Los Magnificos by Cattraine

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.

Pairing: C/V

Warnings: M/M sex, rape, violence, dark humor. NOTE: If you can only tolerate the guys as sterling heroes, DON’T read this. I can guarantee you won't like it. You have been warned. Remember-- Mr. Delete Button is our friend!

Notes: Hmm. The OW universe...slightly askew. The DARK version. First in a trilogy.

Feedback: Sure.

Jamie Potter tiptoed into the gloomy jailhouse, eyes wide with barely suppressed excitement. His friend Billy had bet him a nickel that he wouldn't be brave enough to sneak past the snoring deputy long enough to get a good look at the outlaw due to be hanged tomorrow. Heart pounding, the nine-year old crept across the room towards the front cell. Dusty boots up on the desk, the lanky deputy napped on.

Jamie slid an apprehensive look at the sleeping man as he crept past. If he were caught, his Ma would tan his hide. He had heard her talking in the store about the renegade held in the jail. The man had carved up a Texas Ranger with his bowie knife, and left the man staked still alive in a cacti patch for the carrion birds. It was only by pure chance that he had been caught by the posse, and then only after they shot his horse out from under him.

Slowly he eased up to the bars, peering into the dank interior of the filthy cell. The renegade was seated in the shadowed far corner, back against the wall, hat pulled low over his face, apparently dozing, ignoring the dirty, lice infested cot. The little boy was disappointed. He couldn't see the man's face at all, just strands of his long, light brown hair against the fringed buckskin jacket he wore.

The next moment, he froze in his tracks as the man tilted his head slightly and pinned Jamie with a cold stare, the vivid blue of his eyes highlighted in a narrow beam of late afternoon light. The child stared in wide-eyed surprise into the bruised, square-jawed face of the captive. Before he could retreat, there was a light footstep behind him and a slim hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"Jamie Potter! What do you think you're doing in here?"

The boy gulped and stared guiltily up at the pretty blonde woman who was staring sternly down at him, a kerchief-covered basket hanging from her arm. He realized she must have decided to bring some food to the jailed man, something the sheriff and his deputy seldom bothered with. There was a muffled snort from behind them as the deputy finally woke up. He swung his feet to the floor with a startled thump as he realized he had visitors.

Mary Travis gave Jamie's earlobe a sharp tug and pointed him sternly towards the door. As he ran out he heard her call after him.

"I'll have a word with your mother later, young man!"

The young newspaperwoman turned cool eyes on the stammering young deputy and gave a derisive snort at his lame excuses for sleeping on the job. She held a palm up to halt his stuttering explanation.

"It's a good thing, Mr. Cole, that I wasn't a friend of his. You would be dead now. I brought him some supper."

She casually indicated the basket she held and boldly tilted her head to stare him down. The sheriff was half drunk in the saloon, as usual, and Mary had taken advantage of that to gain entry to the jail. She was determined to obtain an interview with the young man accused of the heinous torture and murder of the Ranger.

"I believe Mrs. Hicks at the restaurant is serving pot roast and apple pie this afternoon, Mr. Cole. Why don't you run over there and fetch yourself a plate. In the meantime, I'll give your prisoner his lunch and wait until you get back."

She gave him a dazzling, sweet smile, and flattered, the scrawny, lantern-jawed young man could only nod in agreement. Flustered, he blushed, stammered a thank you and headed for the door, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. Half the marriageable aged men in town had a crush on the comely young widow, something she was not above taking full advantage of.

She waved goodbye, then huffed out a relieved breath as she turned towards the cells. Cautiously she approached the holding cell, a tingle of excitement running up her spine. She would be the first to obtain an interview with one of the most dangerous men in the New Mexico Territory! She was already running various headlines for tomorrow's special edition through her head.

She blinked into the gloomy cell, unsurprised to note the young man had not moved from his corner. According to the deputy, he seldom moved or made a sound. She suspected that was because of the festering bullet wound in his thigh. It had remained untreated in the entire three days since his capture. No one was willing to touch the 'heathen savage', or 'Indian lover,’ partially because he was considered a renegade and mainly because he fought like a devil if anyone laid a hand on him.

"Ain't any use in wastin' medicine on a dead man."

Had been Sheriff Hayes' laconic statement, when Mary had angrily questioned him regarding the prisoner's harsh treatment. She would be sure and have words with her father-in-law, Judge Travis, when he arrived to attend the execution tomorrow. It was her firm belief that a condemned man had the right to some courtesy and respect before he met his maker.

Her small nose wrinkled at the fetid odor of the cell. God only knew when was the last time the place had been cleaned. There was a stinking wooden bucket meant to serve as a urinal under the crude cot, as well as an untouched tin plate of what appeared to be kitchen scraps, crawling with buzzing flies on the floor.

The young man seated in the corner, remained still and silent, hat brim again hiding his face as he apparently dozed. Mary cleared her throat and waited to be acknowledged. The man never even twitched in response. She waited a moment, then tried again, louder this time. Nothing. Irritated and unused to being ignored, the young woman tried again, this time loudly tapping the iron bars with a spoon she withdrew from her basket.

"Mr. Tanner I brought you some supper..."

Her voice trailed off as his head slowly tilted up, revealing wide, blue eyes in a bruised, chiseled face. She gave an involuntary little gasp at his apparent youth. Why, he could hardly be out of his teens! Surely this could not be the man accused of the Ranger's brutal murder. The dark blue eyes surveyed her warily, and her heart softened as they dropped before her scrutiny and he blushed, licked his lips and with downcast eyes shyly stammered a request.

"M-m-m'am? W-water?"

She watched as he belatedly tugged his hat off and twisted it nervously in his lap. Those pleading eyes flickered shyly up to her face again then dropped, as his blush intensified. Mary frowned as the young man gasped softly when he shifted his weight, one grubby hand clutching his wounded thigh. He threw his head back against the wall, white teeth biting his lower lip as he stifled a cry of pain.

Shoulders stiff with outrage at the sight of the young prisoner's obvious abuse and neglect, Mary stood and marched over to the small table near the sheriff's desk that held a bucket of water and a ladle, snatching the heavy ring of keys from its peg as she went. She would see that this young man at least received a cool sip of water to relieve his discomfort.

Back turned to the prisoner as she rummaged for a tin cup, she missed the sly glance he slanted her way through lowered lashes and the minute quirk of the corner of his mouth, as well as the sudden, coiled tension in his body. When she turned back, all she saw was a slight, desolate figure slumped hopelessly against the wall, the tousled head again bowed.

7 7 7 7 7 7 7

Across the street in front of the saloon, a tall, handsome cowboy with a dark moustache and a wide white smile dallied with two of the local whores. One arm snug around the redhead's curvy waist, he whispered sweet nothings into her blonde companion's ear. His other arm was draped over the blonde's plump shoulders, a big hand snug inside her bodice lazily fondling her ample breasts, teasing her nipples erect.

The women giggled at his smooth line of patter, snuggling against his broad chest, not noticing that he kept a casual eye on the sheriff through the saloon windows, as well as the jail across the street. He glanced up, checking the position of the afternoon sun. It would soon be time.

7 7 7 7 7 7 7

Inside the saloon, a snappily dressed cardsharp with striking gray eyes lazily dealt a hand guaranteed to catch and hold Sheriff Hayes's bleary attention. He flashed a gold-toothed grin at the half drunken man and slipped him the ace of spades, inwardly smirking at the transparent look of smug pleasure on his mark's face. The gambler never dealt a hand that he didn't intend to profit from. He might appear to lose THIS game, but it was only because he had his eye on a larger prize.

He glanced up at the window, exchanged a slight nod with the man outside, and then surreptitiously glanced at his gold pocket watch. He had plenty of time to stop at the Chinese laundry and pick up his clean shirts and other purchase before leaving town. Smiling amiably, he turned back to the sheriff.

7 7 7 7 7 7 7

In Boot Hill at the end of town in front of the weathered church, a large, broad shouldered man clad in a black wool cassock and priest's collar, bowed his graying head over a grave and mumbled a prayer, one big hand fingering his carved rosary beads, the other holding his hat to his chest. The gun belt and bandeleros looped over his chest and around his waist made an odd contrast with his attire. The big man finished his prayer and eyed the position of the sun.

He put his hat on, withdrew a battered notebook from a pocket and carefully made a checkmark beside a name on a long list. It was getting harder to keep track of the miscreants he had been forced to send to Hell. He hoped he wouldn't be adding more to the list today. Prayer for the dead dutifully recited, he pocketed his notebook and ambled down the street towards the jail.

7 7 7 7 7 7 7

Outside the livery, a tall, heavily scarred black man with a sheathed machete at his hip lazily sharpened an already finely honed throwing knife. He oiled and sheathed the blade, tucked it away in his shoulder harness and reached for the next. His movements were smooth and methodical. He glanced up at the sun, as he finished the last blade and tucked it and the whetstone away.

He figured he had plenty of time to stop at the Apothecary shop and pick up the supplies he needed before leaving town. Standing, he stretched lazily, untied his horse from a hitching post, and then meandered down the street in the general direction of the jail.

7 7 7 7 7 7 7

Two old codgers playing checkers outside the General store straightened uneasily at the sight of the man riding into town. His shoulders arrow straight, the black clad gunslinger rode his horse arrogantly down the center of the main street. The silver studded rig he wore was clearly visible. He led a saddled, blaze-faced black horse on a lead rope behind him and was headed straight for the jail.

One of the old man reached out and snagged a passing boy's arm. He yanked the kid close and hissed an order in his ear. The boy's eyes widened, and he darted down the boardwalk towards the saloon. The two geezers exchanged a look and stood, then slowly followed in the boy's wake. No way in hell did they want to miss this. They passed the newly arrived stage, stepping around the disembarking passengers, including a young Easterner wearing a striped brown suit and a derby.

"You sure that's Larabee?"

"Hell, yeah. Watched him kill a man in Kansas City last year."

"Wonder what he's doin' here in Four Corners?"

"Dunno. But I bet ya money, it's got something ta do with that renegade they got locked up in the jail."

They hurried their pace, eager for the promised spectacle that the presence of the infamous gunslinger foreshadowed. The young city slicker in the derby followed close on their heels, having overheard their conversation. He had come a long way for the chance to fulfill his dream of being a gunfighter, and here was the prime opportunity to observe one of his heroes.

7 7 7 7 7 7 7

Chris Larabee dismounted in front of the saloon, his cool hazel eyes flicked once to meet those of the man dallying with the saloon girls, before he turned back to his horse, loosening the black gelding's saddle girth slightly before looping the reins over the hitching rail. He did the same for the animal on the lead rope, hissing a curse and sharply rapping the stud's nose with his knuckles when it flattened its ears and snapped viciously at his arm. Turning back to his own horse, he was rummaging in the saddlebags when a nervous, high-pitched voice from behind him called out his name.

"Larabee! Chris Larabee! I'm calling you out!"

A tall, copper-headed man with impressive muttonchops wearing a crisp white shirt, a black string tie and a fancy brocade vest as well as twin colts, stepped out from under the awning of the mercantile, hands hovering over his guns. Bystanders scattered like crows, and the woman sweeping the porch in front of the store grabbed her young daughter's hand and unceremoniously yanked the child inside with a slam of the door.

Larabee scowled and glared over his horse's back. He closed his eyes as the lingering, three-day drunk hangover headache he had nearly nursed into submission started throbbing behind his eyes again. Fuck. "Red" Jack McDermott. He hadn't even had a damned drink yet. His dark mood ratcheted down a notch to pitch black and his temper soured even further. The fool behind him cleared his throat and started hollering again.

"Larabee! I'm...wai...!"

There was a dark blur and the sound of a single gunshot. Red Jack toppled backwards with a surprised look on his face and a hole between his eyes to sprawl dead in the middle of the dusty street. He hadn't even had time to clear leather. Larabee holstered his ivory handled colt, turned and stalked into the saloon, shouldering past the gaping sheriff.

Inside, he made a beeline for the bar, slanted a look at the exiting gambler who was surreptitiously helping himself to any money left on the gaming tables while everyone else had rushed to the doors and windows to gawk at the 'gunfight', and flicked a finger in a minute hand signal. The gambler touched two fingers courteously to his hat as he strolled out the door. Outside, a ring of bystanders emerged from hiding and surrounded the dead man.

The undertaker was already in the process of rifling the corpse's pockets as he measured him for a coffin.

Standish paused for a moment to admire the cut of the dead man's gold brocade vest, then strolled on down the street to the Chinese laundry. The elderly proprietor behind the counter ducked his head and silently placed a parcel of clean shirts wrapped in brown paper on the countertop. Standish withdrew a gold piece from his pocket and played idly with it, rolling it lazily across his knuckles.

He flashed a smile at the old man as he accepted the parcel, eyes on the Chinaman's impassive face, then leaned an elbow on the counter as he bent closer and murmured a soft question.

"Yin?"

The old man blinked once in surprise and eyed the gold piece, then slowly nodded. Turning, he barked an order in Cantonese over his shoulder to the back room. After a moment, a young boy popped out and handed him a rectangular packet wrapped in red paper stamped with Chinese ideograms. The gambler flashed him a wider grin as he handed over the gold and slipped his purchase in an inner pocket. Picking up his shirts, he exited the shop with a polite nod.

Behind him, the old man exchanged a look with his grandson, than spat contemptuously on the plank floor. At the boy's questioning look, he spoke briefly, before turning back to his work.

"Yen-yen."

It was none of his business if the young, well-dressed customer was addicted to opium. The man paid well and that was all that mattered.

7 7 7 7 7 7 7

Down the street, the big priest and the tall black man met in front of the bank and exchanged amiable nods before pushing their way through the doors. The tiny foyer before the single teller's cage was deserted except for a skinny old crone in a slouch hat who was exiting. The priest politely held the door open for her, beaming benevolently down into her suspicious face.

She snorted with disdain and continued on outside to where her wagon and niece waited. Climbing up into the seat, she ignored the girl's excited chatter about the gunfight she had just witnessed. She flicked the reins smartly and urged the team towards home. The less time spent in Four Corners, the better.

Inside the bank, Percival Harvey peered through his spectacles and swallowed hard as he found himself staring up at two tall, very dangerous looking men. They beamed back with identical wide, white grins and amiably pointed their guns at his head. Meekly, he raised his hands in the air. Their grins widened in approval. The rogue priest waved Percy towards the safe, while his companion kept an alert eye on the door, as he gently lowered the window shade.

Ten minutes later they exited with their illicit withdrawal, having gagged and hogtied Percy and tucked him in the big iron safe for 'safekeeping'. They flipped over the 'Out to Lunch' sign and locked the door on the way out. Then, having tucked the money into their saddlebags they walked their horses down towards the saloon.

Nathan Jackson nodded at Buck Wilmington, catching the tall ladies’ man's signal. Larabee was apparently inside grabbing a bit of hair of the dog, and no doubt stocking up on good whisky. Josiah Sanchez held out a big hand, and Jackson handed him his horse's reins with a nod of thanks. The big, black man slipped inside the nearby Apothecary shop. Plenty of time to stock up on bandages, patent medicines, carbolic acid and laudanum. He figured that they would need them if he was going to be digging lead out of a pissed off Texas wildcat later.

The fancy dressed gambler joined their little group, leading a sleek, chestnut saddle horse. Wilmington gave his giggling whores one last smooch and grope, then shooed them gently away.

The air of relaxation over the small group was gradually changing to one of coiled tension, as the men milled casually about checking their saddle gear and keeping an eye on the small crowd of gawkers that had gathered around the corpse in the street. A distinguished gray haired gentleman, who had disembarked from the stage, had joined the sheriff and his deputy and was questioning them sharply.

Buck Wilmington stepped lazily off the boardwalk and casually tightened both cinches on Larabee's horses, untying them before mounting his own tall gray mare. Beside him, Standish climbed into his own saddle as well, and both men kneed their mounts out into the street to flank their companions on both sides. Jackson stepped out of the alley from the Apothecary shop, tucked his parcels into his saddlebags and swung up into the saddle of his placid bay. Sanchez handed him the reins of his sturdy sorrel gelding, then ambled across the street towards the jail.

As though on cue, Larabee emerged from the saloon, pausing in front of the batwing doors to light a cheroot. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the man talking with the sheriff. Turning his head, he raised a questioning eyebrow at Nate. The black man nodded and shot him a feral grin in exchange. It looked like the Judge had arrived early for the hanging. How convenient.

The lean, blond gunslinger stepped off the boardwalk and lazily mounted his horse, reining the sleek black around to face the jail across the dusty street. He nodded at Sanchez, who was now leaning casually against the post outside the jailhouse door. The small group of citizens grouped about the late McDermott suddenly seemed to become cognizant of the gang of heavily armed, grim men in their midst, arrogantly facing the peacekeepers down.

A stout Mexican peasant who had just ambled out of the alley by the Grain Exchange leading a burro, took one look, crossed himself and ducked back, tugging his animal with him as he sputtered in horror;

"Aiiee, Los Magnificos!"

Virgil Watson caught that and immediately stepped back inside the hardware store, tugging his plump wife with him and slamming the door behind them. Sheriff Hayes stood frozen in place, hands trembling, ruddy face slowly draining of color. Jimmy Cole stood gaping behind Judge Travis, unsure of what to do. He shot a wild glance over at the Judge, who stood calmly, hands on hips, facing the most infamous outlaw gang in the New Mexico Territory.

Chris Larabee gave the Judge a white shark grin and amiably tipped his hat.

"Judge. Reckon you got something of mine. I'll be taking him now."

Orrin Travis was a brave man, but his heart was pounding as he slowly stepped forward to face the notorious gunfighter. He saw no way to back down from the situation, he could only bluff. He knew the sheriff was useless, a drunk and a coward, and the deputy a mere boy. The townspeople had vanished like rats deserting a sinking ship, seeking hidey-holes of their own.

"Tanner is due to be hanged for murder tomorrow, Larabee. You know that."

Larabee gave him a feral grin.

"You already tried that with Nathan here. Didn't take."

He nodded at the grim face of the black man, who was eyeing the Judge with barely concealed hunger. Jackson raised one big hand and thoughtfully fingered the thick scar on his throat that had cost him his voice, he flashed white teeth when he saw the Judge swallow hard in response. Larabee grinned again and leaned casually on the pommel of his saddle, arms crossed.

Before the Judge could reply, there was a commotion at the jailhouse door as it was thrown open and a limping Tanner emerged, using a wild-eyed and disheveled Mary Travis as a human shield, one arm clamped tight around her throat, the other holding his sawed off rifle. Her lovely face was tear streaked, her platinum blonde hair tumbling from its combs over her bare shoulders. Her demure blue dress and lacy camisole had been torn open to the waist, revealing pert, creamy breasts topped with hard, dark nipples, both covered with bruises and bite marks.

"Mary!"

Judge Travis stumbled towards her, hands out, only to freeze at the click of the hammer and the sight of a grinning Sanchez' gun pointed at his chest. Larabee leered down into his young partner's grinning face, gaze skimming the woman's body, but lingering on Tanner's flushed, satisfied face as well as his bloody leg wound. Wilmington whistled admiringly and leaned forward to ogle the young woman's bare breasts.

"Damn, Junior, ya been busy! Ya save any for me?"

"Ya want her Bucklin, ya can have her. Bites and kicks like a goddamned mule."

Tanner loosened his hold on the woman's throat, shifting his grip to knot his fingers in the tangled hair at the nape of her neck, ignoring her sobs and struggles. He gave her a rough shake and she cringed.

He regarded her thoughtfully. "Nice and tight, though." He winked up at Buck with a roguish, lop-sided grin.

"Just the way I like 'em, with a little salsa!" Wilmington crowed boisterously.

Larabee curled a lip in disdain, "No time for fucking now, Buck. Save it for Purgatorio. Ya still got that new gal, Inez, to break in at the cantina. Can nail this bitch next time we pass this way."

Wilmington brightened, and nodded. The grass was always greener on the other side of the fence, or in Buck's case, the bed always wider at the next whorehouse.

Larabee grinned down at Tanner and tossed him the reins of the ornery stud horse.

"Let's ride, Cowboy."

Tanner smiled in reply and callously shoved Mary away. She stumbled over her own petticoats and fell to her hands and knees. Judge Travis hurried to kneel beside her and protectively pull her close. Vin gave a grimace of pain as he hauled himself up into the snorting, jibbing stud's saddle. Once he was seated, Sanchez swung up on his tall sorrel and flanked him, guarding his back.

As they rode past the couple, the judge looked up just as Jackson leaned out of his saddle and swung his machete down in a lethal arc, neatly slicing the man's jugular. Blood spurted, spraying Mary's pale hair and skin. She wailed in despair and tried frantically to stem the flow with her skirt, as the dying man writhed in agony beside her. The horrified sheriff turned and ran like the coward he was, Larabee helping him along with a bullet to the ass. Wilmington and Standish cut down the young deputy the moment he reached for his gun. He slumped face forward to die beside McDermott.

Mary snarled and snatched the judge's pistol from its holster. Standing, she chambered a round and tried to draw a wavering bead on Jackson's broad back. Before she could pull the trigger, Larabee drew rein beside her and viciously booted her in the face, the sharp rowel of his spur slicing her cheek. She crumpled unconscious over the judge's twitching body, blood trickling from her broken nose and slashed face.

The gang rode slowly out of town, ostentatiously not deigning to pick up speed until they were clear of town. Then they kicked their horses into an easy lope as they headed south towards the border. Neither they nor the shocked townspeople noticed the young Easterner who stole the fallen McDermott's gun belt as well as the sheriff's horse and followed on their heels.

7 7 7 7 7 7 7

Three hours later, Larabee's gang stopped atop a nearby mesa to rest and water the horses while they tended to Tanner's wounded leg. Ezra Standish sat atop a boulder, Vin's spyglass in hand as he kept an eye on their back trail.

"Well, well, whatevah do we have here?" he drawled softly, as he scanned the trail.

"Mr. Wilmington, would you be so kind as to come ovah here for a moment?"

"Just a minute, Ez, I kind of got my hands full right now."

Standish glanced over his shoulder, grimacing at the outraged yowl and foul stream of expletives issuing from Mr. Tanner's mouth as his friends held him down while Mr. Jackson probed his bullet wound. Larabee pinned Tanner's shoulders flat, while Buck held his arms and Josiah sat astride his shins, holding his knees. Tanner writhed and snarled, until Larabee cuffed his curly head smartly and hissed.

"You bite me, you little bastard, and I'll cold cock you."

Vin growled and glared up at his partner, blue eyes narrowed with pain, lips curling to reveal white teeth. He locked eyes with Larabee and there was a silent exchange of promises of retribution. Larabee gave him a flicker of a smile and Vin slowly relaxed under his hands. None of the men holding him eased up on their grip.

"Got it." Jackson announced in a broken, hoarse whisper, the only voice he had remaining since his near hanging. He held the bullet up so Vin could see it, then tossed it aside. The three other men tightened their clasp and leaned harder on the younger man, anticipating the loud howl of pain and renewed struggle as Jackson drained and cleaned the oozing wound and poured on a liberal amount of carbolic acid to aid in disinfection.

After pressing a clean cloth pad and winding a bandage around his thigh, Jackson sat back with a grunt of satisfaction. The bullet had lodged in the meaty part of Vin's upper thigh, causing more discomfort than damage. It was slightly infected, and Tanner had a mild fever, but Jackson expected that as long as he kept it clean, it would heal quickly. The young renegade was tough as nails and it took more than a minor leg wound to put him out of commission.

The others released Tanner and quickly stepped back out of reach, as the young tracker came up swinging and cussing. Larabee chuckled and held out a silver hip flask, waving it under Tanner's nose in a conciliatory gesture. The younger man snatched it out of his hand with a feral snarl and took a healthy gulp. Wilmington grinned and he and Josiah headed up the slope to where Standish patiently waited.

"Posse? Didn't think they had it in 'em."

"Not at all, Mr. Wilmington. Take a look."

Buck took the spyglass and peered through it. He raised both brows and turned a puzzled face towards Standish.

"Looks like one man. What the hell is that on his head?"

"That particular form of haberdashery is referred to as a bowler hat, Mr. Wilmington."

Buck snorted. "Looks like a overturned salad bowl to me."

He turned a mischievous grin onto the southerner and the big priest.

"Seems like the boy's kind of anxious to catch up with us. Lets not disappoint him."

7 7 7 7 7 7 7

Later that evening the six and their talkative captive were camped a few miles from the border, within a day's ride of Purgatorio, the seedy Mexican town they controlled and one of their regular hideouts. The kid who had been dogging them had yammered on all afternoon about how badly he wanted to join Los Magnificos, how much he admired Larabee (producing a tattered dime novel as proof) and came damned close to having his hero blow his fool head off for nonstop yakking.

Amused by the sheer innocence and wide-eyed earnestness of the kid, Buck and Josiah had dissuaded Chris from killing him and questioned the boy closely, learning his life's history and ambitions without much effort. One eye on Larabee's bored face, Wilmington had hinted broadly (with sly winks at Josiah and Nathan) at certain initiation rituals that any would-be outlaw had to pass before joining this particularly tough, elite gang.

They camped in a small stand of live oaks, by a narrow winding creek. Standish had been appointed first watch. Resigned, and knowing what was coming, he had rolled his eyes and taken a vantage point on a fallen log just outside the perimeter of the camp. From his seat, he could keep an eye to both the fire and the trail. He shifted on his rough seat and sighed, trying to get comfortable. Wistfully, he fingered the brick of opium in his vest pocket, knowing Larabee would not allow him to use it until they were back in Purgatorio.

He yawned and turned his attention briefly to the campfire. Wilmington had grabbed a bottle of redeye and casually walked the still blabbing kid down the creek earlier, a companionable arm over his shoulders, followed shortly thereafter by a grinning Sanchez and Jackson. Larabee and Tanner were sharing a bedroll near the fire. Engrossed in each other, as always, they had no interest in the greenhorn's virgin ass.

Standish felt a slow flush infuse his body as he watched the two men beside the fire. Larabee was sprawled lazily on his back, black clothes open from throat to crotch, his hair glinting gold in the firelight. Tanner bit and licked his way down the pale, sculpted torso, his long hair half-veiling his face and covering his bare shoulders. Ezra knew the two would only pleasure themselves with hands and mouths tonight, and only then because they had been apart for days. Usually they kept their relations to themselves, waiting until their surroundings were more private.

He felt a surge of envy at the couple's devotion. He had never dared trust enough to have that. Larabee and Tanner had been together for almost three years now, ever since their escape from Yuma prison, and they had been incarcerated together there for almost two years. Since then they were damned near inseparable.

It was only by chance that the law had managed to corner Vin while he was alone. An informant had quickly ridden to Purgatorio to tell Larabee of his capture. Larabee was coming off a nasty three-day bender at the time, with a splitting headache and had rewarded the man with a bullet to the head; his usual way of dealing with people who annoyed him.

He watched as his laconic leader tilted the younger man's face up and devoured the lush mouth with slow, deep, wet kisses, licking his own lips in involuntary response to the erotic sight. Tanner returned them eagerly, the blanket sliding down his bare back as he surged up to meet Larabee's hungry mouth and Chris' lean calloused hands stroked down the sleek, golden skin to knead his buttocks.

There was a surprised, high-pitched squeal from down along the creek, followed by yelps of pain and rumbles of low bass laughter. Tanner and Larabee raised their heads for a moment and listened, then went back to their own business. Standish winced in distaste at the muted sounds echoing down the creek bed. Young Master Dunne had just discovered that his first 'initiation' consisted of servicing three horny, well hung men.

He could easily discern Mr. Wilmington's booming laugh and the bass grunts Mr. Sanchez always gave as he approached climax. Mr. Jackson, as always, was quiet as a cat. Sighing, he deliberately turned his thoughts to the sweet dreams he would soon experience courtesy of the sticky, black drug in his pocket. In his dreams there was always the glint of newly minted gold, the ruby flow of fine wine, thick featherbeds and nubile, almond eyed maidens with silky, black hair and newly budding breasts.

7 7 7 7 7 7 7

The fire was dying down low, as Larabee drew the wool blanket up to cover Vin's shoulders. The heat between them was cooling now. The younger man was nearly asleep, even as he licked and nuzzled at the hollow of Chris' throat, and nursed sleepily on one taut, dusky nipple. It put the gunslinger in mind of a sated cat, even as he enjoyed the talented ministrations of teeth and tongue.

Raising a hand, he carded it through Vin's tangled hair, frowning slightly as he recalled similar bruises and bites on creamy female flesh. As always, Vin caught his jealous thought and mumbled a reassurance.

"Reckon I like pole better than hole, Cowboy."

Larabee snorted and grinned up at the night sky, tugged Vin's mouth off his tingling tit and pressed Tanner's head down on his shoulder. Voice gruff with affection, he growled an order for the young man to go to sleep. Tanner drifted off in seconds, warm in strong arms, while Larabee lay awake, soothing him lightly with calloused hands, knowing he would not have slept while incarcerated at Four Corners.

It pissed him off to think of how close he had come to losing his partner, and he vowed to himself to be sharper in the future. Tanner and he had been sympatico from the second they laid eyes on each other. He reached over and pulled his hat over his face and closed his own eyes. One arm around Vin and the other hand on his gun, he was asleep before Buck and the others ambled up from their fun down by the creek, still chuckling and bragging about their prowess.

7 7 7 7 7 7 7

The next morning the men broke camp early, as was their habit when on the trail between jobs. The light was still gray and the birds just starting to twitter to greet the dawn. Standish was snappish and irritable despite a double dose of tar black coffee and anxious to reach town. Tanner and Larabee rode silently together, knees brushing companionably.

Wilmington was in a cheerful mood, chiefly because he had won the toss to be the first to mount the Kid's tight ass last night, and Buck loved deflowering virgins. Josiah and Nathan wore sleepy looks of satisfaction as well, as their horses jogged behind, bringing up the rear. Buck led the kid's stolen horse with his suit and long handles bundled behind the saddle.

They were on the trail for an hour before Larabee lazily inquired as to whether Wilmington had killed the kid. He hadn't heard a shot. Buck hooted with laughter.

"Hell, no Chris. I left the little feller to sleep it off."

When Larabee shot a significant look at the horse and clothes, Wilmington's grin grew even wider, if possible.

"Ya look like a shit-eating possum Bucklin. Ya leave him nekkid?" Tanner rasped curiously, knowing Wilmington's warped sense of humor. Buck chuckled and turned wounded eyes to the tracker, clasping a big hand over his heart virtuously.

"Now Vin, ya know I ain't so cruel! I left the young'un his hat, guns and boots!"

The gang all howled with laughter at the thought of the unfortunate young man stranded in the desert in his skimpy attire. Even the usually dour Larabee chuckled. It would have been interesting to see how the greenhorn reacted, especially if a band of marauding Comanche came across him. Still chuckling at the amusing thought they trotted through the canyon lands towards Purgatorio.

FINI
Part 2: Simpatico

Comments