether he lived or died. He'd been living on that edge for so long that he had ceased to care himself. Inch by painful inch, this place, these men, were dragging him back from the brink. "I'll do my best, Nathan," he promised solemnly, looking back once, revealing a glint of green eyes. Then he was gone with a swirl of duster and a tread as light as a cat's.
+ + + + + + +
Josiah left at dawn, riding hard for Purgatorio. He had his story, Vin's plugged silver dollar, a Bible, and his guns. He couldn't say which would prove most valuable. He rode past Eagle Bend, not wanting to risk folks seeing him. He wasn't a man made to keep a low profile; God granting him size, strength, and a face that was memorable.
Aside from a brief stop to refresh himself and water his horse, he rode straight through, crossing the Mexican border by mid-afternoon. He halted, overlooking the hell-hole called Purgatorio. It held no good memories for him. The first time he'd seen that criminal oasis, he had been no better than any of the other denizens. He'd carried notches on his gunbelt; out drank, out cussed, and out shot every challenger, and had left with the shadow of death over his left shoulder. The last time he'd been there was with Larabee, looking for the man who'd killed his family. That little excursion had ended as bitterly as a draught of gall. No, Purgatory was not a welcome sight to any God-fearing man. Josiah patted the Bible at his breast, and urged his mount down the hillside towards the town.
The arrival of a stranger in Purgatory was greeted with sullen, sidelong stares by most, with insolent curiosity by a few. Josiah kept his eyes straight ahead, not acknowledging the interest in his presence. He halted in front of the saloon, dismounted, and tethered his horse. He brushed through the wooden beads strung from the entry, hearing their whispering click behind him, and the silence that fell as he crossed to the bar.
"Whiskey."
The bartender turned. He was a stocky, strong-looking man with dark hair, olive skin, and sad eyes. Fit Vin's description. He set a glass in front of Josiah. "You want the bottle?"
Josiah let a slow grin overspread his face. "I'd say so. A man my size c'n work up a powerful thirst." He reached into his pocket and placed the plugged dollar on the bar. "Reckon that should cover it."
Esteban took the dollar up with a shaking hand, but his voice was steady. "I only seen one like it."
"That's what the man who gave it t'me said."
"That man a friend of yours?" he asked cautiously.
"And yours," Josiah said in a low voice. "Said it would buy me a room, and a quiet talk with you, Jake Esteban."
"So it will, Mr ..."
"Sanchez. Josiah Sanchez." He picked up the bottle and followed Jake Esteban up the stairs.
He was shown to a dark room at the back of the building, overlooking a dusty, litter-strewn courtyard. A mangy dog was chewing on what Josiah truly hoped was an animal bone. The odor of frying onions and rotting garbage mingled unpleasantly and wafted up to the window. Purgatory's private face was no more attractive than the public one. Josiah turned away from the window, knowing that he loomed against that feeble light. Esteban was standing warily with his hand still on the door.
"I have a Bible in my pocket, if you want me to take an oath on it to put your mind at ease," Josiah said.
"Why'd Tanner send you?" Esteban's eyes were sadder than ever, and more concerned.
"Gunslinger name of Red Harper show up here recently?"
Esteban's breath hissed out at the mention of Harper's name. "Rode in last night, boasting how he'd outgunned Vin Tanner. Is it true?"
Josiah laughed softly. "Depends on how you look at it. Harper got off his shots, but ‘bout all it did was rile up Tanner and Larabee."
Esteban crossed himself. "Madre de Dios, he's alive?"
Josiah's eyes narrowed. "Did Harper say he wasn't?" When Esteban shook his head and sat down heavily on the bed, Josiah let him take in what he'd said a moment before continuing, using the urgency in his voice to prod Esteban into looking up at him inquiringly. "Vin's callin' in a favor, Senor Esteban. Gave that dollar to me as a token."
Jake looked at the silver dollar, weighing it in his hand. "Only one favor? I owe him more than that."
"Vin ain't a greedy man," Josiah said gently. "But he surely needs that one."
"What can I do for him?"
"Get the word out that Josiah Sanchez, who used t'ride with Larabee, is looking for Harper. Bring ‘em to me, Senor Esteban. That's all Vin wants. Red Harper and Titus Roche."
Esteban shook his head. "Shit. That boy always did have more guts than sense."
Josiah's deep laugh rumbled out. "Amen to that, Brother Esteban. Amen to that."
Jake looked at Sanchez, suddenly liking the man despite his misgivings. "You talk like a man of God, senor."
"Sometimes, I am."
"But not always?"
Josiah's eyes glowed blue and bright even in the dim room. "I believe there are times when it is better to wield a sword than take up the cross."
Esteban nodded. "I will let the word out. You should hear from that red devil before nightfall."
+ + + + + + +
Ezra came upright from his doze at the sound of boots scuffing on gravel. It was still dark, with only the faintest hint of pale light on the eastern horizon. His hand went to his Remington, set to draw until the dark shape approaching resolved itself into the familiar lean shadow of Chris Larabee. Ezra relaxed and touched his hat. "Mr. Larabee."
"Catch ya off guard there, Ezra?"
"Hardly. I was merely restin' my eyes. If you weren't so instantly recognizable, I assure you, you would have been contemplating the stars."
"Ain't no stars, Ezra. It's nearly daylight."
Ezra grinned. "Oh, there would have been stars, trust me."
Chris settled his back against the front wall of Mary's house. "Why don't you get some rest, Ezra? Buck'll be along shortly."
Ezra looked troubled. "You still believe Mrs. Travis is in danger?"
"I don't know if Red Harper is the only hired gun in Roche's pocket. So until Judge Travis gets back from Vista City, I have to be sure."
Ezra raised a brow at the choice of words, but didn't say anything. The emotions Chris Larabee harbored in his heart for Mary Travis were deeply private, and Ezra was not about to violate that sanctity. "Might I wish you good luck in your hunt?" he asked.
Chris nodded. "You might. I'll be easier in my mind, knowing Mary's safe. Thank you for that, Ezra."
The gambler laughed softly. "Maud's admiration of Mary Travis compels me to offer my protection on pain of reprisal. As you know, Maud's reprisals can be particularly painful." He touched his hat and moved off.
Chris slid down the wall, his legs jackknifed at a sharp angle. He rested his head against the clapboards, watching the colors in the eastern sky rise from pearly grey, to lavender, to rose. Wasn't light enough to see by yet. He hadn't slept, just lay awake in his room, waiting for dawn. His shoulder ached, nagging at the back of his consciousness. He learned long ago that once he was moving, the pain would fade to nothing. He was more concerned about Vin. Nathan's words were still on his mind. But he figured Vin was as tough as they come, and wouldn't take kindly to being mother-henned.
He heard the whisper of the door being opened, and turned his head slightly. A white ruffle showing beneath a dark robe, bare feet. He knew if he turned his face upwards to the light, that he would see Mary's pale hair loose on her shoulders, then the soft curve of her breasts, the column of her throat ... things a man had no right gazing on like they belonged to him. So he kept his face averted until the temptation to do just that faded.
"Ezra? I brought you some coffee ..."
"I sent Ezra to get some rest, but I won't turn down that coffee, Mary."
"Chris?" He did raise his head then, his face pale in the light spilling from the doorway. She sank down beside him, offering the mug. "I thought you would be leaving."
"As soon as it's light enough for Vin t'see a trail. I wanted to give him a chance for a full night's sleep. Rest up his leg."
"Why are you doing this, Chris?"
He laughed. "Mary, Orrin is payin' me and Vin to be the law, so I reckon we're just doin' our job."
She couldn't help smiling at that irrefutable logic, though she knew that was not the reason he and Vin were riding after Harper and Roche. She pulled the hem of her robe over her feet. She should have been embarrassed to be like this with him; no respectable widow should be sitting in her nightgown next to any man, much less one like Chris Larabee, even if there was no one around to see her. His shoulder was warm and solid against hers, and it gave her a feeling of security to have him there even as his nearness set her nerves to tingling like lightning striking too near.
"Be careful, Chris. Please." The words were out before she could stop them, and she felt her cheeks flush.
"You worried about me, Mary?" Chris teased gently as he watched the dawn wind fan the pale strands of her hair across her face. He longed to feel that silk in his fingers; and the ache in his body was nothing compared to the ache in his heart. He sighed, drank his coffee, and ratcheted his body upright. "I need t'be on my way. Thanks for the coffee."
She rose and took the cup from his hand. "If you and Vin don't come back whole, I might just have to kill you," she whispered.
He brushed his knuckle across her cheek. "You've been talking to Nathan," he smiled. Then he was walking away, even as her hand came up to touch her face where he had traced a trail of warmth.
+ + + + + + +
Vin didn't know if he should be grateful or worried that Peso was subdued that morning. The big gelding scarcely fought back as Vin worked the bit into his mouth. Usually that would result in nipped fingers for Vin and a quick, hard flick of knuckles across the nose for the horse. Peso still danced around plenty when it came to fastening the saddle girth, and Vin gritted his teeth against the effort he had to expend to bring him under control; his leg hurting like a sonofabitch, and his hip feeling like it was barbed wire and not thread suturing the gash together. But the task was finally over, and Peso consoled for the loss of his pride with a slice of apple. Vin sighed and rested his head against Peso's warm neck.
"Mule, I reckon I earned that tussle fer all ya've been through the last few days, but I sure would be grateful if'n ya could sorta fergive me long enough t'git me through what I need ta git through. Comprende?" Damn, if the gelding didn't toss his head like he understood.
"You got him convinced yet, partner?" Chris stood in the doorway, watching. He hadn't liked the way Vin's slight body was dependent on Peso's for support.
"Only way t'find out is t'ride him. Cain't read what goes on inside that head." Vin rubbed a hand over Peso's ears, taking all the sting out of his words. "Damn mule."
"You ready for this?" Chris asked as he began saddling his own horse. A casual question, but Vin sensed the concern vibrating in Larabee's rough voice.
"Yeah. Ain't like we got a choice."
"You sure about that?"
"God dammit, Larabee! Yer doin' it again! Watchin' me. I said I's all right!" He stabbed his rifle into the scabbard. He picked up the mare's leg and holster, buckling it over his hide coat, and then secured it to his thigh. "Are ya ready?" he snapped. Then catching Larabee's rueful, worried gaze, he shook his head. "Sorry. I ain't been sleepin' too well of late." He led Peso outside, and determined not to show how much pain he was still feeling, he swung into the saddle with an ease that was not too far from his usual range of motion. He gathered his reins, waiting for Chris to mount, and kneed Peso out of the livery corral.
They rode past Mary's house where she stood with Buck, watching for their passage; past Nathan's clinic, where JD was sleeping, past the Standish Tavern. Then there was nothing but the road to Purgatorio before them.
There were things down that road that Vin thought he had put behind him. A time that he did not want to relive, and a place in his soul that he did not want to look into again. It lay down this road, towards the lightening horizon. The sun would rise, but the darkness was gathering like storm clouds.
They rode for nearly two hours without exchanging a word between them. That was hardly unusual. They could sit for hours at a time in silence, letting their wordless communication speak for itself, as it had since the first moment their eyes had met. This silence was different, plangent with unvoiced doubts and fears. Vin wouldn't break it, his mind was too bent on envisioning every detail he could recall of the terrain outside of Purgatorio. Their lives might depend on his recollection of the lay of the land.
Chris watched him covertly, seeing the lines furrowing Tanner's forehead. Looked like he was pondering on something -- a problem that needed a solution. He'd seen it before; that quick mind working at a speed belied by the tracker's slow drawl and considered responses. He knew that when Vin had it puzzled out, he would let him know.
When they were outside of Eagle Bend, Vin finally reined in. He took his spyglass from his saddlebag and held it to his eye, sweeping it along the horizon. A thin streak of green in the brown landscape told him what he wanted to know. He shifted in his saddle. His wounded leg was paining him, and unless he took the time to stretch it out, it would stiffen up and cripple him when he needed to be agile. "The horses ought ta be watered," he said. "There's a spring up ahead, ‘bout half a mile."
Chris gave him a bemused glance. "You mind tellin' me how you know that?"
"I was gonna tell ya I can feel it in my bones, but I figger you'd find me out fer a liar." The teasing grin broke the tension in the air. "Take a look." He passed the spyglass to Chris. "See that streak a' green? Noticed it when I's ridin' through b'fore." He took the glass back from Chris, and they posted down to the gully where a trickle of water spilled from the rocks and pooled in a shallow basin where the horses could drink.
Vin dismounted, suppressing a groan, and began walking out the discomfort in his hip, leg, and ribs. He pushed the heels of his palms in the small of his back and leaned against the pressure, then sank down cross-legged and bent forward. When he felt loose again, he lay flat and stretched out. He eyed Chris, who had been watching his machinations half in concern, and half in amusement. "Set yerself down, Larabee."
Chris folded his long body and sat next to Vin. "You solved the problems of the world?"
Vin shook his head. "Hell, no. But I know what I gotta do. And seein' as there ain't no way around it, frettin's only gonna tie me up in knots. Cain't afford that."
Chris heard the steely resolve underlying those soft words, and understood. Any man who'd ever faced the eve of battle had to know that in order to live. The learning came hard, though, and as he looked down at Vin's tranquil face, he wondered how old he had been during that war; surely not more than seventeen or eighteen. When he was seventeen, he'd been smokin' behind his pa's barn, and finding out the difference between boys and girls. That was a long way from sighting down the barrel of a rifle aimin' to kill a man. He'd been walking a hard road to hell before he went off to war, and his fighting had been on the open field of battle, not in the shadows of darkness and stealth.
Vin met his curious gaze, wondering what Larabee was thinking. "Ya might as well ask it, pard," he said. "Git it off yer mind."
"How good are you, Vin?"
The blue eyes widened, amusement floating for a moment before the shielding lashes came down. "Ya seen me shoot, Chris."
"Ain't the same thing, partner. And you know it."
The wind tossed light strands of Tanner's long hair, and he sat up drawing his knees close to his chest. He looked off toward the south, those far-seeing eyes focused on some distant point that Chris wasn't even sure existed. "Colonel who picked me out, said I was the most natural hunter he ever seen. I's proud a' that, Chris. Ain't nobody ever said I's special b'fore. Well, least not since my granddaddy died," he amended with a soft sigh. "An' I was fool enough t'believe it. Thought it meant somethin' t'be the best. Shit, all it meant was I c'd kill a man without flinchin'. Don't know t'this day how many I kilt, b'fore I was caught and sent t'prison."
"Vin," Chris regretted asking the question. But before he could offer an apology, Tanner took up speaking.
"Never wanted t'be like that again, Chris. Never thought I'd hafta, ‘til now. Seems kinda funny, don't it? It ain't like I haven't kilt anybody since, ‘r won't ever again. I been fightin' it ever since I figgered Harper out. No sense in fightin' it no more." He dropped his head on his folded arms.
Chris looked at that bent head, those bowed shoulders and hated Roche for opening up the wounds of the past and making Vin bleed out his pain drop by drop. There was no comfort he could offer; that sort of healing could only come from within, and if Chris could figure that one out, then he'd be feelin' a lot better than he was now.
After a minute, Vin lifted his head and squinted up at the sun. "We'd best git a move on, Larabee."
Seemed Vin had figured it out, all on his own. Chris stood up and held out his hand. "C'mon, partner. Let's ride."
Vin took Larabee's hand, feeling the flow of strength from that warm grip. The knowledge that he was not alone, not like he had been through most of his life, would see him through this darkness. He followed Chris to where the horses were tethered. They mounted up, and set out for the last part of their journey.
+ + + + + + +
There was nothing about Purgatorio that disposed a man to rest. Josiah lay on the too small, lumpy bed and studied the stained ceiling. One of the few pleasant memories he had of his childhood was watching the clouds pass overhead on a summer day. He and his sister ... back when she was young and in this world, not seein' demons, would daydream about the shapes. Sometimes faces, sometimes animals, sometimes far away places where they would live someday. Then he would blink and the shapes would have changed with the wind. Just clouds.
What did he see in the stucco over his head? A gallows, a spread like the shadow of a vulture's wing, the gates of Hell ... He closed his eyes, opened them again, and once more, the impressions were nothing more than the map left by rain leaking down. Just stains.
The soft knock at the door brought him to his feet, his hand on his gun. Couldn't trust a soul in this place. "Who is it?" he growled.
"Esteban."
"You alone?"
"Yes." Josiah opened the door, keeping his gun in clear sight. Esteban nodded in approval. "You are a wise man, Senor Sanchez."
"I am a distrustful man." Josiah closed the door behind the saloonkeeper. "Well?"
"Red Harper knows you are looking for him. Be in the bar tonight. He will find you."
"Any sign of the other man, Titus Roche?"
"Not yet, senor."
Josiah cursed softly. Where was the bastard? He should have been hangin' onto Red Harper like a second skin, if he was interested in savin' his own hide. "If he shows his face, I want to know."
Esteban nodded. "Be in the bar, Senor Sanchez. Who knows what will come?" He left, and Josiah picked up his Bible. He thumbed through the pages, waiting for something to speak to him. The book fell open on Job. Josiah read, and a deep rumble of laughter rose in his throat.
"For he maketh sore, and bindeth up: he woundeth, and his hands make whole.
He shall deliver thee in six troubles: yea, in seven there shall no evil touch thee."
Amen, he thought. Amen.
+ + + + + + +
There were no musicians in the cantina, and only one vacant table. Josiah sat with his back to the wall, thinking that the last time he had been there, Vin had been a shadow in the corner, as invisible as a man could be in broad daylight. Josiah wished he had that presence at his back now. He sighed and poured a shot of whiskey into one of the two glasses he had sitting in front of him, anticipating Harper's arrival.
He heard the sound of the beaded curtain being parted, and then in a moment of clarity that can come with anticipation, the room drifted into silence. Josiah looked up, at the red-haired man standing in the entrance.
There was an aura of menace about Red Harper that put Josiah in mind of Chris Larabee, but Harper did not have the stillness of Larabee, that sense of harnessed power that could be released like lightning. Harper moved quickly for a big man, his eyes constantly roving for danger. He rolled a thin cigarette in his fingers, a twitch that Larabee was entirely without. He walked over to the bar, spoke in a low voice to Jake Esteban, then turned to the table where Josiah sat. His pale eyes narrowed, and he paced over.
"You lookin' for me?" he asked.
Josiah tilted his head toward the chair opposite his. "Don't talk to no man loomin' over me." He poured some whiskey into the second glass, inviting Harper to join him.
The gunslinger sat with all the ease of a watchful cat. "What d'you want with me?" he asked.
"Heard you was looking for Chris Larabee."
"I might be. What's it to you?"
"I used t'ride with him."
Harper considered that statement. " ‘Used to', ain't gonna do me much good."
"I hear he's lookin' t'return the favor." Josiah drained his whiskey and poured another. He raised the glass to the light as if considering its purity. "I might know where he is."
Harper's eyes hardened. "You mind telling me why you're turning coat on Larabee?"
"I got my reasons. Private ones I ain't lookin' t'share." His heavy brows lowered, and he added. "Let's just say him and me had a partin' of the ways." Josiah leaned forward, letting the carved crucifix he wore swing free. "Larabee's got a devil in him, Mr. Harper. Killin' ain't just business with him. The man's a murderer with Satan in his soul, and the world would be a better place if you was t'lay him down dead." He downed his second shot, making it look like it was his sixth.
"What about that sharpshooter with him. Vin Tanner?"
Josiah leaned forward and fixed Harper with a bleary look. "He c'n ride to Hell on the devil's coattails, far as I'm concerned."
"How good is he?" Harper asked.
"I'd say Tanner's a crack shot -- when he's at full strength. But he ain't. He's limpin' and he's weak. Ya got him good, Mr. Harper."
Harper slapped his hands flat on the table. "I knew it! I hit the bastard!" He poured himself a drink, and another for Josiah. "Now, before we git down to some serious drinkin', where are they holed up?"
Looking as innocent and wounded as a man of his fierce mien could, Josiah sang his sweet tale without a pang of regret for his lies. He figured the Lord would forgive him one way or another. Harper's avid expression on hearing that Vin was wounded tempted Josiah to shoot him on the spot and save Chris a heap of trouble; only judging from the way a number of folks were throwin' daggers at him with their eyes, him being so recognizable, he knew he'd be gunned down before he had his pistol from its holster.
He watched the gunman drink more than was wise, and thought of Vin, knowing that in Harper's place, he wouldn't touch a drop of liquor. Was Harper that confident of his abilities? A covert study of Harper's face revealed a slight sagging of the jaw line, a sallow hue underlying the weathered skin. His fingers were stained with tobacco. But when he looked at Josiah, his hard eyes were focused. He was still dangerous, maybe not as much as he had been in his prime, but with Vin bein' wounded, the odds were not favorable, as Ezra would say.
After Harper had finished his drink and rolled a cigarette, Josiah asked him flat out, "Are you goin' after Larabee and Tanner alone?"
Harper sat straight up. "That's a mighty curious question from a man who don't care if Larabee lives or dies."
Josiah swiftly considered what he could risk. "I was wonderin' if you were lookin' for some help."
Harper, quicker than Josiah had expected, seized Josiah's wrist as he reached for the bottle. "I hunt alone. And if you take it in mind to follow me, remember what I am." He pushed away from the table. "If I find you you lied to me about Larabee, you're a dead man."
Josiah pulled his wrist free, as if Harper's hold were no more than the strength of a child's. He sat back. "No lies. And I won't follow you, Mr. Harper. No way. I'm heading outta here at first light."
"Good." He grinned, showing tobacco-yellowed teeth. "Then I have no quarrel with you. When Larabee dies, you'll know -- every paper from here to San Francisco will have that story. How the mighty Chris Larabee was gunned down by Red Harper. And I aim to get that bounty on Tanner."
Josiah nodded. "Be quite an achievement, catchin' those two. I'll keep you in my prayers."
At that, Harper laughed. "I don't need your prayers. Pray for them, Preacher man."
Josiah poured a whiskey and raised it in a toast. "I surely do, brother. I surely do."
Harper clinked his glass against Josiah's, drained it, and left. Josiah set his glass down, and with a quick nod to Jake Esteban, returned to his room. He waited there for an hour before Esteban knocked on his door. He came in, furtive, glancing around the darkened hall.
"Is it done?" he asked.
"I believe so. Harper is lickin' his chops already." Josiah hefted his kit. "I'll be leavin' now, Senor Esteban."
"Your horse is in the alley, as you asked. I wish you luck Senor Sanchez."
"Gracias, and God bless you." Josiah held out his hand, and Esteban shook it.
"You see Vin Tanner, you tell him this silver dollar is good anytime." He handed the token to Josiah. "My prayers are with him. You are going to him, now?"
Josiah shook his head. "He and Larabee don't need me in their way, brother. And I won't lead Harper to them before time. There ain't a soul I trust in this hell hole of a town."
Estaban laughed softly. "Not even me, amigo?" When Josiah cocked a brow at him, he nodded. "You are wise to be so cautious. I take no offense, Senor Sanchez, but I would not betray Vin, not at the cost of my life."
Josiah looked into those sad eyes, and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Whatever dark ways you have traveled to this place, Senor, I will pray that you will find your way back to the light."
Esteban led Josiah down the back stairs and out a door so narrow that he had to turn sideways to exit. His horse was tethered there. He mounted, and taking only the dark and twisting back streets of Purgatory, made his way out of town.
+ + + + + + +
Vin and Chris made camp in the late afternoon, both too aching and too tired to ride farther, and figuring Josiah would need the time to meet with Harper. Vin would have liked to set out his plan before dark, but there was no way either of them would be in any shape in the morning if he had pushed it. They built a fire scarcely big enough to boil water for coffee, and made a spartan dinner on jerky, hardtack, and dried fruit. Trail rations didn't offer much comfort to a man, but at least they filled the belly.
They didn't speak. Vin was tucked into his silence, his mind going ways Chris couldn't follow as he stripped down his rifle; cleaned it, oiled it, put it back together. Chris watched him work. Lord, the man would close his eyes and listen to the sound of the hammer as it clicked, the workings of the lever. His fingers touched his guns the way a musician tuned his instrument. Chris found it unsettling to think of killing as a craft.
Finally, satisfied that his weapons were up to his standards, Vin set them aside and sat staring into the dying embers of the fire. For a few minutes he was nearly motionless. Then he looked up at Chris. The gunslinger was watching him, as if he knew Vin was ready to speak.
"Got a favor t'ask, Chris."
"I'm listening." No promise that he would comply.
"I want ya t'take out them stitches the doc put in me."
The request made Chris gasp. "Jesus, Vin! I take those out and you'll start bleedin' again."
"You don't help, I swear I'll cut ‘em myself. Y'know I'll do it, too. Cain't move right, Chris. I figger I'd jist tear ‘em anyways, and this has gotta be easier ‘n doin' that." He gave Chris an imploring look. "I gotta be able to move tomorrow, if I cain't, I'll die."
Larabee sighed, unable to argue that logic, yet still reluctant to take the risk. He weighed the thought in his mind for a minute, and decided Vin was right. If he didn't take out the stitches, he'd find Tanner sittin' behind a rock, tryin' to do it himself. "I don't like it, Vin. But I'll do it." He rose wearily and crossed to him. "Give me your knife."
He took the knife from Tanner and once he'd stirred the fire back to life he held the blade in the coals. Vin slanted a brow. "Hell, jist cut ‘em, Chris. Don't hafta be fancy."
"You want Nathan on you for gettin' infected? I sure as hell don't." He turned the knife in his hands, waiting for it to cool.
Wary, even though it had been his request, Vin hiked up his shirt and loosened his trousers so Chris could take the bandages off and get at the wound. He lay down, his head cushioned on his bent arm, trying to keep his breathing even and slow despite the thudding of his heart. The night air was cool on his skin, Chris' hand on his waist as he steadied him was warm, gentle.
"Ready?"
A slight, nearly imperceptible nod. Chris wished the light was better, but he could see the stitches closing the slash. The wound was swollen, probably from the constant irritation of movement. No wonder Vin wanted the stitches out; they must have pulled something fierce. He set the point of the knife against a stitch. At the first tug, Vin's breath drew in, and he flinched reflexively. Chris whispered. "Stay still, pard. I'll go slow." The second stitch was better, as Chris learned the tension necessary to cut through the thread without exerting pressure on the wound. It was over quickly after that.
Larabee sat back on his heels. The edges of the wound were raw, but not bleeding. Probably wouldn't if Vin would stay still. Perhaps by morning it would have healed up enough not to break open. He replaced the bandages, and sighed. "Think you c'n manage not to thrash around too much tonight?"
Vin gave him a pallid grin. "Thanks, Chris. Feels a hell of a lot better." He closed his eyes, relieved that the relentless pain was reduced to a throb. He felt Chris tug his shirt down and lay a blanket over him. He didn't want to sleep, but his body was worn out. Wasn't much use in frettin'. He'd done all he could. *All he could*. He opened his eyes. Chris was crouched by the dying fire. He lit his cheroot from an ember, the flaring light edging his sharp features. "Larabee?"
Chris turned to him sharply. "Something wrong?"
"You reckon Josiah found Harper?"
Chris smiled slowly. "If he didn't, I reckon we'll find out soon enough." He settled back against his saddle, and drew in smoke. Vin drifted, not sleeping, not quite awake, conscious of sound, scent, and the whispering pain threading through his body.
PART FIVE
As Josiah rode out of Purgatorio, Titus Roche rode in. He reined in at the posada where Red Harper had taken a room several days earlier. He was tired, dusty, dry as a bone, but there was a fortune in his saddlebags. Not all of his assets had been so easily converted, but at least he had managed to have some of the money from his banks wired to Eagle Bend. Enough to get him to South America in comfort, where he could establish a new identity and arrange for the transfer of his remaining fortune. Orrin Travis and his hired guns were the only obstacles in his path. He'd have to give up a portion of his financial gains to Red Harper -- or seem to give them over -- but first, he wanted those bodies at his feet. And this time, like the Doubting Thomas, he would dip his fingers in their blood to be sure they were dead.
He knocked softly on one of the doors, and when there was no answer, he tried the knob, surprised that it gave to his touch. He pushed it open, standing well to the side. "Harper?" he rasped. The answer was a long splinter of wood carved from the edge of the door by a gunshot. Roche cursed and dove for cover. "Dammit, Harper! It's me, Roche!"
From the dark interior of the room, he heard a low snarl of laughter. "Welcome to Purgatorio."
Roche grunted and rose to his feet. "You're wasting ammunition that you might need, Harper." He grabbed the saddlebags that he had dropped and entered the darkened room. He turned up the wick on the lamp. Harper was sitting on the bed, long legs crossed at the ankles, a lit cigarette in his fingers. A nearly empty bottle of whiskey sat on the table at his side.
"You're drunk," Roche said in disgust.
"No. I'm not drunk." Harper held out his hand. Rock-steady. His eyes were cold and clear. "If I was drunk, you'd be dead."
"I'm not paying you to play games, Harper."
"You haven't paid me, yet."
"You haven't delivered." Roche started to reach into his vest pocket, and Harper's gun was suddenly trained on his heart. "Put that fuckin' gun away, Harper." He held his hand out, palm open.
"Slowly."
Roche complied, reaching once more into his pocket and pulling out a leather billfold. He extracted several bills and held them just beyond Harper's reach. "Five hundred, a retainer for your services to hunt down Tanner and Larabee."
Harper raised a ginger brow. "In addition to the thousand on delivery?"
"As promised," Roche concurred. "Fifteen hundred, plus the bounty on Tanner. Two thousand dollars, Harper. But you'll have to find them first."
Harper laughed and took a drag on his cigarette. "Hand over the five hundred, Roche. I know where they are."
"How?" Roche was incredulous. "Why aren't you on their trail?"
"Easy, there. I said know where they are, not that I've found them." He slid off the bed and plucked the bills from Roche's hand. "Got real lucky. One of their number turned coat, showed up here looking for revenge on Larabee."
"And you believed him?" Roche hissed. "Never took you for a goddamned fool!" Harper's eyes narrowed dangerously. Inches from Roche, his glare was intimidating, but Roche didn't recoil.
Harper grabbed his lapels. "Shit, I know that! I haven't stayed alive this long by being a gullible rube. Maybe he was telling the truth -- but it don't matter, because even if he was baiting a trap, I still have the advantage."
Roche jerked away. "How do you figure that?"
"Simple numbers, Roche. Something you should understand. He held up his hands. Seven fingers. "One, the boy sheriff. Two, three, and four -- the three left in Four Corners, Five, the preacher man here in Purgatorio. Six and seven, Larabee and Tanner -- both of ‘em hurting. Those, Roche, are even odds." As he counted down his fingers curled into a fist.
"I'm telling you, those seven aren't what you expect -- Ever."
"Then we must do the unexpected ourselves," Harper said. "Feel like spending some of that cash you're carting around in those saddlebags?"
+ + + + + + +
All through that night, Vin rested in a light doze, even though he was aching with the need to let go and sleep deeply. He left that luxury to Chris, knowing that he had pushed himself beyond exhaustion for longer than any body could bear, even Larabee's. He'd made a good attempt at it, but in the end, his head had dropped forward on his breast, his hands slipped nervelessly to his sides, and he was gone.
Vin couldn't have slept anyways; his mind was too wrapped around the morning and what it would bring. In one of his wakeful periods, he lay gazing up at the stars -- so far beyond comprehension that even the myths of the people couldn't plumb their existence. He could feel the pressure of the cool light on his skin, every breath of air and night sound brought his nerves to alert. The discomfort meant that his body and mind were prepared for the day, and he accepted that as the price he paid to stay alive.
Chris startled awake just as the dawn was beginning to lay a wash of light along the horizon. He looked over at Vin, a long, lean shape in the darkness, his hat tilted over his eyes. With a certainty he knew that Tanner was awake, probably had not slept all night, and recognized that his own rest was owed to the tracker's vigilance. It was pointless to feel guilt.
He sat up, stretching cautiously, feeling his healing wound ache and tug, but no longer with debilitating pain. The fire had long since grown cold, and it seemed like breakfast was going to be water and hardtack since a fire would take time. He rose quietly, even though there was no need. Vin remained unmoving. Chris had seen that concentrated quietude before, had sought it himself in the hours before the great battles. Some soldiers had prayed, others had thought of their families, their lovers. Chris had not. He had used that hour of stillness to plan how he would kill, how he would remain alive. And knew that was why Vin husbanded his strength.
He washed up in the spring, grateful for the cool, fresh water, and when he returned to the camp, Vin was upright. There were deep shadows beneath his eyes, but the blue gaze itself was peaceful, focused.
"You want something to eat?" Chris asked.
Vin nodded. "Guess so." He took the offered hardtack and chewed on it thoughtfully. "You feelin' better?"
"I slept. It helped. Yourself?"
"I'll keep. Thanks, Chris. Fer what ya done last night."
Chris shook his head, amused and rueful. "Nathan'll kill us -- you know that, pard?"
Vin smiled. "Hope he gits the chance." He drank from the canteen Chris handed him. The light wind stirred his hair, and his eyes reflected the colors of the early morning sky; a touch of gold, the tranquil blue depths. "I's thinking, Chris. ‘member when that fake Marshall throwed me in jail, and was waitin' t'take me back to Tascosa?"
"Kinda hard to forget."
"What I said -- ‘bout not bein' afraid t'die ... back then, I warn't afraid ‘cause I figgered I didn't have much t'live fer." His mouth set hard, fighting against emotions that he was half-ashamed of feeling, but that he had to acknowledge, because he didn't want to die with them unspoken. "I's never proud a' what I done with my life ... hell, all I ever done was t'be good at takin' lives -- one way ‘r another."
"No." Chris shook his head.
"Hear me out, Larabee. I got somethin' t'say, and I'm only gonna say it once. Might be the only chance I git. I still ain't afraid t'die, but at least I got somethin' to look back on that'd do my Ma proud. Ya done that fer me, Chris. You n'the others. And I'm grateful fer it."
There was a faint uncertainty in Vin's eyes, as if revealing his emotions had made him vulnerable. Chris reached out, took Tanner's slight shoulder is a firm clasp. The contact lasted only a moment, but the strength and the faith in it went to Vin's heart. Reassured, he gave Chris one of his short nods and stood up; testing his leg, which held, and his hip, which protested with a throb of pain.
"Reckon we oughtta ride, Larabee."
"Can you?"
"Better ‘n you, cowboy."
Mocking, insolent, and entirely welcome to Chris' ears. They saddled up and headed south towards Purgatorio.
+ + + + + + +
Five men. Five men willing to go up against Larabee and Tanner. Seemed the rest valued their lives more than Roche was willing to pay; and of those five, only two that he considered to be the sort of man capable of taking down Larabee. He'd leave Tanner to Red Harper since it seemed the shootist had a particular bent for taking down the sharpshooter himself.
They rode out of Purgatorio at dawn, heading north through the dry, rocky landscape. It would be hard fighting, Roche figured. But his men were well-provisioned, well-armed, and rested. Larabee and Tanner had spent an uncomfortable night in the open, they were injured, and probably lucky to have enough food to see them through the day.
As the sun rose blood-red, Titus Roche believed it was a good omen.
+ + + + + + +
Vin squinted at the blood-red horizon. "Gonna storm soon," was all he said as he rode alongside Chris. Larabee's hard-cut features were tinged with scarlet beneath the brim of his black hat.
"As long as it holds off until we can take care of Titus Roche."
"Twelve hours, maybe. By nightfall, could be rainin' hard." A sigh of breath escaped him. Maybe raining on our graves, he thought. With a sick chill in the pit of his stomach he figgered that he wouldn't be in his grave until he was in Tascosa, with Red Harper collecting the bounty on his corpse.
"Don't think it, partner," Larabee said softly.
Vin cast him a sidelong look. "You don't know what I'm thinkin', Larabee."
"Sure I do. Tascosa. You got tells that you don't even know."
"Shit."
Chris' mouth twitched. "Even Ezra can pick that one up."
"Shit," Vin said again, under his breath, wondering how he had gotten so lax as to let anyone, even the man riding next to him, get close enough to read the shadows in his mind. He could get killed making mistakes like that. But this didn't feel like a mistake; like everything in his life since that fateful day in Four Corners, it felt exactly right. A smile curved his mouth. "S'long as he cain't read when I'm bluffin', I reckon I'll be alright."
They crested a ridge, and came to a place not far from where Harper had taken his shot at Chris. That was four days past, and seemed like an eternity. Vin took out his spyglass. He and Chris had been riding along a defile. Harper had to have been on the slope to the east, concealed by the broken landscape and the stunted mesquite and thorn bushes that grew to form a natural cover. He doubted that Harper would be fool enough to ride innocently down that trail as he and Chris had done. Guilt tugged at Vin, uselessly since he couldn't take back that decision. They had needed speed, and the flat track had offered the best chance.
He closed his spyglass with a finality that made Chris look at him sharply. "This where we split up?"
"Yeah." He pointed along the eastern ridge. "He'll be lookin' to the road, figgerin' that ya'll be after him fast, if'n Josiah sets him up right. An' he knows that eastern face better since that's where he was holed up th' other night."
"Seems like an awful lot of supposin', Tanner."
Vin sighed. "Can be ... but seems like Harper's the sort who fancies knowin' his terrain, thinkin' it'll give him some sorta advantage."
"Will it?"
"‘Times, it can," he shrugged.
Chris thought there were times when it was easier getting blood out of a stone, than words out of the laconic tracker. "You?" he asked.
Vin smiled, showing teeth. "Kiowa taught me a diff'rent kind a huntin'. Taught me that no matter where the prey was hidin', or how many burrows an' hidey-holes a critter's got -- they go t'ground in the same place when they're cornered."
"You think Harper's cornered?" Faint disbelief echoed in Larabee's dry tones.
"Roche is. A man don't run t'Purgatorio if he's got a better place."
That much was true. Chris took off his hat and ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair. The dawn wind had died, and the air was still, waiting. "You sure about this?"
"Sure as I c'n be. An' if I'm wrong, I reckon I'll see ya on the other side."
Chris gathered up his reins and turned his horse towards the slope running to the riverbed. His eyes met Vin's briefly. Tanner just tipped the brim of his hat and gave one of his one-sided smiles; half regret, half genuine amusement, as if he knew and understood what lay beyond that divide between life and death. Chris nodded and spurred his mount forward. When Larabee reached the flat, Vin began a parallel ride along the ridge.
+ + + + + + +
Josiah rode north from Purgatorio. He had taken a few hours rest during the darkest part of the night, fearing to risk injury to his horse at the expense of haste, but as soon as the eastern horizon lightened, he mounted up again. He had memorized the map Vin had drawn back at the church, and knew that the easiest and quickest transit of the terrain was the trail through the gully. Whether or not Harper and Roche would take advantage of that was unknown. He had to avoid discovery as well, and could not follow that route himself. His wide swing around the outskirts of Purgatorio had taken him out of the most likely routes, and about five miles west of the land Vin had sketched. His intention was to work his way east gradually, and if the Lord had mercy on him, he would find his way to Vin and Chris in time to lend a gun or a hand, whichever they would require.
As the light strengthened, the lay of the land became clearer; the long ridges crowned with boulders, the hard worn ravines that seemed to have cracked open in the earth, the sagebrush and tufted grasses that broke the sides of the rocky hills, giving them an illusory softness and providing cover for hunter and prey. There wasn't a straight line for a man to follow anywhere that Josiah could see. A stand of wind-twisted mesquite trees crowned a slight ridge up ahead, and Josiah turned his horse towards them, hoping that he could find a better path through the maze of low hills. As he rode beneath their branches, a harsh caw sounded overhead, and Josiah startled, looking up and shading his eyes with his hand. Crow. Lord God, how he hated the sight of crows. The echo of the bird's scream had no sooner faded than another sound pierced the silence.
The hard crack of two rifle shots, followed in quick succession by the rattle of pistol fire. Josiah's heart nearly stopped in his chest, and for a moment the only coherent thought in his mind was the words of Psalm 91:
Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the hunter ... Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.
Seemed those words came to mind with alarming frequency. Josiah goaded his horse forward, urging him towards the menacing gunfire. He had two friends in peril, and he would not let them fight alone.
+ + + + + + +
Mary Travis was awake at first light as well, out of long habit. Even when Steven was alive, she would rise first to prepare his breakfast, and then they would sit at the table with coffee and bread and talk about the paper, what they would print, what news was the most important to folks. Later when Billy was born, she would bring him downstairs and nurse him as Steven ate. They had so little time together that each moment was a joy.
Sometimes, even now, she would open her eyes and expect to feel Steven's warm, solid body next to hers, or lie awake listening for that first small cry from an infant as he greeted the day. Then the light would grow stronger, and she would be alone with those shadows of memory.
She sighed and turned her head on the pillow, realizing for the first time that Chris' scent still lingered on the linen. She had been so worn with worry that she had crawled into bed without changing the sheets where he had lain. The aroma of tobacco, gunpowder, and a tang of masculine sweat overlay the light lavender sachet. Even with her eyes closed she knew him; then shame set in, as if that faint ghost of his presence was in itself a betrayal of Steven. Angry at Chris for being so careless with his life, angry at herself for caring that he was, she rose from her bed, dressed quickly, and went downstairs.
For a moment, the dark shape silhouetted outside her door, made her heart leap in her throat, before the familiar set of those wide shoulders made her smile. She opened the door. "Buck?"
Wilmington turned to her, tipping his hat. "Morning, Miss Mary. Did you sleep well?"
She shook her head. "No. But well enough, all things considered. I was about to make coffee. Would you like some?"
"That would be right nice."
Mary thought he looked tired. He was still sporting a white bandage on his forehead, and there were unaccustomed shadows beneath his eyes. Mary laid a sympathetic hand on his arm. "How is JD?"
"He was runnin' a fever last night. Nathan said it was t'be expected, but I hate seein' the kid feelin' bad."
"I'm sure that Nathan is right, Buck."
"Yeah, he usually is. What about you, Mary. Will you be all right?"
"Of course! With you and Ezra at my doorstep, how could I be otherwise?"
"Y'know that ain't what I mean. You c'n say it. That stubborn cuss Larabee's been my best friend through a lot a rough times. I know how worryin' about him c'n wear on a body."
Mary sighed. "I am worried, Buck. Not just about Chris, but about Vin, and Josiah. About Orrin. Why isn't he back yet?" She rubbed her forehead, feeling dangerously close to breaking into tears. "I'll get that coffee." She turned to go inside, and Buck caught her arm, gently.
"Chris'll be alright. And Vin. Ya gotta believe that."
Her eyes were brilliant with tears. "You saw how close they came to not being all right, Buck! My God, a couple of inches either way, and they would have both been dead! How many miracles is God willing to spend on those two?" She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. "I stopped believing in miracles the night Steven was murdered."
Buck laughed softly. "Ya know, Mary, that Chris is still walkin' this earth ought ta make you rethink that idea." His blue eyes twinkled at her, and she couldn't help but smile in return.
She raised a slender forefinger. "Coffee." Then with her head held high, she went inside. She came out a short while later with two steaming mugs and sat beside him on the steps. The sun was staining the sky a deep red as it rose over the horizon. Mary had seen red skies at morning before and knew the old superstitions as well as anyone. Usually she shrugged them off -- how many times had a red sunrise heralded nothing worse than a change in the weather? Why should this one portend disaster?
Buck stirred at her side, his attention caught by a rider approaching. "Mary, go inside," he said, his voice low and terse. He reached for his pistol. "Now."
She wasn't about to argue with him. She fled to cover, but stayed close to the door, crouched below the level of the window. She heard the horse's hooves crunch on the stones, heard Buck's quiet challenge, and then the doorknob turned beneath his hand.
"You c'n come out now, Mary. It's the judge."
"Orrin!" Mary was out the door and in her father-in-law's arms. "Thank God! Are you all right?"
"Yes, yes ... of course." He patted her back comfortingly. "I'm a tough old bird, a night's ride won't set me down." He nodded at Buck. "I appreciate you watching over her, Mr. Wilmington. But we've got trouble."
Mary pulled away. "What is it, Orrin?"
"It seems Titus Roche has wired for funds from his banks in St. Louis. He has money, and since the wire came from Eagle Bend, I think we have to assume that he is heading south, to Mexico. Where's Larabee?"
Buck scrubbed a hand over his forehead. "Not here, Judge. He n' Vin have gone after Roche."
"Mexico?"
"Vin figgered Purgatorio. Along with Red Harper."
Travis heaved a sigh. "I might have known."
Mary opened the door. "Come inside, Orrin. I'll fix you something to eat."
While he ate, Buck apprised Travis of the events since their return to Four Corners. Travis nodded gravely, asking after JD, and what the hell had Tanner and Larabee been thinking to take off after Roche in their respective conditions? Mary just raised a blonde brow at that query. Her expression was so nearly identical to Buck's that Travis had to smile. That turn of his thin lips was fleeting. He could read Mary's concern for Larabee and Tanner, and did not misinterpret that the weight of that concern rested on the gunslinger. Chris Larabee was about as far removed from Steven as water from fire. Yet each was elemental, dangerous in their own way. Steven had been relentless, as wearing as water against stone when he was in pursuit of an injustice. Larabee was fire, attractive warmth, bright peril. And Lord, Mary could not resist that.
Buck was fidgeting with his hat, one long leg bouncing with impatience. Judge Travis set down his coffee cup. "I can see that you have someplace else you'd rather be, Mr. Wilmington. I may be somewhat older than you, but I believe I can keep my daughter-in-law safe, if you and Mr. Standish would care to tend to other matters --"
Buck was on his feet before the Judge could finish speaking. He hastily tipped his hat to Mary and Travis and bounded out of the kitchen. Judge Travis' eyes met Mary's.
"Thank you," she said, rising to clear the table and planting a light kiss on his cheek.
"I never thought when I hired those men to keep the peace that they would stick together longer than a few days. I figured I'd be lucky if one stayed the course." He shook his head wonderingly. "Instead I find a band of brothers."
Mary bit her lip, thinking of Chris, and Vin Tanner, of Buck and JD. Of Nathan, who healed their bodies, and Josiah who tended their souls. Of Ezra, who was finding his own place among them. And not one who wouldn't offer his life for the others ... her hand tightened on Orrin's shoulder, and he stroked it gently, recognizing her need for reassurance, and his own.
"They're tough, Mary. Tough, resourceful men."
"So was Steven," she whispered.
A shot to the heart, Orrin thought, and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry," Mary apologized. Travis nodded, wishing that she had not taken Chris Larabee into hers. He pushed himself away from the table decisively. "Well, young lady. You've got a newspaper to print, if I'm not mistaken."
Mary put the dishes in the sink, untied her apron, and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. "And I'm ready." Her head was held high as she swept out the door. Judge Travis looked at that straight, stubborn back and was more proud of her than he could say. Son, you married quite a woman, there, he thought as he followed her to the Clarion. Quite a woman.
+ + + + + + +
The gunmen came so quickly into Vin's field of vision that there was little time for conscious thought; six men mounted and riding hard, one of them Titus Roche. Even at that distance, Vin recognized the high carriage of the man on the fiery chestnut stallion. They were headed straight down a chute in the landscape towards Larabee. Vin yanked Peso ‘round hard, feeling the gelding tense as his rider's nerves communicated themselves through every point of contact. Vin scarcely had to touch him with his spurs; Peso went from standing still to a flat out gallop with scarcely a hitch between paces. Chris was approaching the turn past a jut of boulders, and once he rounded it, he'd be in plain sight of Roche and his gunmen. Vin headed Peso up the rock-strewn hillside, feeling him fight for purchase on the loose gravel, and grateful that the gelding was strong and sure-footed even on that unstable surface. When he had reached the crest, he reined in sharply, slid from the saddle, grabbed his Winchester on the way down, and dropped flat. Larabee was below him, blind to the danger approaching him -- probably couldn't even hear the hoofbeats due to the odd land formations and the heaviness in the air. Vin flicked up the sight on the Winchester, and aiming at the ground in front of Larabee's horse, fired two shots in rapid succession.
The first shot kicked up stones and dirt at the feet of Chris' horse, making the big black half-rear in alarm, and setting Chris into a precarious balance in the saddle. He managed to maintain a grip on the reins with his left hand, as his right went unerringly to the pistol at his side. A second shot in the same place had him whirling, his mouth drawn into an angry snarl as his eyes searched for the direction of the shots. Where was the bastard? And then, in a heartbeat, he realized that only one man could place those shots so unerringly, and that they had been fired not as a threat, but as a warning.
He kneed his horse and headed for the nearest nest of boulders for cover, as Roche and his men rounded the turn and unleashed a sudden barrage of pistol fire. In that chaos of noise and bullets, Chris vaulted from the saddle, gave the black a slap on the rump to send him back away from the flying bullets, and crouched low. How many were there?
Impossible to say. Roche, certainly. Chris had recognized him from the corner of his eye, but he was nowhere to be seen now ... probably had taken shelter somewhere on the slope. Cowardly bastard wouldn't show himself, probably wouldn't even fight until he was forced to it. Chris' sharp eyes scanned for the other shooters. They had scattered when the first shots were exchanged, and the pistol fire seemed to be coming from about six different directions, and until he caught his breath and cooled the hot blood that set his temples pounding, he could not isolate one source from the other. He would not waste precious ammunition firing blindly and hoping to make a hit. The wide focus narrowed, and he saw a shadow of movement from behind some rocks. Damn fool, Chris thought as the man raised up high enough to get an angle, only to be leveled by Chris' bullet.
A ricochet nicked Chris' hat, sending it from his head to hang from the stampede string, and bringing him back to his own precarious situation. Nothing got Chris Larabee's blood up higher and hotter than being pinned down and held tight, and more than one man had died in the trying. He heard the sharp bark of a rifle, and a startled cry from a man on the slope. No telling how badly he was hit, but chances were with Vin shooting, he'd not be rising until the last judgment.
Two down. But bullets were flying too close and thick for Chris' liking. Sure seemed like Roche had found himself a few extra guns in Purgatorio. About the only comfort he could take from that knowledge was that Josiah had done what Vin had hoped, and lured Roche to the killing ground. But where was Harper?
+ + + + + + +
Vin saw Chris dive for safety, picked off the one man he could draw a bead on, and then started to move from his cover toward a thicket of brush and small trees. The sudden zing of a rifle shot passing not two inches from his head sent a shiver like quicksilver through his veins, and for a moment the present was fractured into the past; the desert shimmered into tall Georgia pines, the air became humid and heavy, the smell of smoke from a hundred campfires drifted into his memory. The next shot passed close enough to brush the tips of his hair, and Vin knew then, that Harper had just issued his challenge.
If he had been alone, he would have taken it up, chosen his ground and hunted as he was meant to hunt. It was how a predator lived, pitiless and looking inward; it was what he had learned to do to survive. But that was in the past, and he was no longer alone, no longer willing to dwell in that cold and ugly place where humanity had crawled to die. Knowing that Harper was at his back, that he was vulnerable and in mortal danger, he still turned and half-ran, half-slipped down the scree towards Chris.
Larabee thought for sure that he was about to draw the last breath of his life. Paused to reload, he heard the fall of stones behind him, and braced for the bullet that had his name on it. He slewed around to face his killer, and instead found himself nearly nose to nose with Vin.
"Jesus!" The breath went out of him and he fell back against the boulder.
"Ya got a bit a trouble, here, Larabee?" Vin took his mare's leg from the holster and started firing back at Roche's men, giving Chris enough time to reload his Colt. "Thought I'd better drop in fer a look."
"Well, shit, Tanner. You coulda gotten killed real easy, doin' that."
"Waited ‘til ya was reloadin', didn't I?" Vin smiled grimly, blue eyes hard and hot. "Ya git any of ‘em?"
"One. Thanks for the other one. You take care of Harper?"
Vin jerked his head. "No." His mouth was grim. "Thought I'd better help clean out this little corner a' Hell. Make it easier t'keep my mind --" He ducked down as a bullet shaved off a shard of boulder that could have taken his eye out. "Got yerself a right nest a'vipers here." He squinted and fired at a bit of dark fabric that ruffled behind a rocky outcropping. Didn't have much hope that he had hit anything, but might take ‘em aback enough to give ‘em pause ...
Chris cursed as a bullet tore a crease in his arm and fell back against the rock, long legs drawn up and breathing hard at the sudden fierce pain. He jerked off his bandanna and tried one-handed to bind the wound, cursing when his fingers fumbled and the scarf fell to the ground.
Vin emptied the chamber of his gun before bending to retrieve the strip of cloth, grabbing Larabee's arm and rapidly bandaging it. "Y' all right, pard?" He sat shoulder to shoulder with Chris as he reloaded.
"Yeah. I'll keep. You go after Harper."
"Fuck Harper!" Vin rammed the final shell into the chamber. "I ain't leavin' ya ta fight alone. Think I c'n get one of ‘em if I go up a bit higher. Cover me."
Chris grabbed his arm before he could rise up. "Get your ass down here, Tanner," he growled. "You get yourself killed and then what? Roche and Harper come down like wolves -- and not just on me. On Mary, on Judge Travis. On JD." His eyes bored into Vin's, willing him to see the truth, and felt the tension leave his body ever so slightly. It was enough. He released the tracker. "Partners, remember?"
Chris still had the power to surprise him, to bring his breath to a halt, as he had that first day. A line of fire from eye to eye, mind to mind, unlike anything he'd known before or since. "Well then, partner. Ya got any suggestions how t'git outta this little bind, here?" The laconic drawl was betrayed by the fierce joy that had risen in his eyes.
"Shoot hard, shoot fast, and pray," Chris retorted and began doing just that.
For the next few minutes, it seemed like that was enough; Chris picked off another of the hired guns, leaving three still shooting at them, with small success, but with a withering fire that kept them pinned helplessly. Vin's shoulder blades were starting to itch; he felt Harper's presence, and half-expected to be ambushed from the back. He was about ready to make a move, no matter what Larabee said, when Chris reached over and tugged at his sleeve. "We got company," he said, with a grin that made Tanner wonder if he was losing his mind.
A big man, on a big horse. Gun blazing as he tore towards them at a gallop, with a plume of dust at his heels and the fury of the Lord in his face. "Josiah?" Vin said, feeling as if he were seeing a mirage produced by the dust and the heat. "Josiah!" He shouted hoarsely, and even over the tumult of gunfire, the big man heard him, and wheeled his horse around, nearly tumbling from the saddle as he reached them. He crawled over on his belly, his blue eyes dust-rimmed and reddened, but very bright.
"Figured you boys could use a hand." He grinned at them. "Looks like I've come from Purgatory straight into Hell."
Seeing Josiah alive and in one piece was an answered prayer. Vin slapped his broad back. "Good t'see ya, Preacher. You keep them bastards busy. Chris, I gotta get after Harper."
"You take him down for me, Vin." There was no doubt that he could in Larabee's eyes. Vin gave him a short nod, and scrambled back up the slope.
+ + + + + + +
Red Harper cursed and lowered his rifle. A minute ago, he'd had the tracker in his sights, and now he had vanished. Harper blinked and rubbed at his reddened eyes. The wind had picked up, stirring the grasses, and raising puffs of dust to confuse the eye. It rattled the dry branches of mesquite and thorn bushes, making Harper's nerves leap and twitch at every rustle. He scanned the landscape, searching for something to give away his adversary's position, and saw nothing but the waving husks of grass and shifting shadows. He was so focused on the tracker's whereabouts that he scarcely heeded the gunfire coming from the arroyo. The distinctive sound of Tanner's Winchester was absent, which made the sniper very wary.
A sigh of a breeze on his cheek sent Harper's heart leaping in his throat. He swung his rifle around as a mourning dove startled from the thicket, wings beating. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head. A trickle of perspiration slid down his spine, and his breath rasped in his dry throat. He was unsettled by this wilderness, by things he could see and not see, hear and not hear.
He was a man who relished the kill, not the hunt. He preferred to lie in wait until the moment was right, and then strike with the speed and lethal intent of an adder. He was accustomed to being the predator and not the prey. He was out of his element, and he feared Tanner was in his.
+ + + + + + +
As Vin made his way back up the slope, the crack of Chris' and Josiah's guns was muffled by the turns of the landscape and by the rising wind. A faint haze overlaid the sun, softening the light of noon, blending shadows and light into a wash of grey and dun. He moved carefully, taking advantage of every tussock of grass and thicket of brush; pausing and listening to sounds he knew as familiarly as his own heartbeat. He was a part of this world, as Harper would never be, no matter that he could shoot out your eye at a thousand yards or draw a pistol before you could blink.
A mourning dove bolted from a thicket of brush and mesquite up ahead, and Vin's rifle was at his shoulder; not at the sound of the bird, but at the faint, unmistakable crunch of gravel that followed a heartbeat later.
Harper.
Vin dropped slowly behind a screening thorn bush. Harper had to be on the other side of the thicket, not a hundred yards away, but invisible. Vin was tempted to flush him out with a shot, maybe even get lucky and hit him, but he wasn't ready to take that risk, not with Josiah and Chris still besieged by Roche's hired guns. If he was going to take Harper down, it had to be quick and it had to be mortal.
He sank back on his haunches, feeling the raw ache of the wounds in his thigh and hip, but banishing it from his mind as he took stock of the physical obstacles in the way of his plan. He was on the downgrade of a fairly steep slope, strewn with boulders and brush. The most dense part of the thicket was ahead of him, the thinnest towards the apex of the slope. The ground cover was dry grass and loose shale, precarious and noisy underfoot.
Two choices: stay put and wait for Harper to make his move, or set a trap of his own devising ...
He closed his eyes, and breathed deeply, letting his mind settle and a vision of his plan take form. Getting to the crest of the slope would give him an advantage over Harper; and if his movement alerted the gunfighter, at least the battle would be joined. He looked up, gauging the distance he would need to cover quickly. Not far, really. Even hampered as he was with his wounded leg, he should be able to gain the high ground. A smile curled at the corner of his mouth as he thought of what Josiah would say about the odds. Hell, maybe he was just spittin' in th' devil's face. The only way to find out was to move.
Vin timed his first advance with the rising of the wind so that the rustle he made over the grasses was masked by the sough of the mesquite, and his motion disguised by the moving branches. He reached his objective; a large boulder and a clump of thorn bushes, without being shot at, though his heart was thudding in anticipation of it. He settled in, drawing his knees close to his chest and waiting for the pain in his hip to subside. Lord, don't let that wound break open, he prayed. My own damn fault if it does, but not now. Not yet. After a time sitting still, not more than a few minutes, he prepared for the next advance.
Marking the tenuous thicket with his eyes, he uncoiled his body, waiting for the next advantageous gust of wind, and hoping that when it came, it would sustain itself long enough to cover him. The sound of gunfire from the gully seemed to be fading and sporadic -- might have been a trick of the wind, might have been the end of the fight, and for a moment his heart seemed stuck somewhere in his craw so he was fit to choke on it. There wasn't a hell of a lot he could do about that. He could only change what lay ahead for himself.
Sweat beaded on his forehead and slid down his temples to sting in the creases at his eyes. He blinked and wiped it away with his sleeve. A breeze stirred his hair, brushing it against his neck. Move, his mind commanded. And his body obeyed.
+ + + + + + +
Titus Roche watched from his cover as four of his hired guns fell, one at a time, to Larabee and the man who had ridden to his aid. Tanner had struck one down, slipped away in the confusion, and had vanished. But the tracker was not Roche's concern. He'd paid Red Harper to deal with him; Harper had laughed as he counted out a payment on the bounty. Said he was looking forward to dragging Tanner's body to Tascosa. Said he'd slice off a lock of that long, light brown hair and give it to Roche as a souvenir.
Words. Bitter in his mind and roiling in his stomach as Larabee's deadly fire cut down another man. The last of Roche's cadre, a Mexican whose only name was Ortiz, was making his way back towards his hiding place, and the Larabee was dodging from cover to cover, firing as he ran. Ortiz yelped and grabbed his leg, falling to one knee, and looking frantically for assistance from the man who had hired him. Roche was prone on the downside of a slope, invisible. Without a second thought, he abandoned the place he had hoped would be Tanner and Larabee's grave. He mounted his waiting horse, and hesitated, his choices warring in his mind. He could take what he had salvaged from this debacle and ride south to Mexico. Or he could return to Four Corners and take revenge.
+ + + + + + +
The last man staggered as Chris' bullet caught him in the leg. He teetered for a moment on his knees, then dropped face down on the slope, his blood spattering the pale stones. Josiah was securing the three other men who were possibly yet alive. The fourth, the one Vin had shot, was dead with a bullet between his eyes. There was no sign of Titus Roche, and Chris wasn't about to let him slip away. With revenge and anger burning in his heart, he scrambled up the slope towards the wounded gunman, his own pistol drawn.
The man heard Chris' approach and raised himself on his elbow. His gun was trembling in his hand and his breath was coming in harsh gasps. He took in Larabee's rapid approach, saw those cold eyes that would have petrified wood, and the rock-steady aim of the pistol. He laid his gun down and raised a defeated hand. "No mas," he cried hoarsely. "No mas, senor."
Chris stood over Ortiz and shoved him down with a booted foot. "Habla Ingles?"
Ortiz nodded. Chris grabbed him by the collar and held tight. "Where's the man who hired you?" he demanded.
"I don't know."
"That ain't the answer I'm lookin' for, Senor." Ortiz yelped as Chris dug his fingers into the flesh above the bullet wound in his leg.
The green eyes boring into his were those of the Devil. Roche had not paid him enough to take this abuse, much less buy his loyalty. "Gone!' he gasped. "I heard him ride away ..."
"Where? Back to Purgatorio?"
"Por Dios, senor. I do not know, I swear it!"
"Shit!" Chris released Ortiz roughly. He heard Josiah laboring towards them, and turned to the big man. "We lost Roche."
"We'll find him," Josiah said. He knelt beside Ortiz and took off the gunman's neckerchief. He bound it around his leg, then with the rope he had carried with him, tied the man's hands. "Vamanos, senor." He hauled him none too gently to his feet, then guided him down to where he hand tied up the other surviving hired guns.
Chris holstered his pistol. After the continuous gunplay, the silence was deafening. Silence.Chris' head came up sharply. The rising wind struck a chill through his sweat-soaked shirt.
Jesus, where was Tanner? Had he fallen to Harper's bullet while Chris and Josiah were fending of Roche's hired guns? Was he bleeding on the far side of the slope? The wind rustled through the mesquite and brush, kicking up dust devils that spun away and withered as the energy faded. For a moment, the earth was paused and breathless. Then the report of a rifle broke that fragile peace. Chris startled from immobility. He skidded down the slope sideways, raising dust that greyed his black clothes and coated his throat. It hurt to swallow. Not that he had any spit.
It had not been Vin's Winchester that had fired.
Chris caught up to Josiah, who had paused to listen, as Chris had. Their eyes met, concern evident, made worse by the absence of return fire. Chris handed Ortiz' gun to Josiah. "Keep your eyes on them, and watch out for Roche. He might still be around."
"Where are you goin', Larabee?"
"After Vin."
Josiah laid a restraining hand on his arm. "Wouldn't do that, Chris. Remember what Vin wanted -- said he couldn't afford no distractions."
"Hell, him bleedin' t'death is a distraction he can't afford. I'm goin' after him."
"Chris!" He was speaking to Larabee's rapidly departing back. With a highly unchristian expletive, Josiah shoved Ortiz to the ground beside the other hired guns. He sat on a boulder, his gun slanted across his wrist and murder in his eyes. He caught Ortiz studying the cross that he wore on his chest. "I may be a man of God, senor, but I ain't a saint," he warned, his threat implicit. Ortiz subsided into a quiet heap.
+ + + + + + +
Hell, so much fer easy.
Three paces from safety, Vin's luck ran out. Harper's bullet kicked up dust at his feet as he dove for the cover of the mesquite thicket. He landed hard on his wounded hip, and bit back a gasp. Black specks swam in front of his eyes, and the sharp, sudden pain made the bottom drop out of his stomach. He blinked hard, clearing his vision. Couldn't afford anything less. He jacked the lever on his rifle. Brought it up against his shoulder, and waited. Harper was cagey, wouldn't give away his position by firing again. Vin figured he had shot from the screen of the branches, and aiming uphill, only not high enough to compensate for the elevation. It was Harper's mistake, letting him reach the safety of the crest.
Vin's gaze narrowed, like an eagle searching the landscape below his aerie. He could feel the moral center that held his balance yielding to the instincts of a predator. The cold logic of the hunt settled in his mind and heart, and the simmering worry about Chris and Josiah faded to a dull hum. He was so still that the dove that had fled its nest at the sound of gunfire returned. He let the sounds wash through him; the creak of branches in the wind, the dry rustle of leaves and grasses, small noises that underlay the wilderness. Nothing out of place, nothing ...
Nothing but a slim dark shadow that caught the corner of his vision and made him check rapidly, rifle coming to bear and finger tight on the trigger. A flicker of duster tail disappeared behind a boulder, and Vin's breath left him like a the kick of a mule. Goddamn, Larabee! A few choice epithets skittered across his mind, but he tamped his emotions down hard. Later, when he and Chris were outta this, then he'd flay the hide from the gunslinger, but right now, he had to keep Larabee alive so he'd have that opportunity.
A rustle of movement that was not that of wind in the branches made Vin swing his rifle around. A glint of gunmetal grey caught a sliver of light. Without thought, with the reflexes he had learned to trust, Vin fired a fraction of a second before Harper's rifle cracked out.
He didn't pause to see the result of his shot. He moved. With the quick, sure paces of a cat, he ranged higher on the ridge, moving to flank Harper. He slid behind a thorn bush, the inch-long spikes raking across the back of his hand, and cursed softly. That Larabee hadn't answered Harper's fire had to be a bad sign. The branches of mesquite made a thin screen between him and the pile of boulders where Larabee had taken cover. Lay low, Chris, lay low, he prayed.
Harper was too smart to assume that he had dealt a fatal wound to the gunslinger, and not knowing where Vin was, he had gone still again. But this time, there was no peace in the stillness. Vin felt it shivering through him, from the ground to his belly, to the wind that tugged at his hair. The blood on the back of his hand was as bright as a string of red glass beads. He brought it to his mouth and sucked softly, tasting iron, salt, and gunpowder. The wound on his hip had broken open, and the bullet hole in his thigh was starting to bleed again, as well. He glanced down and saw the stain beginning to seep through the brown cord of his trousers.
Time to move. Time to kill.
He chose his objective. The mesquite thicket where Harper believed he was safe.Vin gathered himself for his next move, regardless of pain, of thirst, of heat. The wind was nearly constant, and the sky overhead was clouding up; there were no longer distinct shadows to betray either of them. Vin rose to a half-crouch and using the tussocks of grass to cushion his paces, moved in near silence towards the thicket.
The trees were spindly saplings, scarcely taller than a man, with thin brittle branches that snapped and whispered in the wind. The silence was different in here, layered with nuances that trembled through Vin. He paused to listen, found it hard to hear beyond the beating of his heart. He let the sounds come to him, let his ears become accustomed to them. He swallowed, his throat aching and dry. Blood scrawled down his leg, and he knew that if he moved, he would leave a trail that could be his death. He pushed that thought away and listened. He breathed softly, scenting dust, the tang of the leaves, the hint of distant rain, and something else ...
Smoke ...
Harper had lit a cigarette. Might not be burning now, but it had been, not too long since. The scent hung in the air like a lure for Vin to follow. The wind was coming from the northwest, so he was downwind from Harper. He moved cautiously, gently shoving branches aside as he went, making no more sound than the wind soughing overhead. He remembered hunting with the Comanche who had taught him. He had moved so lightly that he could have touched his prey before he shot it with an arrow. He had once caught a bird in his hands, grinning at Vin's astonishment before releasing it back to the skies. That is how you hunt, he said. And he had taught Vin to move like the shadows, to walk as water flows, to be unseen.
He used all those skills now, as he took an uphill, staggered path through the matchstick trees. The crack of a branch breaking under a heavier weight made Vin draw up short. There was no safe place to drop and shelter, so he didn't. His rifle was balanced lightly in his hands, lethal and ready. He kept moving towards the direction of the sound. The trees were thinning; he should be able to see something, some sign of his adversary. There was still that tantalizing hint of smoke in the air. Vin touched a splintered branch and looked down to see the faint impression of a boot-heel. Harper had been there.
A few steps further on, there was another broken branch, and a cigarette butt crushed flat against a rock. Vin had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being lured down a trail towards destruction. But where, and to what purpose? Wary, he moved back the way he had come, heading not further up the slope, but parallel to the crest, towards open ground. As the trees thinned, and the air moved more freely, the scent of smoke came to his nostrils again, but not tobacco this time. This was the acrid, dusty scent of burning undergrowth. The bastard was trying to smoke him out, like a jackrabbit in a prairie fire.
+ + + + + + +
Harper's shot damn near blew Chris' head off, and he didn't want to think what might have happened if Vin hadn't distracted the sniper. A grim smile curled his mouth, and he flipped his hat back, knowing his dusty blonde hair blended into the desert coloring more easily than the black of his hat. The grin widened. Hell, no wonder Vin always wore that buckskin jacket, made him damn near invisible against the desert background.
There had been no shots fired, no apparent movement from the copse for several minutes, and Chris was getting nervous waiting for Hell to break loose. He knew that snipers fought differently than other gunmen, relishing a dance of death and wits with their opponents. Vin had told him as much; but that didn't stop him from worrying about the tracker. He didn't like the idea of Vin and Harper being in that thicket, both screened from his sight, stalking each other. But until there was some sign, he couldn't force a way into this fight, like he could during a pitched battle. Something had to break, and soon.
The wind gusted. Chris looked up at the darkening sky. Vin's prediction had held true. There was a storm brewing up fast. A storm, and something else. Chris' eyes narrowed as a slender spiral of smoke uncurled against the clouds. His pulse quickened. He had waited for Hell, and it had come.
+ + + + + + +
The breeze freshened, nourishing the first small licks of flame and speeding them through the dry undergrowth. Red Harper watched as they spread, laying a line of death between himself and Tanner. The wind was driving the fire down the hillside towards the tracker. He would have to emerge or burn to death. Harper felt the familiar weight of power growing in his chest; this was what he was meant to do, this was what gave him the thrill other men got from women, from gambling, from money. Hell, they had their pleasures, he wouldn't deny that! But nothing was like plotting a man's death and watching him die. Nothing.
Harper jacked the lever on his rifle -- that fine weapon with a telescopic sight that allowed him to pick off a man at a thousand yards running. Scarcely needed that for Tanner. Be like shooting at a jackrabbit.
Harper drew in a deep breath, relishing the scent of smoke and imagining Vin Tanner bleeding at his feet. He settled back to watch and wait. The anticipation was like the taste of a cigarette before a sip of fine whiskey. It enhanced the experience. He was so intent on watching for the tracker, that he didn't notice the dark shadow flitting up the hillside towards the crest.
+ + + + + + +
The smoke was beginning to thicken, and every breath of wind seemed hotter against Vin's face. He was still moving at the edge of the thicket, in no real danger from the fire, but aware that Harper never intended it to be anything but a way to force him out into the open. The fire was doing that, but it was also providing him a smoke screen; not a very efficient one, given the tenuous nature of its fuel source, and the wind that kept shredding it into tendrils, but enough of a cover that it was allowing him to advance up the hillside.
Harper had to be up there, crouching like some wily old cougar, just waiting for him to come out and get caught. For the first time in a while, Vin smiled. Wouldn't be that simple. He wished he knew where Chris was, if he was all right. Would make things a lot easier knowing his back was being watched.
Then the wind shifted direction, and for a moment, the air was clear. Vin looked up and saw Larabee moving swiftly from one patch of covering brush to another. He was saved, and he was damned, all in one second. Instinct as strong as a physical shove, made him drop and roll just as Harper's bullet ripped across his arm. The second bullet tore up the ground inches from where he lay. The third shot was the welcome crack of Chris' pistol, and Vin took advantage of that by scrambling to his feet and heading for the nearest clump of ground cover.
Chris was on the ridge above him, crouched behind a boulder and firing deliberately into the thicket, probably not doing any harm to Harper, but drawing his attention from Vin. Taking advantage of Chris' covering fire, Vin dashed up the slope, gathered himself, and skidded behind the rocks, with Harper's fire kicking up dirt at his feet.
"Damn, Larabee! I thought I told ya t'stay put," he gasped.
"Nice t'see you, too, cowboy." Larabee smirked, then dropped behind the rocks to reload his pistol while Vin tried to figure out where exactly Harper was concealed.
"Didn't say I ain't glad t'see ya." He fired off another shot, and was met with silence. "Hell, he's on the move again." He slid down beside Chris and reloaded the Winchester. "Cover me."
Chris grabbed his arm, and Vin tried to bite back the catch of his breath. Chris looked at his bloodstained fingers, saw the growing darkness on Tanner's flank. His green eyes clouded with concern. Vin shrugged it off casually. "Ain't nothin' t' worry ‘bout."
"It's your call, partner." But he scanned his face anxiously. Beneath the grime and shadowing beard, Vin was as pale as the dust at his feet, and his cheekbones were stark and hard beneath his skin. His eyes were steady, though; amusement glinting in their depths as he returned Chris' anxious study.
"Yer watchin' me agin," he grumbled without rancor. "Jist watch me up that hill. I'm aimin' t'git behind Harper, need ya t'distract him from that."
Chris nodded, didn't say a word, and finished reloading his Colt. Vin laid his Winchester beside Larabee. "Reckon ya might need this."
Larabee's brow slid up. "And you won't?"
Vin touched his mare's leg. "It ain't a shootin' match no more, Chris. I need ta move fast in tight quarters, an' that rifle needs space. I'll be close t'Harper when I kill him."
Chris took up his pistol, gave Vin a glance and as soon as the tracker moved away from his side, resumed firing at the thicket. In the space of three shots, Vin reached the crest of the hill and vanished, making Larabee's heart nearly stand still in his chest. Hoping to further confuse Harper, he switched to Vin's Winchester for a few shots. Frustrated by his inability to see Vin, and by the lack of response from Harper, he decided to make a move towards the crest of the hill himself. He reloaded both weapons, holstered his Colt, and drew in a deep breath before launching himself up the slope.
+ + + + + + +
Vin dashed to the rim of the hill, then dropped and rolled to the downslope. Sheltered there, he raised his head. The fire was burning its way through the thicket; spirals of smoke were caught in the wind currents, spreading capriciously as the wind changed direction. The gust front was coming through, and the rain was near. A rumble of thunder in the distance reminded Vin of the big guns of the battlefield, and once again he was back in time, in the thick Georgia pines, hunting human quarry.
The memory was like a lance in his breast. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he could see Red Harper. Not the clear shape of the man, but a hint of darkness where his clothing didn't quite blend in with the landscape. When the wind stirred the branches, his form was blurred, but when they were still, he could be seen like a shadow. Vin nearly laughed, wondering how he had not noticed him before.
Problem was getting close enough to take his shot. He wasn't about to take chances with Harper. Was hard enough to catch a man like that unawares. The wind, the fire, the smoke, the fear that the weight of the Winchester would make his hands shake -- the true reason he had chosen the mare's leg over the rifle -- he had to be sure that when he shot, he would kill.
Vin heard the sharp crack of his own Winchester and realized Chris had moved up the hill with him. He was firing on Harper from a different location, and Harper had taken the bait. If he had been a praying man, like Josiah, Vin would have crossed himself. Instead he gave a brief thanks to whatever spirit happened to be listening, and stood, more conscious than he cared to be of the pain in his leg and the blood seeping from his hip. Didn't matter. He pushed it aside and forced himself to move down the slope.
Chris saw Vin begin his descent; a halting dodge from cover to cover. He judged from the purposeful intent of that advance that the tracker had found Harper. He also knew that Harper would not be deceived for long by his decoy act. He had to offer more than random rifle shots if he wanted to give Vin a chance at the sniper. Sliding down behind his cover, Chris put his hat back on his head, laid down the Winchester, and baited the trap to save Vin's life.
Harper was curled behind a nest of large rocks and thorn bushes midway between the burning thicket and the crest of the rise. The run of the slope was steep, littered with scattered boulders, thorn bushes, and loose shale that made footing precarious. Vin expected to be struck through by Harper's bullets with every fall of rock he dislodged. The wind, the gunfire, the rumbling thunder all disguised his advance. He thought he was lucky, until he halted to catch his breath and steady himself for the last few steps he needed to get into position. Then he saw Chris making what had to be a deliberately clumsy advance.
Cold fear hit him so hard that he gasped. What the Hell did Larabee think he was doing? He might as well throw down his gun, rip open his shirt and invite Harper to shoot him through the heart. Did the damn fool gunslinger think that black duster and green glare he wore would scare Harper into surrendering? That he could throw his life away, like Vin's was worth more than his own? Hell.
He heard Harper's rifle fire, saw Chris grab his side and fall to the ground, saw his legs draw up in agony. A savage cry tore from his throat and he sprang forward, forgetting his wounded leg in the red fog of rage that enveloped him. Pain shot from his hip to his spine. His leg, weakened from the bullet wound in his thigh, collapsed, and he went down hard. He slid a good twenty yards before he was able to brake his fall with his good leg and a lucky grab at a tussock of grass.
Harper heard that cry, the rasp of gravel, the long skidding fall. He swung his rifle around and saw Tanner prone on his side, his leg jacked up awkwardly, and utterly still. There was blood everywhere on him; on his arm, his flank, his thigh. Harper came closer, watching for the rise and fall of his ribcage. There it was, faint but perceptible. He prodded Tanner with the rifle and got no response.
A thrill like lightning shot through him as he looked at the slight, tattered man who had the arrogance to believe that he was a better shot and a more clever hunter than Red Harper. He put his foot on the tracker's shoulder and shoved him over. "Do you really think you're worth five hundred dollars?" he sneered. He chambered a shell and prepared to kill.
Vin scarcely seemed to move. A shift of his body, and his mare's leg cleared his hip. The gun spat fire. Harper's blood misted as the shot tore through his beating heart. For an instant his body hung on the impact, then lifeless and broken, he dropped to the rocks, his gun still in his hands.
Vin fell back against the ground. His chest hurt, and he was shaking so hard he couldn't draw in any air. He closed his eyes, and thought about breathing. He felt like he'd forgotten how. He heard footsteps and his first thought was that Titus Roche had come to finish off what his hired gun had failed to do. Then the light was blocked off and a strong arm was lifting him to gently gather him in. That sure as hell wasn't Roche. A smile curved his mouth. He opened one eye. "Thought you was dead," he croaked.
"Not yet, partner. Not yet." Chris brushed Vin's hair aside so he could see his face. "You hurt anywhere I don't know about?" he asked.
A small shake of his head. "Jist need ta catch my breath." For a few minutes he rested in Larabee's arms and did just that. He knew he'd have to move soon, and he really wasn't that bad off, but it was over ... wasn't it? That thought set him to struggle upright even against Chris' restraining hold.
"Where's Josiah?" he asked.
"He's fine, Vin. I left him guarding the few hired guns Roche left behind."
It took a moment for all of that short sentence to register in Vin's tired mind. "Left behind? Roche ain't dead?"
Chris shook his head. "He got away. Turned tail and ran, leaving his paid help to deal with us." He grinned. "So we dealt."
"We gotta git him, Chris." Vin pushed his friend's hand off his chest and sat up, coughing from the smoke lingering in the air. "I'm all right. Need some water and some bandaging, is all."
Chris was pretty certain that wasn't all, but arguing would get him nowhere, and if Vin said he was able to ride, then he'd stay on Peso until he fell off. He looked into Tanner's determined blue eyes and nodded. "Then let's find Josiah and get that taken care of. We've gotta find Roche, Vin. Are you gonna be able to help?"
"I ain't gonna sit on Peso and let you an' J'siah do all the work. ‘sides, I figger I already fergot more'n you both know about trackin' put t'gether." His words were still a bit slurred, and his voice sounded weak to his ears, but with Chris' support, he struggled to his feet, and together they made a limping progress back to the gully where Josiah was waiting with the prisoners and the horses.
The storm had held off for longer than Chris had expected, but he could feel its breath on the wind. The thunder which had threatened in the distance was closer, and the clouds on the horizon were black-bellied and heavy. They had to move quickly.
Ortiz and the other gunmen were tied up; their gunbelts collected and ammunition confiscated. Chris figured they'd get loose and return to Purgatorio, their service to Roche ended. He just needed that extra insurance of time and inconvenience. He tossed the last gunbelt on the pile and turned back to Josiah. "Ready?"
Sanchez finished tending to Vin's injuries, rose with a grunt and walked over to Chris. His brows were drawn level and he looked grim. Chris' heart plummeted to his boots. "Is he all right?" he asked. His eyes were on Vin, sitting propped against a rock, his head tipped forward so his hat brim shielded his face. Every line of his body spoke of exhaustion and pain.
Josiah wiped his bloody hands on his bandanna. "All right as a man who ripped open two bullet wounds can be. I'm no doctor, but I tell ya, Chris. The man ain't got much more blood left to lose b'fore he runs dry. Don't know how he's gonna hang on t' Peso."
"We gotta find Roche, Josiah. If he's headed back to Purgatorio, fine. Let the bastard run. But if he's going elsewhere, we've got to get him." He didn't need to elaborate on elsewhere.
Josiah nodded heavily. "Then I reckon we better ride." He caught Larabee's grimace from the corner of his eye. "You're hurtin', Chris." Before Chris could deny it, Josiah touched the side of his shirt. Blood. Not a lot, but enough.
"I'm fine. It's just a scratch."
Larabee said it like it was a litany, and Josiah grinned at him. "I'd better see to it before we head on out. Won't hurt Vin to set still for a few more minutes."
Chris' mouth tightened, but he offered no real resistance as Josiah opened his shirt to clean and bandage the graze along his ribs. As soon as he had finished, Chris shrugged back into his duster. "Let's ride."
Josiah watched Larabee unobtrusively steady Vin as he mounted Peso. He shook his head, unhappy with what he was seeing. The gunslinger's whipcord-lean frame was looking fragile, and Vin's shadow had more substance than his body. But they would ride, and maybe the Lord and his angels would ride with them this night.
They set out towards Four Corners as the first heavy drops of rain began to fall.
PART SIX
The rain came to Four Corners at dusk in a hard, brief fall accompanied by thunder and lightning, then faded to a sullen drizzle, with the threat of more thunder heavy in the air. Ezra hunched his shoulders inside the oiled-cloth duster Mary Travis had insisted he wear, even though he was fairly sheltered beneath the overhang of the porch. The watch-fires lit on the streets hissed and sizzled as the raindrops hit the coals, and the wavering reflection of the flames shivered in the puddles left by the rain. He cast a longing look at the brightly lit interior of the Standish Tavern, imagining his place at the gaming table and the riches he was passing up to watch over Mary and Orrin.
Riches. Right. Ezra made a derisive sound at his own imaginings. It was far better to be impoverished and alive, than to be rich and dead at the expense of Chris Larabee's wrath. Grinning to himself at that thought, Ezra lit a cheroot and settled back in the chair Mary had thoughtfully provided before she retired. It was promising to be a long night, with no sign of the three regulators who had gone in pursuit of Red Harper and Titus Roche.
A tall shadow approached down the boardwalk, and Ezra set the legs of his chair down with a thump, his wrist ready to cock and spring the derringer from his sleeve. The light from the watch-fires fell on the man's face, and Ezra relaxed once more. "Mr. Wilmington." He touched the brim of his hat in greeting.
"All quiet, Ezra?" Buck asked. He leaned up against one of the porch supports, and looked out at the rain-wet town.
"So far. And I have every hope that it will remain so." He cast a sharp green glance at Wilmington. "How fares Mr. Dunne this evening?"
"The kid's doin' real well. Nathan says he'll be up and around tomorrow if he don't run a fever overnight." Buck's evident relief caused Ezra a moment of jealousy; he doubted Maude would hover as solicitously over him, if he were incapacitated, as Buck did over that boy. He sighed, and nodded.
"Youth is amazingly resilient, or so Maude says," Ezra commented.
"He nearly died ‘cause of that bastard Titus Roche," Buck's voice held a chill that made Ezra's brows climb. "I'm prayin' that Vin puts a bullet right through his fuckin' heart."
"Amen to that."
Buck nodded. "I'm gonna catch some sleep. You get tired, Ezra, you send for me, an' I'll relieve you."
"I am quite accustomed to these hours. Not these conditions," he said with a wry smile, "but certainly these hours. Goodnight, Mr. Wilmington."
Buck sauntered off toward the boarding house, and Ezra returned to his watch. As he sat there, his hands busy with his ever-present deck of cards, his mind was more on his absent comrades than on the disposition of Lady Luck.
That realization made him smile. Maude had raised him to be selfish, self-protective, and he was just discovering the world beyond that narrow scope. Part of that he owed to Chris Larabee. He could not say that he liked the gunslinger; but he had an immense respect for the man, and not just for his skills with the gun. Larabee's quick mind, his dedication to a duty he had pledged to honor, his dry wit that flashed out at the oddest times, his ferocity in defense of causes he believed right; those were traits Ezra admired and wished he possessed in a greater degree than he did. He could do without that flashpot temper, though. Made him wonder how the taciturn Vin Tanner stood the heat of that scorching anger.
Ezra smiled as he ran the cards through his fingers. Funny how Larabee and Tanner had become linked in his mind. At times Tanner's reserve was so extreme you could forget he was in the room, even when he was sitting next you. Not that the tracker didn't have a temper of his own; he was as dangerous as Larabee, but never out of control, never wild. Ezra had seen him angry. It was when the anger faded and the cold logic of a man used to killing shone in his eyes, that he gave Ezra the shivers.
Maude called him uncouth, and Lord, the man's penchant for wearing the hides of dead animals was unfathomable to Ezra. But uneducated as he was, Tanner had a sense of humor that could shoot down an inflated self-opinion as unerringly as his Winchester could take down a villain. Ezra winced at his own thoughts; he'd been the intended victim of that piercing wit more than he cared to admit. Yet despite that, Ezra liked Vin. He had a natural dignity that no amount of studied polish could give a man. His presence could be as restful as a tranquil stream, and Ezra found him reassuring in a way that Larabee never was.
Those two men of disparate natures, sharing only solitude, were the calm center of the seven regulators, and Ezra hated to think about a world without their presence. I am becoming maudlin from lack of sleep, he thought, and turned his attention to his cards.
The rain began again, the drops falling from the eaves in a hypnotic rhythm, and the feel of the cards sliding though his fingers was soothing. His nerves subsided into a slightly less jangling state of anxiety. The sight of a drunk weaving down the boardwalk didn't raise any warning bells, but he set the legs of his chair down so the man could pass without tripping or puking over Ezra's expensive boots. The drunk staggered nearer, dark clothes and wide-brimmed hat turning him into a walking shadow. He was humming to himself in a tuneless ramble, and occasionally, he paused to hang on to a post or rail for balance. Ezra shook his head. Utter inebriation was so undignified.
A wave of alcoholic fumes eddied towards Ezra as the man came nearer. He rose from the chair, intending to direct the man away from Mary's doorstep. "My dear sir --"
The man leaped for Ezra, his hands seizing his throat, driving him backwards with such force that his head hit a roof support with a sick crunch of bone against wood. His eyes rolled up in his head, and he sank bonelessly to the boardwalk, insensible, his cards sliding from his hands to scatter like fallen leaves around his body.
Titus Roche stripped off Ezra's tie and started to bind his wrists, finding the sleeve gun in the process. He took the derringer from the mechanism and stuck it in his belt. He threw Ezra's Remington into the shadows. Then he bound the gambler and dragged him into the alley at the side of the house. A sudden light at the doorway made him shrink back against the siding. The door opened, and Mary Travis came out on the porch.
"Ezra? I thought I heard something." She looked around, stepped on the fallen cards, and gasped. "Ezra?"
Roche grabbed her from behind, his hand covering her mouth. He held Ezra's derringer hard against her jaw. "Don't struggle, don't scream. If you fight, I'll kill you, and then go after Judge Travis, you understand?"
Mary nodded. Roche released his grip on her mouth, shifting his hold to her waist, but keeping the gun aimed to blow her brains out. She had no doubt that he would do what he said. As frightened as she was, she knew that panic was her worst enemy. She had to buy time, give one of the regulators a chance to discover that she was in trouble. No one else stood a chance with Roche.
"What do you want me to do?" she asked. She was surprised at how cool her voice sounded, when her heart was about to leap out of her breast.
"We're going to go to your newspaper office, and when the bank opens, we'll take a walk there, so I can *withdraw* some funds. You're my insurance that the transaction will proceed smoothly."
Mary looked at him scornfully. "You'll never get away with this! Chris Larabee and Vin Tanner --"
"Are soaking the desert with their blood." Roche bared his teeth in a smile, and felt Mary's breath draw in sharply. "Don't look for salvation from those quarters, Mrs. Travis. It won't happen."
"You're lying."
"Whether or not I am, doesn't matter. It's dark, it's raining, and you know both of them were wounded. They won't be here to save you. But you can save yourself and the Judge by agreeing to help resolve my problems."
Mary drew a breath. Roche wasn't leaving her many options, and she had to grab what he was offering before he became desperate and snatched it away. "You have my word," she promised. She clutched the collar of her night robe close to her throat. "May I get dressed?"
Roche nodded. "Of course, however, I'll just stand outside Judge Travis' door -- in case you have a change of heart."
He released her, and with her head held high, she went upstairs. Roche followed her to her room, and when she started to close the door, he stopped it with his foot. "I don't think so, Mrs. Travis. I will be a gentleman, but I won't take any chances with a woman of your resourceful nature."
Defeated, Mary went inside. There was no way Roche could observe her, but she felt as if he could. She dressed quickly, tied her hair back, and went out to the hallway where he was waiting. "All right, Mr. Roche. We'll go to the Clarion."
+ + + + + + +
Vin knew there had been times in his life when he had been colder, wetter, and in more pain; it was just harder to recall them when the wind was cutting through his clothes, the rain was dripping down the back of his neck, and his whole body ached fit to make him want to burrow deep somewhere warm and gentle where nothing hurt. Instead, he gritted his teeth and hung on to Peso's reins like they were all that was anchoring him to earth. They were nearly home. The only thing standing between him and the rest of his life was Titus Roche.
Before the rain had started in earnest, Vin had found his tracks heading north -- news that made Chris go taut as a drawn bow, ready to ride hell bent for leather back to Four Corners and whatever danger he felt threatening those people he wanted to protect. Vin knew it wasn't just Mary Travis, but the wounded JD, and Buck; Nathan, and all the other folks who had put their trust and faith in him. Vin understood that. He wanted it every bit as badly as Chris and Josiah. However, if they followed that instinct, they would die on the way. Hell, knew he would die on the way out of sheer exhaustion. So they rode as quickly as they could until the weather forced them to slow down. Vin reckoned they were about three miles outside town, though the rain and the darkness made finding landmarks impossible. They were going by instinct, driven by fear, and sheer cussedness. Wouldn't be long, he thought. Not long ...
He jerked himself upright in the saddle with a furtive glance at Larabee, hoping he hadn't seen that brief weakness. Chris was so far lost in his thoughts that if a gun had exploded in his ears, he might not have heard it. He was nearly invisible in the darkness; the pale triangle of his face was a blur, even to Vin's sharp eyes. Josiah was riding behind them, like a guardian angel hovering over their shoulders.
The rain had made the trail heavy going for most of the ride, and the occasional sullen flicker of lightning on the horizon was a warning that more was on the way. But Vin sensed that the ground underfoot was firming up. They'd be able to move faster. He was getting a tight feeling under his skin that nearly drove the fatigue from him. He jogged Chris' elbow. "Ground's gittin' harder, Chris."
Larabee turned to him. "You want ta risk picking up the pace, partner?"
"Don't want ta risk what might happen if we don't." Vin looked back at Josiah. "Preacher?"
"I'm with you all the way, Brother Tanner."
Chris gave a soft hiss of laughter, and Vin saw the gleam of his teeth bared in a grin. He kneed Peso into a lope. The other two men followed, grateful to be moving more quickly, but still not as swiftly as they would have liked. They all felt the underlying urgency that was driving Vin beyond weariness and pain -- the fear that they wouldn't get to Four Corners in time to stop Titus Roche.
+ + + + + + +
JD's fretful muttering woke Nathan from his sleep. He rose quickly and went to the boy's side, touching his shoulder to wake him, and then his forehead to check for a fever. JD gasped sat upright, blinking into the shadows of the dimly lit room. He pushed Nathan's hand aside.
"Geez, Nathan! Why'd you wake me up?"
"You was about to wake yo'self up, thrashin' around an' mutterin'. You all right, son?"
"Yeah. I don't even remember what I was dreamin', now."
Nathan nodded. JD wasn't running a fever, and as for the dream, he was pretty sure JD did remember, and was just covering up what he saw as weakness. Didn't understand yet that even men like Chris Larabee and Buck Wilmington couldn't fight the dreams that haunted their nights. He let JD get out of bed to use the necessary and get some water to shake off the effects of the nightmare, and then sat and waited until he had drifted back to sleep. The young did that easily; Nathan couldn't settle again.
The night air was still and heavy, but the sound of the rain dripping from the rafters was soothing. Nathan thought a walk might calm him. Maybe he'd go see if Ezra wanted to get some coffee and take a break. He waited a while to be sure that JD's sleep was untroubled, and then crept silently out the door, and down the steps to the street.
He strolled towards the Travis house, paused and frowned. Where was the gambler? If he'd cut out for the comfort of the saloon, Larabee'd have his hide -- the uncharitable thought brought a pang to Nathan's heart. He'd thought he was past that distrust they'd both brought to the table from their first meeting. Guess some scars were harder to heal than others, and he reckoned they always would be.
"Ezra?" he called out quietly. "Hey, Ez ..." Nathan's voice trailed off. Ezra's hat was laying on the boardwalk, not like he'd set it there, but like it had tumbled from his head. Nathan's stomach lurched. He hurried forward and in the light from the watch-fire he saw the scattered cards. And something else, a dark smear on the boardwalk that he knew was blood. "Shit!" He looked around, and saw the alley.
"Ezra!" he hissed, and stepped into the darkness. His foot made contact with a solid form. Ezra's leg. Nathan moved his hand to the gambler's chest, felt the heartbeat jar his palm, and knew that he was alive. With a muttered thanks to God, he took hold of Ezra's limp body and maneuvered him out of the narrow space back into the light of the boardwalk.
He made a quick examination. No gunshot wounds, no blood on his torso or back. Just the heavy flow that had soaked his collar and matted his hair. Nathan very gently palpated his skull and found the huge knot at the back of his head. There was a deep gash in the scalp, but the bones all seemed intact. Ezra's breathing was steady enough, and his pulse was strong. Nathan patted down his body, searching for the flask he carried, and realized that not only was Standish's Remington gone, the sleeve pistol was missing as well. What the hell had happened?
He found the flask, opened it and tried pouring a small amount into Ezra's mouth. Just a couple a' drops to make him rouse. "Ezra!" he whispered urgently. "C'mon, wake up -- Lord, we got trouble if ya don't!" he prayed.
Ezra coughed as the whiskey fumes hit the back of his throat. He shuddered in Nathan's arms and his eyes opened, the green depths clouded, his pupils dilated and blurry.
"Mist' Jackson ..." he slurred. "Is somethin' wrong?" He frowned as if trying to recapture some lost fragment of time in his mind. "My head ..." He groaned and closed his eyes. "Everythin's spinnin'." His throat worked against nausea, and Nathan turned him quickly so he wouldn't choke as he vomited.
This wasn't good. He held Erza until the spasm passed. Turned him back so he could see his face. "Ezra, ya gotta tell me what happened. You remember?"
Ezra's ragged breath faltered as he tried to recall. "Don't know ... I was sittin' here, and this drunk was staggerin' past ..." The memories came flooding back, bringing pain and a shock that made Ezra gasp. "Roche! It was Roche! Mary --" He struggled to sit up, but the world spun out again and he sank back gasping in Nathan's arms.
"'S'alright, Ezra," Nathan soothed. "I'm gonna lay ya down here. I'm comin' back, I promise. Gotta git Buck here, y'understand?"
"Mary, first," Ezra whispered, keeping his eyes closed. "See if she's all right."
The door was open. A bad sign. Nathan felt like he was trespassing in this place, but he had to find out if Ezra was right, or if his mind was playin' trick on him. A blow like that could leave him addled for sure. The downstairs was silent. No sign of any trouble. Nathan went upstairs. "Miz Travis?" he whispered. "You up here?" Nothing.
Mary's door was open. He peered inside. Her bed was unmade, so she had at least laid down there. But she wasn't there now. Nathan felt sick. He went down the hall. He knew Billy's room, and that door was open. The next door was the back bedroom Judge Travis used when he was in town. Nathan knocked softly. "Judge Travis? Nathan Jackson, here. You awake?" A slightly louder knock.
A moment later, a disheveled-looking Orrin Travis opened the door. Disheveled, but holding a gun in a steady hand. When he saw Nathan, he lowered the weapon. "What's going on, Mr. Jackson?"
"Judge, I jist found Ezra knocked out in the alley, and Mary's gone. Ezra says he was blindsided by Titus Roche. Th' bastard musta come an' took her."
Travis went grey with shock. "My God! How?"
Nathan shook his head. "I don't know, sir. Ezra ain't clear in his mind. I'm gonna git Buck Wilmington. We'll find ‘em, Judge. We will."
Travis's hand on the doorjamb tightened until his knuckles were white. "I'll kill the sonofabitch if he harms just one hair on her head." His eyes sharpened into points of steel. "Get Wilmington. I'll be ready before you get back."
"Judge, I'd like t'bring Ezra up here. He's in a bad way."
Travis nodded. As much as he wanted to run out into the night and start searching for Mary, he knew that he could not do it alone. "Any word from the others?" he asked.
"No." Nathan's dark eyes were worried. They both knew that it was possible that they might never see them alive, again. Yet Nathan could not acknowledge that willingly. Tanner and Larabee were survivors, they would fight tooth and nail and bleed out the last of their blood to get back to Four Corners, if they were still alive. And Josiah, hell, his spirit would come a-whisperin' if they was dead.
Together, Nathan and Travis carried Ezra up the stairs, and it was the Judge who went to get Buck, realizing that Nathan's worry over the gambler was well-founded. When he and the gunman arrived back at the house, Nathan was stitching up the gash on Ezra's head with some of Mary's silk thread and a sewing needle. Somehow, the Judge didn't think she'd mind seeing it put to such a use, so different than what was intended when he'd had it shipped from New York out here.
"How's he doin', Nathan?" Buck asked.
"Got a hell of a concussion, but I reckon he'll be all right. I won't be able to leave him, though. Gotta keep a close watch on somethin' like this." He rested a gentle hand on the back of Ezra's head. "Coulda' kilt him."
Buck turned to Travis. "Judge, we need t'look for Mary. Figure the livery'd be the place t'start. See if anyone's seen Roche."
The judge had a thought. "Roche wouldn't come just to take Mary. He's got something else on his mind, and the only thing that would drive him back here when he had a clear shot at Mexico would be money."
"He's holdin' her for ransom?" Buck asked incredulously.
"Or as a hostage." Travis' mouth went grim and hard. "I'd be willing to bet that he's still in town."
"But where could he take her without folks noticin' somethin' was wrong?"
Travis' eyes met Buck's. "The Clarion."
"Let's go!" Before he could take more than two steps, Travis grabbed his shoulder.
"We can't go bulling in there! He'll kill her without blinking an eye! We've got to make certain that's where they are. We need help."
"Well, help ain't comin' from heaven," Buck said shortly. "An' ain't no one in town able to take Roche but us."
Travis' heart sank at the truth in Buck's words. He released his shoulder. "One step at a time, Buck. Let's make sure that he's at the Clarion, first."
They went out into the dark streets. It was raining harder, and lightning was flickering on the horizon. A low growl of thunder rumbled in the distance. Travis looked at his watch. It was a long way to dawn. He and Buck made their way down the street in the shadows. The shutters were drawn at the Clarion windows, but a light showed through the cracks. Buck indicated to Travis that he was going to take a look through the back window, and the judge nodded that he understood.
A few minutes later, Buck returned. He gave Travis a small grin. "They're in there."
"Is Mary all right?"
"Yeah. She's tied up. I couldn't see her face, but she looked okay, Judge. Just caught a glimpse of Roche's sleeve. Looks like he's sittin' at her desk. Got a gun on her, though. And ain't no way I c'n get a clear shot at him." He paused. "Vin could," he said so quietly that Travis scarcely heard him. Buck made a sound in his throat; half laugh, half frustrated sob. "I'm goin' t' saddle up and ride out. See if I can't find the others."
"They could be dead."
Buck ducked his head. "They could be." He was silent for a moment. "Look's like Roche ain't goin' nowhere fast. I'll be back before light, no matter what I find. We'll get her back safe, Judge Travis. I swear it."
"There's weather coming in, Buck."
"Another reason to go now." Buck tipped his hat to the Judge. "You need backup in a hurry, get Nathan r' JD. The kid's strong enough to hold a gun." But the look in Buck's eyes also warned Travis that should be the last resort.
Buck took the back way to the livery, saddled up his gray, and rode quietly out of town. The weather had him worried. It was a slow-coming storm, but the clouds were dark purple when the lightning lit them, boiling into anvils at the tops; and the following thunder had a menacing threnody as it rolled over the plains. Dark times coming, Buck thought. Dark times. When he reached the edge of town, he urged his horse into a lope, lightning illuminating his path.
+ + + + + + +
Vin stayed in the saddle, though Chris wondered how when he looked as if a strong gust of wind from one direction or another would knock him right off Peso's back. But a glance over at him as lightning flickered showed that hard, squared-off jaw set in a determined line, and Tanner's blue eyes, shadowed as they were, remained focused on the horizon with an intensity exhaustion couldn't dull.
Chris knew you could see a source of light a long way in the desert night. He wasn't able pick out the halo of brighter sky that was Four Corners, but he wouldn't have been surprised if Vin could. "See anything?" he asked.
Vin startled as if Chris had reached over and touched him. "Maybe. Town should be jist ahead." The fitful illumination of the lightning was deceptive, but he thought he had seen something moving, not too far off. He pulled Peso to a halt. He reached into this jacket and took out his spyglass. He held it to his eye. "Rider headin' this way. Comin' fast fer such a night." And a moment later. "Looks like Buck's gray." He didn't need to elaborate for Chris to know it was a bad sign.
"Aw, hell!" Chris swore. He could only think of one reason why Buck would be ridin' out on a night like this. Trouble. Now even he could pick up the glimmer of Buck's mount, and the glow on the horizon that was the watch fires of Four Corners. The three men urged their horses forward.
They were just shadows moving before a looming darkness lit with the coming storm, but Buck didn't need a telescope to know them. He hailed them with his best Rebel yell, waving his hat. Saw the largest of the three shadows rise up in his stirrups and sweep a light-colored hat in a wide arc to acknowledge recognition. Buck's heart swelled in his chest at the sight. Alive, all three alive! In just a few moments, they were together. Hands clasping, a friendly thump on a shoulder that brought forth a grunt of pain from Larabee and a slow, weary smile from Vin. Josiah let them savor that reunion briefly before he spoke up.
"Brother, I figure you ain't takin' this ride for your health," he said when he felt it was time.
"We got trouble," Buck said, his eyes glinting hard and angry beneath the brim of his hat. "Roche is in town. Knocked Ezra out cold and took Mary."
Chris couldn't hold back his sudden intake of breath. "Took her where?" he asked, with a cold feeling growing in his breast making it hard for him to breathe.
"He's holding her at the Clarion. Judge Travis figgers he's gonna keep her there ‘til light, then make a move."
"Only place he's movin' is to his grave," Chris growled. "Time's wastin' --"
Buck laid a restraining hand on Larabee's arm. "Chris, ya can't go chargin' in on him with your guns blazin'. He'll kill her b'fore ya can get a bullet in him, he's that close. We gotta git back t'town as quick and as quiet as we can."
"Buck's right," Vin drawled. "Cain't take a man like that down easy, Chris. He gits wind a' us bein' back, and he'll kill her like he kilt that girl in St. Louis." He paused, his eyes very bright. "One man, one bullet. That's what's got ta be done."
Chris turned pale killer's eyes to Vin. He looked at him, cold and steady as if he were looking at a stranger. "How good are you, Vin?" he asked.
Vin didn't flinch. He met Larabee's gaze and knew that he could not evade answering this time. The past came before him like mist shredded through by the wind; all the ghosts and all the guilt that he had carried with him rising up to taunt him with the true answer to that question. "That good," he said simply.
Buck uttered a soft, awed curse beneath his breath. He knew a prideful boast when he heard one, and this wasn't it. If Vin set aside his customary reluctance to admit his skills, then what he said was as true as the aim of his Winchester rifle. Buck laid his hand on Vin's shoulder. "Reckon we'd better git a move on, then."
Vin ducked his shoulder out from Buck's hand. He appreciated the support, but Buck's touch was a painful reminder of all that he had to leave behind if he were to walk once more with those ghosts. He did not speak to the others as he pulled Peso's head around and headed for the dim glow that was Four Corners.
Chris studied Vin's back. He had seen something shift in the tracker's eyes as soon as he had asked that question, and now he wished he could take it back. No one should have to cut off their humanity; he should know, he had done it to himself.
Josiah reined in next to Chris. He canted his head towards Vin. "That boy's starin' down a long, dark passage."
"You're talkin' in riddles, Preacher."
Josiah's eyes rested on him, bright and all-seeing, reflecting the pale glow of lightning. "Am I? Seems to me you're a man who would know th'answer to that one."
Chris' mouth twitched. "Ain't no answers, Josiah. Just more questions."
Josiah's deep laugh rumbled out. "Now who's talkin' in riddles?" A roll of thunder echoed down the hills, and Josiah looked heavenwards. "Seems even the Almighty found that amusin'."
"Sounded to me like a warnin'. Like we'd better watch Vin's back." Chris urged his horse forward. Four Corners was waiting.
+ + + + + + +
How good are you, Vin?
It was a hell of a question to answer. He knew he was good. He'd never been a man to notch his rifle to keep count of his kills; not even in the war when those marks on a man's gun were a matter of pride. His rifle had been pristine, but no one had questioned his skills. He'd been younger than JD, and grown men had moved out of his way as he passed, as if the touch of his shadow was as lethal as his gun. He was that good, and he took no pride or pleasure in it.
He knew that he should not have cut Larabee off like he had, but if he was going to do what they were asking, he could not afford emotion. Not even the hate and anger that he harbored in his breast. He'd been raised to believe that women needed protecting and honoring, not because they were weak, but because they were the greatest gift the Lord had given to man. Mary, with her fierce intelligence that put him in mind of a righteous sword, and her belief that there was more in his heart than killing, was infinitely precious to him. Her gentle concern made him ache for something he didn't deserve, and most likely would never have. But Lord, how he loved her for it. And that was why he would put Titus Roche in his sights and take his life.
Several lengths behind him, Chris saw the hard set of that slim, buckskin-clad frame, and thought how fragile, how brittle Vin looked; all bones and angles strung together by taut nerves and very little else. And when that last strength was gone, he would break. The thought slammed into Chris' gut. He wouldn't let Vin face Titus Roche alone. He had his own score to settle with that demon.
The wind gusted, whipping his duster about his legs and making his mount shy at the sudden movement at the corner of its vision. Chris fought for a moment, then let the tension out of the reins. He felt as if he were being called to haste with the devil at his heels. Lightning sheeted across the sky, and the thunder shuddered over the plain. Vin half rose in Peso's stirrups, as if he scented danger on the wind. He looked back at Chris. Comprehension as sharp and hot as the lightning arcing overhead ran between them. Chris nodded slightly.
They urged their horses to a faster pace; Vin riding point, and the three of them trailing like the other Horsemen of the Apocalypse deferring to Death.
+ + + + + + +
It was the hardest thing Orrin Travis had ever done, just waiting and watching from the shadows, knowing that Mary was in grave danger. He was not accustomed to being helpless. In a courtroom, he wielded the power; life and death in his hands and meted out with justice according to the laws of God and man. Many a criminal had looked into his eyes and trembled to see their fate in them. Now, he knew how they felt.
Helpless, stripped naked, and alone.
Vulnerable. Titus Roche and seen it, and before Travis knew what sort of man he was, he had preyed on those tender places in Orrin's heart, like a vulture. Evie, Mary, and Billy, those aching scars left by Stephen's death, all laid open and unguarded for too long. He could have screamed out his agony and rage, but Roche had silenced him with the gun he held aimed at Mary's breast.
A sudden flare of lightning caused Travis to wince and shrink back farther into the recess between the Clarion and the next storefront. Thunder rolled in a menacing growl. The storm had gathered itself like a monstrous panther and was prowling the land. Travis worried that it might force Roche to move before daylight. The rains would make escape impossible, and he might choose flight even in the teeth of the storm. What would happen to Mary then? Would he kill her outright, would he take her with him as a lure? Lord God, he could leave her out there to die, and with this rain, not even Vin Tanner would be able to trace her.
Travis' hand went to the gun at his side. He was not afraid to use it; he'd been in the West for too long not to acknowledge that there were times when a man had to back up his words with force. But not like this -- not with Mary's life at stake. The grip of his pistol was cold against his palm. He felt a chill rise up his spine. He closed his eyes and saw his grandson's face, the way he looked at his mother at times with fear that she might be taken from him like his father had been. Travis released his gun. He would not use it unless Titus Roche forced his hand.
+ + + + + + +
Lightning limned the edges of the Clarion's windows with a blue-white incandescence that seemed to grow brighter with every flash. It flickered on Mary's pale hair, but could not reach the shadows of the dimly lit room. The candle Roche had lighted was burning low and guttering as fitfully as the lightning outside.
Mary cast a furtive glance at Roche. He was sitting at her desk, his body leaning forward as he watched the play of the lightning. He was distracted for the moment, and Mary took advantage of his inattention to try to loosen the knots binding her wrists. Her arms were aching from the strain of being bound behind her back, and the wooden slats of the chair she was tied in were digging into her back. Her fingers were going numb, and she was afraid of losing the circulation in them. She gave the rope a hard tug, and was brought up short by the sharp pain the motion sent shooting down her arms and across her shoulders. She caught her breath audibly, drawing Roche's attention back to her. His eyes glittered like shards of obsidian.
"You won't get free that way, Mrs. Travis. You're only hurting yourself by trying."
She raised her head and looked at him. "You can untie me, Mr. Roche. I give you my word that I won't try to escape."
"Your word?" He laughed softly. "I'd trust you about as much as I'd trust that gunslinger Larabee."
"Chris Larabee is an honorable man! He's not like --" Mary bit back her retort, realizing that her emotions were about to run away with her sense.
"Not like me?" Roche sneered. "Don't mistake honor for pragmatism, my dear. Larabee is a hired gun, no more, no less. Travis told me how he hired Larabee to keep the peace. A better offer comes along, and Four Corners will be nothing more than a smudge of dust in his past." He came from behind the desk and ran a cold finger down her cheek. "Your beauty notwithstanding."
Mary jerked away from Roche's touch, and he caught her jaw in his hard hand, forcing her to look at him. "He won't come to rescue you." He slid his hand down to her throat. "No one came to rescue that girl in St. Louis. She was still praying when I snapped her neck."
Mary's eyes widened, not only because of his confession, but because she knew Roche had just given her a death sentence. He wouldn't let her live, not after telling her that. He had never intended to let her live.
Oh, God. Billy ... A tear slid down Mary's cheek, and she blinked, angry at her own body's betrayal. She wouldn't be a coward. She wouldn't want that to be her legacy to her son.
A flash of lightning brighter than the rest, flared through the shutters, and the crack of thunder that followed made Mary startle. Roche cursed and released her. The wind rose, and a lash of rain scored across the shingled overhang of the Clarion's roof.
Roche went to the window and moved the edge of the shade to peer outside. The rain slanted down in a hard grey curtain chased by the wind. He was not so new to the West that he didn't realize the danger the storm posed to his plans. Impassable roads, flooding rivers, swollen fords. No escape.
He looked at Mary speculatively. He wondered how much the Judge would be willing to pay for her safe return. It wouldn't compare to what he had planned to retrieve from the bank, but it would be something. Travis had friends in high places who would be more than willing to extend a loan to the judge in exchange for a few favors from the bench.
Roche released the shade and strode over to Mary's chair. Holding the derringer in one hand, he untied the rope holding her to the chair, but left her wrists bound. "Get up," he ordered.
"W-why?"
"We're leaving."
"B-but the bank," Mary stammered. "Your plan --" Stall, her mind said. Keep him talking. Buy yourself time. If he took her out of Four Corners, she was as good as dead.
"Plans change." He grabbed her arm roughly. "Let's go."
"Wait!" Mary's fought to keep the desperation from her voice. "You can't leave in this storm. It's too dangerous. Have you ever seen a flash flood, Mr. Roche? I have. It can sweep you away in a moment, without warning."
"Your concern is touching," Roche said acidly. "but unconvincing, Mrs. Travis.And this delaying tactic on your part won't work." He pushed her towards the desk. "Sit down."
Mary obeyed. Roche untied her wrists, but as soon as the ropes fell away, he held the derringer to her temple. "Write what I tell you."
Mary's hands were shaking as she took out a sheaf of paper and dipped her quill into her inkwell. She wrote out the words of the ransom note, feeling sick bile rise in her throat as she thought of Orrin having to ask for money to redeem her body from Titus Roche. She finished the letter, blotted it, and left it on the desk where it would be found easily.
As soon as she had finished, Roche tied her up again and pulled her to her feet. "Very nice. I'm sure it will have the intended effect. We're going to the livery now."
Mary felt the hard gun barrel digging into her ribs. She could imagine the bullet ripping through her body; the pain, the blood, and she was frightened by it. God, Chris. How can you live with this everyday? she thought.
Roche felt her body sway, and then stiffen. He nudged her with the gun. "Go. And remember, one false move, and I'll kill you. Do you understand?"
Mary drew a sharp breath. "I understand that you will kill me, no matter what I do."
Roche's laugh hissed through his teeth. "But you don't know that for sure, do you? Just keep thinking of that boy of yours, Mrs. Travis. It would be a real shame for him to be left an orphan because of your stupidity." He opened the door just wide enough to allow her to slip through.
"I may be many things, Mr. Roche. But I am not stupid." Mary said. "I won't fight you." The gun in her ribs urged her forward, and she stepped outside. The wind tugged and tangled her hair, and scattered the raindrops into a cool, fine mist that chilled her skin. She stumbled from the boardwalk onto the street, followed by Roche, one hand holding her arm in a cruelly hard grip, the other shoving the gun against her body.
She was grateful the raindrops sliding down her cheeks hid her tears. In the wind and in the rain, trying to hold her head high, she let Titus Roche take her to the livery.
+ + + + + + +
Mindful of Buck's warning, the four peacekeepers took the back way into Four Corners, as far from the Clarion offices and the Travis house as they could manage. The thunder was rolling in long echoes, the lightning flashing hard and blue as the flare of a lucifer struck on stone. The streets were deserted. The fading watch-fires hissed and smoked as the chilly raindrops hit the coals.
Vin raised his hand and brought Peso to a halt in front of Josiah's church. He sat in the saddle for a moment, trying to work up the strength to move. He knew that once he attempted to dismount, he would hurt. He felt the weight of Chris' concerned study on his back; Larabee wouldn't miss a twitch. He braced his arms on the pommel, set himself in the stirrup, and managed to swing his leg over without groaning. The testing point would be letting his weight down. He prayed Peso wouldn't pull one of his stunts, and make a sidewise hop as he was want to do at odd moments, but the gelding remained steady as a rock as Vin tentatively stood and tried to look as if he wasn't leaning against that strong flank.
Then he was down, and his leg didn't collapse, and the world stopped spinning in a few seconds as the pain in his wounded hip quieted. He slid his Winchester from the scabbard.
Chris and Buck had watched that dismount, ready to stand to his side if he had needed help. Chris set his hand on Vin's shoulder, felt the tension there. "You got a plan, Vin?"
Vin gave him a grim little smile. "Gotta scope out what's goin' on."
"You just gonna walk down the street?" Buck asked. "
Vin cocked his head slightly upwards. "Ya might say so." He was eyeing the roof-lines, where he prowled regularly, as sure-footed as a mountain cat.
Buck gave a gasp of laugher. "Yer gonna dance around up there, hurtin', in a storm?"
"'Less you got a better idea," Vin said rebelliously.
Buck didn't. He looked at Chris, who just shook his head. Larabee knew that once the tracker set an idea in his head, he'd make it work if Hell and the Devil stood in the way. He gave Vin a sidewise look. "You don't have ta do this alone, cowboy."
"You gonna take the shot?" Vin asked, amusement roughening his voice. But there was a hint of a challenge there, too. Chris' mouth rose in an answering smile.
"Maybe. Least let me shadow you."
Vin looked at Larabee's black-clad body. Shadow. He knew the gunslinger could move silent as ghost, knew that he had more at stake than he would let on, and that Chris would make sure Mary was all right if for some reason he failed. He nodded. "Let's do it."
Buck spoke softly. "Ya might want ta keep an eye open for Judge Travis. I left him watchin' the Clarion."
The building next to the chapel had an outside stairway ascending to a second-story porch. Chris and Vin went up those steps, and from there, gained the roof of the lower building next door. Vin moved along those narrow, rain-slick surfaces with an ease that Chris envied. He kept pace out of grim determination, but couldn't say he felt happy about being ten feet higher than a man was meant to walk. As they neared the Clarion, Vin slowed his pace, and motioned to Chris to stop. They were at the alley breaking between one block of buildings and the next. Lightning sprang across the sky, chasing the shadows, and revealing a man's dark shape on the edge of the alley.
"Judge Travis," Vin whispered. He took a shell from his belt and pitched it down, hoping it would land on the boardwalk and not in the mud.
The small, clear thunk made Travis whirl and look up, his drawn gun in his hand. The lightning illuminated the scene, revealing Tanner and Larabee. The tension left Travis' body and his hand came down. The two gunmen dropped from the overhang, Tanner landing with an audible grunt of pain, and needing Larabee's hand to raise him upright.
"You all right?" Travis asked. Vin caught his breath and nodded. Chris shot the Judge a look.
"Roche still in there with her?"
"Yes. He's holding her at gunpoint, Chris. There's no way to get a shot at him without him killing her."
"We'll see about that," Vin rasped. "Where's he got her?"
Before Travis could answer, Chris gave them both a shove back into the shadows. The door to the Clarion opened a slit, and Mary stumbled out with Roche holding tight to her arm. Her breath caught on a sob, and Chris' anger surged in his breast. He was about two seconds from running after them when Vin's touch brought him back from that foolhardy act.
"I'll follow ‘em. Judge, you get Buck for backup in case somethin' happens and he starts gittin' away." His blue eyes reflected the sheen of the lightning. "Chris --"
"Take him down, Vin. I want that bastard dead." He felt Vin's fingers tighten on his arm, and then the tracker was ghosting into the shadows as he followed Roche and Mary's progress towards the livery. Chris nodded to Travis, and once the Judge had gone, Chris went after Vin.
The cold rain lashed down, running into Vin's collar, soaking his hair. He was cold, so cold, but he pushed that thought away. Roche was far enough ahead of him that he didn't have to dodge into the dark recesses of buildings, and the bruit of the storm was masking the sound of his paces as he hurried after them. The glare of the lightning turned the night briefly into day and the thunder was close, wrenched from the skies in torment. The wind snatched Vin's hat from his head to hang by the stampede string, and whipped his wet hair into tangled strands. He pushed them impatiently from his forehead. He surveyed the buildings. He needed a vantage point, someplace where he could get a clear shot ...
He felt Chris' presence as he came to his side. The lightning paled the gunslinger's sharp features. His mouth was drawn narrow and hard and the knotted muscles of his jaw jumped with tension. "They in there?"
Vin gave a short nod. "Cain't see through walls. We gotta git him t'come out."
"You pick where you want to take the shot, Vin. Leave Roche t' me. I figure this has been a long time coming."
Another man would have argued with Larabee. Buck would have knocked him upside the head for even thinking of luring Roche out. Travis would have been aghast at the danger to both Chris and Mary. But Vin just looked at him with a clear, measuring gaze that Chris felt to the soles of his boots. Same as he had that first day.
"Ya trust me, Chris?"
The eyes warmed. "Are you that good?"
"Yeah, I am." A brief spark of laughter shone in Vin's eyes. He pointed to a low, flat overhang that angled into the shadow of a taller building. "Up there."
Chris watched as he limped over to the back stairs of the building and from there, swung himself up onto the roof. He melted into darkness that even the lightning couldn't penetrate. Chris shivered and strode into the livery yard. The wind moaned around the corners, whipping the sodden tails of his duster flat against his legs. He swallowed hard, and took his stance.
"Roche! Titus Roche! It's Larabee. You want me dead? I'm waiting!"
"Chris! NO!" Mary cried out, and then fell abruptly silent. All of Chris' instincts were telling him to charge through that door, guns blazing, and damn the consequences, but the thought of the man in the shadows stopped him, forced him to breathe, and speak.
"Roche, let Mrs. Travis go. I'm the one you want."
No response. The seconds ticked away. The rain fell, the thunder rolled. And just when Chris felt like he couldn't draw another breath, the stable door inched open.
Chris' hand went to the pistol on his hip, his fingers flexed, every muscle primed to make a move as swift as any lightning bolt. He saw the edge of Mary's skirt, her awkward movement as Roche muscled her forward, then they were both out in the rain. Mary's hands were tied in front of her, and Titus Roche held her tight across his body, the barrel of his pistol pressed hard against her jaw.
"Chris!" Mary sobbed, and Roche dug the gun deeper, making her choke at the pressure. There was a bruise darkening her cheekbone, and a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were wide, fixed on him as he stood there.
"Let her go, Roche." Chris repeated. "She's got nothin' t'do with this."
"She has everything to do with this, Larabee." Roche had to shout to be heard over the storm. His eyes were glittering dangerously, like a cornered animal's. Chris had seen desperation in men before, and he knew how close Roche was to madness.
Now, Vin. he thought. Now.
Tanner was crouched on the treacherous roof, his Winchester cradled against his cheek. But he could not shoot. Roche had Mary in so close a hold that every mortal part of him was covered. A hit anywhere else, his finger would jerk and Mary would be dead. Vin had one chance, the same chance Chris had given him earlier that day.
He eased forward out of the shadows and into a dazzle of lightning that lit him as clearly as day. Roche caught the motion, saw the barrel of the long gun, and in an instinctive, self-protective motion, he raised his gun and fired. The Winchester spat flame into the night. The bullet slammed into Roche's suddenly exposed upper chest. His hold on Mary fell away, and she wrenched out of his arms. Roche snarled, whirling towards Larabee. Lightning split the sky overhead; Chris' gun and the crack of thunder sounded Titus Roche's doom. He staggered back under the force of the bullet; and his last expression was shock and bewilderment, as if he could not believe he had failed and his life was ended. Then he measured his length on the ground, his eyes open to the falling rain.
Chris stood over Roche. He felt the familiar, vague astonishment at how death diminished a man. He holstered his gun and looked up to see Mary standing a few paces away, in the rain. She was shaking, staring at Roche's body as if unable to believe he would not spring back to life to threaten her. Chris stepped around the corpse to take her in his arms. "It's over," he said.
Mary gasped and hid her face in his shoulder. She shivered against him, and he wished he had some warmth to give her. Gently, he raised her head. "Are you all right?"
"Yes." Her lip trembled, and Chris ran the pad of his thumb over the cut Roche had left. "He hurt you."
Mary shook her head. "I'm fine." Chris worked at the ropes binding her wrists. When they fell away, he gathered her close once more and didn't release her until Judge Travis and Buck came running to the scene. Travis laid his hand on Mary's shoulder, drawing her out of Chris' embrace. He released her reluctantly into the Judge's protection, jealous of that prerogative, but knowing that Travis needed the reassurance that she was safe as much as Mary herself did.
Buck looked down at the body. "You or Vin?" he asked.
Vin limped into the livery yard to join them. He stood hip-cocked and swaying slightly as the rain sluiced down his hair and face; seemingly dispassionate until Chris saw the pulse beating hard and fast beneath his jaw. "Reckon it don't matter, long as he's dead." His voice went out in a sigh and he quietly folded to the ground at Chris' feet.
+ + + + + + +
Lord, how much longer can this night last? Josiah asked his God as he watched Nathan and Buck carry Vin towards the clinic with Chris at their heels like a shadow. Tanner was limp in their hold, his head lolling forward on his chest, his long hair trailing across his face in wet tendrils. Sorrow clenched around Josiah's heart. Ain't none of them gonna live long, he reckoned, but it seemed the Lord owed Tanner a few more years.
My Lord, my Lord, He had no other words, just the endless litany of that sacred name he recited as he cleared off the table Nathan used for examinations. He heard them struggling up the steps, then a pause before Buck kicked the door open and backed into the room. Vin wasn't heavy, but he was long and lax, and both Buck and Nathan were breathing hard. In contrast, Larabee seemed scarcely to breathe at all; he stalked into the room, his eyes fixed on Tanner's face with an expression so bleak and so devoid of hope that Josiah's hand closed around his crucifix in silent prayer.
They laid Vin down on the table. A flash of lightning from the fading storm shed a hard light on his face. He looked dead, and for a heart-stopping moment Josiah was certain that he was, before he saw a quick, shallow breath raise his chest. Not dead. But barely alive.
Nathan took charge, as much in his element now as Larabee had been facing Titus Roche. He started barking out orders. "Buck, get them wet clothes off him. Boy's gonna catch pneumonia b'fore I kin stitch him up. Josiah, light them lanterns and bring ‘em over, so's I kin see what I'm doin'."
There was a flurry of activity around the table. As Nathan gathered his instruments and bandages, Vin was stripped and laid out pale and naked on the planks. So thin, Josiah realized with a shock when he hung the lanterns overhead. Like he hadn't eaten in days -- Lord, he probably hadn't, not a proper meal. The two older wounds were seeping blood, but it was the fresh wound high up near Vin's right shoulder that Nathan was working on, trying to stop the crimson flow.
He cast a desperate look over his shoulder. "Chris! I need you here."
The gunslinger had retreated to the shadows, but when Nathan called him, he stepped forward and took the cloth Nathan held out to him. "Need you to hold this, right here." Nathan pressed Chris' hand hard just below Vin's clavicle where the bow of the bone met the shoulder joint. "Hold it tight, now. I gotta stop the bleedin' b'fore I kin get the bullet out. Josiah, need you, too. Help Buck hold him still. I ain't takin' any chances with him thrashin' around."
Nathan kept swabbing blood from the bullet wound until Chris thought Vin couldn't have any more to bleed. A steady stream of scarlet ran from the wound, to the table and dripped through the planks to pool on the floor. Chris gritted his teeth and pressed harder. After what seemed an eternity, the bleeding slowed enough to allow Nathan to probe for the bullet.
"Keep him still," The healer cautioned. The two big men set their hands to Vin's body, firm and gentle, but ready to respond with strength if necessary. Nathan looked at Chris; the gunslinger was nearly as pale as Vin, and reddened to his wrists with the tracker's blood. Larabee gave him a brief nod and Nathan steeled himself to go after the bullet.
Even unconscious, Tanner's body bowed up hard when Nathan's forceps bit into the wound, making Buck and Josiah exert more force than they wanted to, just to keep him on the table. But Nathan was quick, and the bullet was in his grasp and jerked out of the wound in seconds. All the fight left Vin, and he lay still beneath their hands. Nathan wondered that he'd had the strength to struggle at all, as slight and bled out as he was.
He took a deep breath. "Chris, ease up on that pressure now." He watched the wound closely, and when he was satisfied that the bleeding had stopped, he flushed it with carbolic and packed it with lint and astringent herbs.
One more task. He disinfected and bandaged Vin's other wounds. He'd be damned to have saved him from bleeding to death only to have an infection kill him. At last, he was done, and he stepped back from the table. He looked at his fellow peacekeepers. They all seemed to be watching the rise and fall of Vin's chest as if their own lives depended on that respiration. Chris started upright when his breath caught on a hitch, and then relaxed again when it resumed a regular rhythm.
Josiah had warmed blankets in front of the fire, and when Buck had carried Vin to the cot by the window, he nested them close and laid a gentle hand on Vin's forehead. His lips moved in a silent prayer, and he felt that prayer echoed and sent heavenwards by the others. They might deny it, but Josiah knew their hearts. Buck gave Chris' shoulder a comforting squeeze, and drifted downstairs, needing air, needing a drink, needing to look in on JD. Josiah followed him, feeling awkward in those small quarters, and wanting to sit someplace peaceful where the gunshots would stop echoing in his head.
They were all so weary. So weary that death would feel good, Chris thought as he pushed a chair next to Vin's bedside. He slumped forward, dropping his head in his hands and trying to rub the ache from his temples. It didn't work. He looked up at Nathan. "How's Ezra?"
"I's gonna check on him, if ya don't mind stayin', Chris."
"I ain't goin' nowhere, Nate. You know that."
He did. Larabee's eyes were sunk in shadows and Nathan saw nothing of the killer in those green depths; exhaustion and patience, but not the cold detachment he'd seen so often. "I won't be long," he said.
"I'd appreciate knowin' Mary's all right."
"I'll make sure that she is." He hesitated with his hand at the doorknob. "I got some whiskey in the cupboard there, Chris."
Larabee shook his head, an amused smile playing about his lips. "Hell, Nathan. If I start drinkin' I'll be stretched out on the floor after the first shot. Wouldn't mind havin' some coffee, though."
"Pot's on the stove. Help yo'self." He opened the door, letting in a draught of cool, rain-laden air that swept away the stench of blood and carbolic. Chris poured himself a mug of coffee and settled back in his chair to begin his vigil.
+ + + + + + +
Dawn was beginning to grey the eastern sky when Buck let himself into JD's room. Nathan had left a lantern burning a low flame, and Buck sighed and sank down into a chair. JD was sleeping on his side, thick black lashes splayed over pale cheeks, his raven's wing hair swept across his forehead, and tumbled on his pillow. The kid looked about six years old asleep. Buck was envious of that innocence, his own long gone, if he had ever had it. He slouched lower in the chair. Thank God the night was over, and Titus Roche was dead.
"Buck?"
He sat up quickly. "Sorry, kid. I didn't mean ta wake you."
JD pushed himself upright. "Is something wrong? Did Roche --"
"Dead. Him and Harper, both. So there's nuthin' fer you ta worry on. Just go back ta sleep."
It was hard to see Buck's expression; his face and eyes were shadowed by the brim of his hat and the dim light, but the tenor of his voice made JD's short hairs rise. "You ain't tellin' me everything, Buck." When Wilmington remained silent, JD got angry. "Damn it! I ain't no kid who needs protecting. You got somethin' to tell me, you spit it out. You'd do it for Chris an' Vin -- why not me?"
"Kid -- JD ..." Buck opened his hands in a helpless gesture, which alarmed JD even more. Those wide eyes of his went even wider and his freckles stood out against his pallor.
"You tell me, Buck!"
"Vin's hurt bad."
"How bad?" JD asked in a small voice. "Is he dead?"
"No, but Nathan don't seem too hopeful." He hated saying those words. JD had a mighty high regard for Vin; thought the tracker walked on water, vanished into thin air, and tamed horses by breathing on them. He had to take this hard. JD started to swing his legs over the side of the bed, and Buck was across the room in two lanky strides to push him gently back. "You stay put, son. Least until Nathan gives you the go-ahead."
"But --"
"JD," Buck sighed. "Vin won't know you're there. B'sides Chris is with him, and ain't no room for anyone else."
JD tried to push Buck's arm aside. "I'm gettin' out of bed."
"Go back to sleep."
"I'm full-growed, Buck."
"You've got a hole in yer shoulder, kid. And don't tell me it ain't hurtin' still. I've been shot more time than you c'n count, and I know how it feels three days out."
"Four." But he subsided against the pillows. "I want to know everything," he warned. "And if it looks bad, you gotta let me see Vin ... Please?"
"Sure, kid. Ya know I will."
JD studied him with those bright hazel eyes. "Promise."
"Ya got my word." He rose from the bed. "I'm gonna check on him right now. I'll be back, I swear it." He gave JD a long warning glance, and left, reassured by Dunne's argumentative spirit. Meant he was on the mend, which was a weight off Buck's mind. He'd go back to Nathan's, see how Vin was doing and if Chris needed anything, and then he'd crawl into bed and sleep for a hundred hours.
Those steps going up to Nathan's clinic seemed twice as long and steep as usual, but he dragged himself up and opened the door quietly. The room was so dim that he could barely make out Chris' form as he sat by Vin's bed; just the white blur of his face and light hair, the shape of his hands wrapped around Vin's, the curve of his spine.
"Hey, Chris." A whisper, faint in the darkness. "How's he doin'?"
Chris looked up. "The same. At least he's restin' peaceful." He laid Vin's hand down gently and scrubbed his aching eyes.
"Ya look like you could use some sleep, pard."
Chris shook his head. "I'm stayin'."
Buck hooked his ankle around another chair, and moved it next to Chris'. For a long time, neither man spoke. Buck watched the light strengthen in the room, the dawn bringing a faint, illusory color to Vin's face. His features were finely carved; cheekbones, shadowed orbits, blade-straight nose, and stubborn jaw. The set of that jaw made Buck smile slightly. "Ya never answered my question, Chris."
"What?"
"Which one a'ya killed Roche?"
"Reckon we both did," he sighed. "He made the shot, Buck. He did it with a bullet in him, between one heartbeat and the next, just like I said." He shook his head. "I never saw a man shoot like that. It was inches, Buck. Inches ... One way, and Roche would've shot Mary, the other way, and Vin's bullet would've hit her. I couldn't do what he did. Don't know if anyone could."
Buck gave a soft whistle. "He is that good."
"Yeah. He is."
Buck rose wearily to his feet. He brushed his fingers over Vin's hair. "He's gonna make it, Chris. He's too damn stubborn t'let a sonofabitch like Roche kill him. Kinda puts me in mind of another stubborn bastard I know."
"Get some rest, Buck. You're not makin' much sense." Buck flicked the brim of his hat and closed the door behind him. Chris took up Vin's cool hand and held it as if he could will some warmth into his body. "Partner, it's about time ya started wakin' up," he sighed. "So I c'n get some sleep."
+ + + + + + +
Orrin and Nathan had combined forces to make Mary drink one of Nathan's sedative teas and send her to bed, even though she didn't sleep. She kept re-living those moments in the stable yard: Roche pressing her hard against his body, the pistol at her jaw. Chris, standing in the rain, his face taut with rage. The flash of lightning that had revealed Vin; Roche swinging her free to aim and fire, and the sickening sound of a bullet striking flesh as Vin's shot hit home. Then the crack of Chris' gun and Roche falling with the rain splashing into his unseeing eyes. She would never forget.
When dawn tinted her windows, she rose and dressed. She had a paper to put together, a life to pick up. And she had to see Chris and Vin. Nathan had told her that Vin was wounded, but resting easy, and that Ezra had regained consciousness and would recover completely in a few days. She owed them all so much that the idea of repayment seemed absurd.
She crept quietly down the stairs, not wanting to alert Orrin that she was awake. He would insist on going with her, thinking she was fragile. She hadn't been fragile since the day Stephen had died. She couldn't afford that luxury. A quick look in the mirror at the foot of the stairs made her gasp. Her lip was still swollen, and the bruise on her cheekbone had darkened spectacularly. Titus Roche had left his mark. She lifted her chin. The bruise would fade, and so would his memory. Mary wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and stepped outside into the rain-washed morning.
It was early enough that no one saw her pass the Clarion offices and go straight to Nathan's. When she got to the top of the steps, she raised her hand to knock, and then not wanting to disturb Vin if he was resting, she opened the door and slipped inside.
The sun was coming through the windows, the warm rays falling across two sleeping figures. Vin, lying still and looking fragile in that strong light, and Chris, bowed over at a spine-wrenching angle, his cheek cushioned on one bent arm, and his free hand resting on Vin's chest, over his heart. There was such faith in that gesture, such open and aching need for that life to continue, that Mary stepped back, as if she were intruding. Her heel came down on a creaky board and she gasped softly.
Chris came awake all in a piece, his hand reaching towards the gun at his side, and then dropping away as he realized that she posed no threat. Every muscle in his back tightened, and he groaned, a grimace twisting his lips. Mary bit back a smile as he drew himself upright; no longer lethal, just tousled and heavy-eyed, and very human.
Their eyes met, and then skated away, coming back to each other when their emotions were once again trustworthy. They both spoke at once: "How are you ... how is he ..?" They laughed softly, and Chris deferred to Mary with a lift of a brow.
"How is he?" she asked.
Chris drew a breath. "He's alive. I thought I was gonna lose him there a couple ‘a times, but towards dawn, he seemed to rally a bit, start breathin' easier." He wouldn't tell her more about those hours until he was certain Vin would pull through. The memory of it started a cold sweat on his forehead. Instead, he searched her face, troubled by what he saw there.
Mary's hand went to her cheek. "I look like I've gone five rounds with Gentleman Johnny," she said.
"If Roche weren't dead, I'd put him in his grave for that alone." He came to her, touched the bruise lightly. "Did Nathan take care of you?"
"Endlessly," Mary smiled. "I will be all right. I have to be."
"You will be," he said. No doubts, no vague words of comfort.
Mary took that certainty to her far less confident heart. She would think of that whenever she felt her courage crumbling. Her shoulders squared. "I really came here to thank you. And to see Vin." She crossed over to the cot and knelt at Vin's side. She smoothed the damp waves of hair from his forehead and touched her lips to his skin, much as she did when Billy was running a fever. "Thank you for my life, Vin." she whispered.
She turned away, her eyes misty with tears. Her lip was trembling. She wouldn't cry, she swore. Then she saw her own fear reflected in Chris' expression. She laid her arms around his shoulders and rested her cheek on his hard chest. She felt his muscles shift as he embraced her. "It will be all right," she said with the same force of will that he had offered to reassure her.
They stood like that, finding comfort in shared pain until they heard Nathan's footsteps on the stairway. Mary stepped out of the circle of Chris' arms, composed and unhurried. She tucked her hair more neatly behind her ears and settled her shawl on her shoulders. "You send word to me if there is any change. I'll be at the Clarion."
Chris smiled slightly. "You won't let it go for one day?"
"No. I'm fine." She dared him to argue otherwise, and when he didn't, she swept out of the clinic, nodding to Nathan as she left.
+ + + + + + +
For a while Vin drifted in that dark, gentle place between consciousness and not, where there was no pain. Then suddenly everything hurt, and he fought to go back to the darkness, but the warmth on his face drew him closer to the light, and he took a breath which hurt fiercely, and a second one, which was not quite as bad. He wasn't dead, then. His other senses were waking; the scent of coffee and carbolic, the feel of rough wool against his naked body, the sound of someone trying not to make noise as they walked around the room ... And then the touch of a hand over his.
His fingers stirred in that grip, and he heard Chris call out Nathan's name. Wasn't too happy about that ‘cause he figured the healer would want to do something to him that would hurt. Maybe if he kept his eyes closed, they would go away and leave him be until he figured out whether he wanted to stay, or slip away to the darkness again.
"Vin, c'mon. Time to wake up here, cowboy."
Hell. He opened his eyes a crack, seeing the light shimmer like rainbows through his lashes. The brightness hurt, so he turned his head a bit away from the dazzle and tried again. The sunbeam streamed through the window, across the blankets swathed around his body. Dust motes floated like small stars in the light, and Vin's eyes followed the path it laid down to the fingers twined through his, and the blond head bent down as if in prayer.
"Cowboy?" His voice was so weak and raspy, his own ears scarcely recognized it. Chris' head came up, and the light blazing in those green eyes was nearly as dazzling as the sunlight, but they were also weary; bruised with fatigue and reddened from lack of sleep. "Ya look like Hell, Larabee." It was as much as he could manage without black specks gathering at the edges of his vision. He closed his eyes again, and Chris' grip tightened as if he feared Vin would drift again beyond recall.
"Nathan!"
The door to the clinic banged open and a shadow blocked out the bright light. Vin knew Nathan was there, placing a hand on his forehead, slipping the other behind his head and raising him so Chris could hold the cool rim of a cup to his lips. The water was the sweetest he had ever tasted. He drank it greedily, his shaky fingers wrapped around Chris' wrist to hold the cup there, not wanting it to be withdrawn.
"Easy, Chris. Don' let him drink too fast. It'll jist come right back up," Nathan cautioned. He slipped his supporting hand away, laying Vin back gently. "Thought you wasn't gonna stay with us this time," he said, his big hand laid alongside Vin's neck, feeling the weak but steady throb of life there.
He and Chris were both looking at him like they expected some sort of reassurance that he was once more firmly anchored to this life, painful as it was. He managed a smile -- at least he thought he did. "Don't have anywhere else ta go," he sighed. Then he did slip into the darkness, but not so deeply that he wouldn't come back.
Two Days Later
Chris bounded up the clinic stairs, worrying about what he would find, even though Nathan swore Vin was on the mend. The cold feeling of dread wouldn't leave the pit of his stomach until Vin was back prowling the roofs of Four Corners. When he saw the tracker dancing over the shingles, then he would know he was healed.
He paused for a moment to gather his courage before opening the clinic door. He was rewarded when he went inside. Vin was sitting up. For the first time in days, he had some color to his face, as if there was finally enough blood in him to spare for matters less than mortal. He was wearing one of Nathan's flannel shirts; sizes too large for his slight frame, but warm, and he was squinting at a copy of the Clarion News as he sounded out the words he recognized. He could pick out a puff of smoke two miles away on a dark night, but he had to squint to read.
The sound of the closing door made Vin startle slightly and look up. Chris sauntered over to the bedside and pulled up a chair. He tilted his head appraisingly. "Readin' about your exploits, pard?"
"Hell, the damned script ain't makin' no sense, t'day, Chris." He set the paper aside. "Ya sound like Ezra," he grumbled.
"Maybe. Just came from talkin' to him. Nathan let him move back to the Standish Tavern today."
"Wish he'd let me move back t'my wagon," Vin said wistfully. But he laid his head back on the pillows, worn out from the small exertion of just looking at the Clarion.
"Not until lifting a sheet of newspaper doesn't leave you wrung out." He took the broadsheet from the bed and set it aside. "Looks like Mary was here."
"She brought the paper, and left a jug a'cider on the table."
"You want some?"
Vin lifted his uninjured shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. "Reckon so." When Chris handed him a mug, he drank a bit and then stared down into the pale amber liquid for a few moments, as if he had something he wanted to say, but couldn't find the words.
"She thanked me for savin' her life, Chris."
Larabee's brow rose. "You did. Saved mine, and a lot of other folks, too, if you consider Harper and Roche together."
"I didn't do it ta be a hero."
Chris' mouth quirked at the corner. "There's worse things t'be, Vin."
"Hell, I been most a' them, too," Vin said with a rueful chuff of laughter.
Deep amusement glinted in Chris' eyes as he recognized the truth in those words. They pretty much described his life, as well. Seemed he and Vin were on the same road, struggling through the same dark places; though Chris wasn't so sure that his footing was as secure as Vin's, when it came to backsliding. Sometimes those shadows just pulled him down.
Larabee was silent for so long, that Vin laid his head back on his pillow and closed his eyes. Thinkin' made his head hurt. But despite that, words came unbidden, and he found himself speaking them to Chris. "They said I's a hero b'fore. But I warn't nuthin' but a killer. Didn't make nuthin' right, didn't make nuthin' better. I jist took away lives. Got ta thinkin' I's never gonna be more'n that."
Chris studied Tanner's pale, fine-boned face. "You don't have to tell me, Vin."
But he did. Vin opened his eyes; wide and blue, holding both terrible knowledge and terrible innocence. "Ya wondered why I took t'huntin' buffs? I did it ‘cause I figgered I'd be as good at it as I was at killin' men. Didn't hafta think about ghosts an' souls, jist aim and fire and see sumthin' die. Didn't think I was killin' folks jist the same, ‘til I saw th'army tryin' t'corral th' Lakota -- an' realized I's starvin' em t'death."
Vin's throat ached, and a fierce burn drew tears to his eyes. He felt Chris' hard, warm hand close over his forearm. "Lord, I didn' know what t'do, then. Took ‘bout a year a' livin' wild, an' then another with the Lakota b'fore I moved on. I couldn't stay -- I was white an' I couldn't ask ‘em t'see beyond that, not th'way th'army was treatin'em."
Chris held his breath, afraid to speak or move. Vin was unfolding his life before him -- so few words, so many years, and so much pain. He waited for that voice to resume. When it did, it was softer, fainter, as if all of Vin's strength was running out of him like blood.
"Took t' bounty huntin' in Texas. An' I's good at that, too -- didn't even hafta kill too many of ‘em. That's what made Eli Joe framin' me fer murder so strange, Chris. I kilt a lot a men, and the one I didn't kill's the one I'm likely t'hang fer." He shook his head, swallowed the bitter tears in this throat. "Some hero, huh?"
"Yeah," Chris whispered. "Some hero." He tightened his hold on Vin's arm. "You're wearin' down, pard."
Vin's head moved on the pillow. "Some things needed sayin', I reckon."
Chris rose to leave. He settled his hat, and stood looking down at his friend. "We took a lot of lives, Vin -- and somethin' tells me we ain't finished, yet. But this time, we ransomed some of ‘em back. Maybe that's all we can do."
Vin was silent, weighing what Chris said, and thinking of many things; of his mother, of Kojay and his balance, of Josiah and his Bible, looking for meaning in words that rolled like thunder. He recalled hearing Josiah read one passage out loud -- knowing that Vin loved the poetry in it, and Vin had listened hard, committing it to memory, so he could ponder on it.
They weren't fancy words, not like the ones Ezra liked to use, but they fit his heart as comfortable as his own clothes fit his body:
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal ...
Chris was standing over him like he could keep the world and all its dangers from troubling his rest. Vin closed his eyes, waiting to hear him leave. Instead, the chair at the bedside creaked as Larabee sat back down, followed by the scratch of a lucifer against a boot sole, and the scent of tobacco in the air as he lit a cheroot and settled in.
The words whispered again. A time to kill, and a time to heal ... They drifted in his mind like the smoke of Larabee's cheroot, as familiar and strengthening as the presence of the man next to him. Vin hunched his shoulders a little deeper into Nathan's shirt, slid his spine lower in the cot, and let the world spin off in the hazy glow of sleep.
It was time to heal.
END
Follow-up story:
Ghosts
