Rough Stones

Vin picked up the trail just outside of Purgatorio – a single rider taking no care as to whether or not he would be followed – and heading northwest, away from the border. Vin was possibly the only one not surprised by that track. He bent low over Peso's neck, looking for signs of Darwell's passage. Occasionally he would dismount and stretch, then kneel and study some disturbance of dirt that seemed to speak to him.

Chris watched him. Given a less serious situation, he would have been amused by such single-minded devotion to a purpose, but he was too aware of the gravity of the task Vin had set for himself and worried about the consequences of the pursuit. Tanner wasn't looking like a man who was recovered from a beating; he looked like a man who was aching, weary and worn out. Every hard bone and angle of his face was sculpted into a pale mask of exhaustion.

Chris opened his canteen and took a swallow of warm, tinny water. "Vin, let's take a few minutes here." He gestured to the copse of drought-stunted trees nearby. "There's shade, some forage for the horses and my belly is tellin' me breakfast was too damn long ago."

Vin rose reluctantly. "I got a feelin' we ain't gettin' any closer and the longer we linger, the farther away he gits."

Buck shifted in his saddle. "Hell, Vin, Darwell ain't made of iron. The man's gotta rest r' risk killin' his horse."

"Y' think he gives a damn about that?" Vin asked.

"Not from the kindness of his heart, no, but horses ain't springin' outta the ground around here, least not as far as I can see. C'mon, you're lookin' a bit gray around the gills. Wouldn't hurt you none to take a breather."

Chris watched the expressions chase across Vin's face – first stubborn refusal, then acknowledgment, then relief. He mounted Peso and they rode into the shelter of the trees.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin didn't eat much, just some jerky and dried apples chased by a cup of diluted whiskey. It was hot, the sun high in the sky, and Buck was right about taking a breather. Vin figured he could stand an hour or two of rest. Darwell's trail had led them steadily west for the last few miles, following the track of a shallow gully that promised the possibility of water along the way. Chances were good Clyde had sought shelter from the sun and heat just as they were. He might be a lot of things, but stupid wasn't one of them.

"You need t' rest?" Chris asked. He crouched down at Vin's side, gave him a sidelong look, tried not to reveal that he'd been watching him closely.

"'M all right."

"Ribs sore?"

"A mite," Vin admitted grudgingly. "Got a headache from the sun is all."

"Lie down, then. Me and Buck'll keep watch."

Vin laughed. "Seem's like Buck's beat me to the rest part."

Buck was stretched out, hat tilted over his face. Despite himself, Vin yawned and sank down on the ground. Chris tossed him a blanket from his saddle, and he folded it and settled it beneath his head. Like Buck, he sprawled out loose-limbed and apparently at ease. He tipped his hat over his eyes, hiding from Chris's probing gaze and entirely aware he wasn't fooling him at all. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not. It left an odd, warm feeling in the center of his chest that might have been comfort.

Chris sat with his back against a sun-warmed rock. The landscape spread before him, heat-baked and the color of old bones. Out there, Clyde Darwell was thinking about revenge and hate, burning with it. In the distance was Purgatorio, home to thieves and killers. Home, too, to a big-hearted man named Jake Esteban and to a murdered prostitute who had called herself Alma.

Chris lit a cheroot and drew in on the bittersweet smoke. He watched it spiral and curl into the still air like lasso drawing all into its circle. His green eyes hardened and took on the predatory set that drove other men to slink into the shadows when he passed. This time, when he caught Clyde Darwell, he'd drag his corpse back to Four Corners and hang it high.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin woke when he felt the heat of the sun lift its weight from his body; he tipped the brim of his hat up. Buck was still blissfully asleep. Vin pushed himself upright. Every muscle in his back protested and his ribs ached. He thrust his fingers into his hair and rubbed his temples, then he took a drink from his canteen and eased to a kneel first, then up to stand. He stretched out and saw Chris's lean form jackknifed against a boulder. He was utterly still, perfectly alert. Vin walked quietly over to him.

"Thanks, Chris."

"You sleep?"

"Yeah, I did." Faint surprise colored Vin's voice.

"Where do we go from here?"

"Keep headin' west, I reckon, until I see some sign that we're goin' the wrong way or the right way." He held out his hand to Chris and pulled the gunman upright. "You wake Buck. I'll git the horses ready t' ride."

Less than half an hour later they were back on the trail, tracking steadily westward. The sun continued to slide to the southwest, lengthening shadows as the heat faded away.

Vin reined Peso in abruptly and took out his telescope, focusing on the horizon. "Shit!" He passed the scope over to Chris. "That look like smoke to you?"

Chris peered at a scarcely visible smudge on the horizon. "Looks like."

Buck took a look after Chris. "There a town nearby?"

"Only thing around here that big is a stage station, Sudro Wells." He looked at Chris. "The Darwells favored hittin' stage stations."

"How far to Sudro?" Chris asked.

"Three, mebbe four miles." Vin stowed his telescope. He looked grim. "We c'n git there b'fore dark if we ride hard."

"Then let's do it," Chris said. They urged their horses forward, risking as much haste as possible with the rough terrain and the setting sun.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

They arrived as the last long rays lingered over the horizon. The light was blood red, filtered through the smoke from the ashes of the stage station. It had never been much of a place – a corral, lean-to stable, small stage house. The smell of smoke unsettled Peso, making him dance a bit and tug at the bit. Vin dismounted. The corral was intact and just outside the rails was a dead horse fitting the description of the one Darwell had taken from Purgatorio. Horse had been ridden hard, Vin figured, but that wasn't what had killed him. Darwell had shot the animal once he was of no more use to him.

"Vin?"

He turned to Buck. "Yeah?"

"The station master's dead. Shot and gutted."

Vin swallowed the bile rising in his throat. "Anybody else here?"

"No. And no sign that there was, either."

"Good." Vin sighed. That much weight lifted from his shoulders. He'd felt a chill breath of memory at his back. "Darwell's re-provisioned and remounted. Probably has two fresh horses and cash."

Buck's hand rested on Vin's shoulder. "He's got a rope around his neck, Vin. All we gotta do is pull it tight."

Vin ducked away from Buck's touch. It made him feel vulnerable. "Y' think I'm waitin' fer Judge Travis this time?"

"No, I reckon I don't."

"Y' got that right." Vin kicked at the dirt and looked skyward. "We ain't got much daylight left. By th' time we bury the station master it'll be dusk, and I ain't stayin' here." He shivered at the sound of a metal spade hitting the hard dirt. He turned away from Buck. Chris was doing what had to be done, but he didn't have to do it alone.

They buried the station master deep and marked the grave. They had less than an hour between dusk and full dark. Vin picked up Darwell's trail easily enough, and seemed unsurprised to find it turning north instead of south toward Mexico. The sliver of moon wasn't enough to see by, so they made camp as soon as Vin decided they were a comfortable distance away from the burned-out stage station.

They made camp, built a small fire and brewed coffee. They had hard biscuits and dried meat courtesy of Jake Esteban – a poor meal, but none of them had much of a stomach for heavier food. Vin felt an ache of misplaced guilt he tried to ignore. Still, a nagging voice kept telling him that if he'd pushed himself harder, ridden faster, he could have saved a life. His stomach rebelled and he set down his tin plate, most of the food untouched.

"You couldn't have saved him." A splash of whiskey was poured into his coffee cup.

Vin looked up, startled. Chris was studying him. Again their thoughts had twined along the same path. Sometimes Vin swore Chris knew him better than he knew himself, and at times he knew the gunslinger just as well. He couldn't say if that was a good thing or a bad one – mostly good except when he didn't really want Chris to see what was in his heart, like now.

He shook his head. "I might've known… guessed…"

"How?" Chris asked harshly. "Read it in the stars? I got news for ya, pardner. The stars don't give a fuck about what's going on down here. You think I haven't tried it myself?"

"You don't know Darwell like I do. Y' couldn't guess—"

"Listen to yourself, Vin. 'Guess'? Like that's something to trust? You could just as easily have guessed Darwell had headed to Mexico, and he could still have passed this way. Even Ezra'd only give you even odds on that one."

Vin did laugh at bit at that. "All right, I'll give y' that much."

"Then get some rest. Buck and I will keep watch."

He nodded his thanks and limped away into the darkness. Chris followed just far enough to hear the splatter of piss hitting the ground, then retreated back to the firelight. Vin reappeared and dropped bonelessly to the blankets he'd spread out earlier.

"He sleepin'?" Buck asked a few minutes later.

"Yeah, this time he is."

"He's killin' himself over this," Buck said softly.

"Not if I can help it," Chris replied. "Not now, not ever." He uncoiled his body and stalked over to his own saddle to get his bedroll. He shook it out. "You want to take first watch, or should I?"

"I'll do it. I'm good for a few hours, yet."

Chris nodded. "Wake me." He moved the blankets closer to Vin, wondering if he'd have to rouse the tracker from the nightmares that seemed to be haunting him lately. But Vin lay still where he'd dropped, his breathing slow and deep. Exhaustion had given him the rest he desperately needed, but Chris knew it would barely scratch the surface of the soul-deep weariness Vin was carrying with him.

The morning dawned blood-red and hot. Vin woke, his throat painful and dry, as if it had been scoured by sand. He reached for his canteen and drank down a few swallows to ease the raw feeling. He stood slowly, testing his muscles and bones. Damn, but he hated waking like an old man, afraid an incautious move would cause him pain. No new twinges, just the ones he'd grown used to – back and ribs, and a general stiffness that reminded him he was still healing.

He looked around. Buck was snoring in his blankets. Chris's bedroll was rumpled and empty and a pot of coffee was on the fire. Vin figured Chris was off, taking care of nature, and he poured a mug of coffee and crouched by the fire as he waited. He stared into the embers, seeing not the remains of a campfire, but the charred remnants of Sudro Wells. He shivered despite the heat of the morning. Would today be the day he would come face-to-face with Clyde Darwell? If he did, would he walk away from the encounter with his soul intact? And, if he failed, would he take Chris and Buck down with him? Better he should die than that.

Darwell was his demon just like the man who had killed Larabee's family was the gunslinger's. Chris and Buck had seen him this far safely, but he couldn't ask more than that from them.

An idea that had begun as the seed of a dream took hold in Vin's mind. Darwell wasn't far… Vin could sense him like the faint whiff of death borne on the wind. He'd hunted alone before, and he would hunt alone this time.

The thought of deceiving Chris made him ache to the roots of his heart, but it was nothing compared to the pain of seeing a friend die.

"Mornin'." Chris prodded Buck with his foot. "C'mon, Romeo."

Buck groaned and rolled over to his back, blinking blearily up at Chris. "Already?"

"Yeah, already." Chris nudged him again.

Buck cursed and sat up.

Chris sank down to the ground next to Vin and took the cup of coffee he was offered. "You ready?"

Vin nodded. "I'm headin' out to find the trail. Be back in a bit."

Chris gripped his arm. "Watch your back. I'm not sure Darwell's not out there, watching every move we make."

Vin squinted into the rising sun. A slight breeze came up and ruffled his hair. He looked achingly young in that instant, vulnerable, as Chris knew he truly was – not the sharpshooter or tracker, not the bounty hunter or whatever else he had been in his short life, but flesh and blood and all too easily hurt. His hold tightened on that narrow forearm. "You hear me?"

"Yer a bigger worrywart than Miz Nettie, Larabee," Vin grumbled, but a smile curved his mouth. "I ain't goin' farther 'n the first tracks." He snatched up his hat from the ground. "Shut things down. Make it look like we ain't never been here."

"We'll find you."

Vin returned Chris's clasp. "See ya, pardner."

Chris watched him saddle and mount Peso. He handed Vin a full canteen. Vin didn't say anything as he looped the strap over the pommel of his saddle. He dropped one of those winks at Chris and urged Peso forward.

Something was wrong, Chris realized as he waited for Buck. A haze of uncertainty roiled through him. And then he knew what Vin was doing and his uncertainty was replaced with anger. Cursing, he threw the remnants of his coffee into the fire. "Buck! C'mon, let's get this camp closed down."

Buck took one look at the grim expression on Chris's face and spat, "Goddamn it! He's taken' a flyer, ain't he? Don't he know he's got friends?" He hastily rolled up his blankets while Chris stomped out the last of the fire and buried the ashes.

"I reckon Vin ain't too familiar with that idea," Chris said. He lashed his bedroll and Vin's on Pony's saddle and set his foot in the stirrup. "But it's about time he got it through that thick Texas skull of his."

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin picked up Darwell's trail easily enough, and that had him worried. Either Clyde was pretty damn sure nobody was going to track him, or he wanted to be tracked. Ezra wouldn't have taken odds that it was the latter and Vin was willing to bet Darwell not only knew he was being tracked, but who it was tracking him.

It seemed he and Darwell were bound together by blood and revenge and the thought made him feel a bit sick. A few months ago maybe it wouldn't have. He looked down at his hands and remembered the two bounty hunters who'd come across him outside Four Corners. He'd shot one with the Mare's Leg, the other he'd gutted after the bastard had cut him up. He'd felt blood on his hands, felt that twisted exultation at having killed and survived.

Nearly hadn't survived, he reminded himself. If Peso hadn't wandered into Four Corners, he'd have died out there in the wild and the crows would have picked his bones clean. Instead, he'd fallen at Nathan's feet and had been picked up, healed and made whole, body and soul. It made him wonder if the past really was just that – past…

He suddenly realized Peso had slowed to a standstill and Darwell's tracks were gone. Shit! Goddamned idiot woolgathering had distracted him. He circled Peso back nearly a quarter-mile before he picked up the place Darwell had turned east – north and east, not south and west like he was headed to Mexico. That unsettled feeling Vin had was solidifying into cold and dangerous certainty.

Suddenly, he could see Darwell's trail as if it were written in flames on a dark night. He urged Peso forward, hesitancy gone.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Frustrated and angered by Vin's deception, Chris wasn't up to conversation. His expression was grim as he tried to read the maddening trail. He didn't have the tracker's skill, but his eyes were nearly as sharp and he knew Peso's tracks. He didn't have time for distractions, not even Buck's habitual soft whistling. Tanner couldn't have gotten that far ahead of them with less than an hour's head start. But when they found Vin, Chris swore he'd either shoot or throttle him – whatever it took to make Tanner realize that friends didn't take abandonment lightly.

"Umm, pardner?"

"What?" Chris snapped irritably.

"Exactly what tracks are you followin'?"

Chris reined in and cursed. The trail he had been concentrating on so hard had suddenly vanished.

No, not vanished, just altered its course. Buck had seen it before he had. Chris turned Pony. He looked to the northeast. The landscape was broken and hilly. It would slow Darwell and Vin, but it also screened them visually and would make tracking a nightmare.

Chris doubled over in his saddle, bowed by frustration and fear that he would never admit. Buck's warm hand on his back finally made him straighten. He was pale, and the look in his eyes was one Buck had prayed never to see again.

"C'mon, Chris, he could be just over the next rise. Could 'a realized we're on the way and be waitin' for us."

Chris shook his head. "You know him better than that, Buck."

"Then I reckon we'd best git ridin'."

Chris bent his eyes once more to the trail, determined this time not to lose his focus. He knew Buck was watching him and felt that support and concern down to his heart. He wished Vin could feel it as well, because if he did, perhaps he'd cease his solitary pursuit of Clyde Darwell.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

The noonday sun was high and hot. Vin halted in the meager shade offered by a mesquite bush and an overhanging boulder. He and Peso both needed rest, but he didn't dare take more than a few minutes – Darwell wouldn't.

Vin took several small sips of water, no more than enough to moisten his mouth and throat. He needed to conserve as much as possible for as long as he could. He swore Peso was half camel, the distances he could go without being watered, but even he had limits. He sat in the slight cover for a few more minutes, then returned back to the trail. The marks were more definite now; less time for wind or other forces to disperse the sign of Darwell's passage. He was getting closer, and that added a fresh urgency to his quest. He urged Peso on, his heart quickening.

For the first time since the ambush, he felt alive. He had been forced to endure pain, to accept humiliation, to use all his resources, mental and physical, to heal. Now all that energy was flowing outward, tingling in his fingertips, making his vision sharper, his mind clearer. It was the spirit of the hunt moving in him.

He dismounted, tethered Peso to a scrawny mesquite bush, knowing full well that if Peso were to decide to take off, he'd drag that bush right along with him, but trusting he wouldn't. He climbed up a rock formation to get a view from the high ground. He dropped to his belly behind a boulder and pulled out his spyglass. He swept it slowly along the horizon.

He didn't know what he expected to see; he was looking for a sign, something to tell him he was on the right track. He didn't like uncertainty and wondered if he'd been living in the world of the whites too long. Maybe his balancing act between the cultures had cost him more than he was willing to admit. Darwell had been away from the Kiowa culture longer than Vin had been away from his own. How much of his edge had he lost?

Vin closed his telescope and waited for his thoughts to settle. Then he raised his head and instead of studying the land, he studied the sky. He shielded his eyes, looked in the middle distance and saw his sign. Small dark specks against the merciless blue. He blinked and they didn't vanish. Something, or someone, had died out there.

The vultures were a more reliable sight than the faint tracks left in the dirt. He asked Peso for more speed and the gelding responded despite the heat. Freed from the grinding task of following a trail, Vin kept his eyes on the wheeling birds. When he judged he was close enough to get a fix on their prey, he halted and took out his telescope again. This time he saw a dark heap on the ground. Darwell's stolen horse? The mother-fucker had killed a second mount in his flight.

A sound of disgust rose in Vin's throat. Man like that deserved to be staked naked to a fire ant hill with honey smeared on his privates.

With a shake of his head, he took up the hunt once more.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

"Goddamn, that boy's got more grit than sense," Buck cussed when Chris finally halted their pursuit. He tugged off his bandanna and wiped his streaming face. He'd gone long enough without water. He gave into his body's needs and took a long swig from his canteen.

"He's got Peso," Chris grumbled. He didn't know if he should be grateful for that or not. He'd been entertaining visions of a half-dead Vin Tanner clinging with his last strength to Peso's neck. The mule would keep going even if Tanner could barely stay in the saddle. It wasn't a heartening thought.

As much as he hated to, Chris followed Buck's example. They had to give the horses a breather. Chris poured some of his precious water in his hat and offered it to Pony. He squinted up at the sun. "There's got to be some water out here," he said. "Trick is to find it without Vin."

"You ain't givin' up on catchin' up to him?" Buck asked.

Chris stretched out his back. "Not a chance."

"Didn't think so." Buck watered his patient gray mare. "Might as well keep goin'." When Chris didn't reply with his usual caustic comment, Buck gave him a look. Larabee was staring at the horizon.

"You see him?" Buck asked.

"I see… something." He squinted, then rocked back like somebody had given him a shove in the chest. "There's something dead out there," he rasped. "Vultures are circling."

Buck caught his arm. "It ain't Vin," he said. "You know that, right?"

"Do you?" Chris's voice was low and rough. He pulled away from Buck's hold and mounted Pony. He didn't wait for Buck to follow. He was gone, his green eyes seeing only what lay below the circling carrion fowl.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin slowed as he approached the lump of flesh. The heat of the day shimmered in waves from the ground, but it couldn't disguise the ugly reality of death and decomposition. The scavengers had done damage as well and Vin's stomach churned. He'd seen worse – fields of buffalo carcasses left to rot, battlegrounds strewn with human corpses… didn't make this easier.

Peso took small, jittery steps sidewise from the carcass, wouldn't get closer. Vin couldn't blame him, he wasn't exactly chafing to get a better look. Reluctantly, he dismounted. He pulled his bandanna over his nose and mouth in a futile attempt to filter out the worst of the stench. Had to be done, though.

He stood over the body, looking for the cause of death. Wasn't the easiest thing to see, but he visually isolated the wounds, finally finding what he was looking for – two bullet wounds, one high on the neck, the other to the head. Vin shuddered. Darwell had deliberately crippled the beast, then finished him off.

Wasn't any need for such cruelty, Vin thought. One shot would have done it. Why waste the ammunition? Why torture a dying animal?

Unless that animal hadn't been dying…

Unless you were baiting a trap…

Fine line between hunter and hunted… The ghostly memory of his own words haunted him. He'd crossed that line and he could scarcely breathe, was nearly paralyzed by the knowledge.

Peso suddenly neighed sharply, his head raising up like he'd caught a disturbing scent. That was all the warning Vin had before he heard a shot ring out and nearly at the same moment felt himself spun around by a hard and invisible hand. He hit the ground rolling. Then the pain assailed him like a hundred knives being driven into his shoulder. The sun dimmed and his world spun off into darkness and agony.

The gunshot was distant and distorted by the heat and the landscape, but it was still loud enough and unmistakable enough for Chris to pull sharply on Pony's reins and for Buck to give a cry of alarm. Then, nearly as one, they spurred their horses forward, fatigue and thirst forgotten.

Pony crested a ridge overlooking a gully. Low, rocky hills rose on either side of the shallow depression in the landscape. A second shot rang out and Pony reared as the bullet kicked up dust in front of him, then a third. Chris heard Buck utter a grunt of shock. He turned, saw Wilmington clutching his shoulder, a grimace of pain on his face.

"Buck! Get down!"

Chris slid from Pony's back, flattened himself and crawled to the edge of the gully. Another shot rang out, throwing up more dirt, but also betraying the shooter's position. Chris fired, angry because he really had no hope of hitting anything with a pistol at a distance. He just wanted to deter the shooter. Buck scooted towards him.

"Chris—" He shoved a rifle over. "Good thing JD made me bring this along."

Chris blessed Dunne, hoping he'd have a chance to thank the kid for his foresight. He tucked the rifle alongside his cheek, aimed and started firing. He still couldn't see that he'd hit anything, but at least he was in range. He reloaded the rifle and gave it to Buck. "Cover me."

"Chris, you can't—" He broke off without finishing the sentence. When Larabee got that look in his eyes, there wasn't any deterring him. Buck sighed. "Yeah, I c'n cover you."

The floor of the gully was littered with fallen rocks. Chris wanted to know what was around that jut of boulders that obscured his line of sight. He didn't like feeling that he already knew what was there, but he'd faced a lot of things he didn't want to see and he'd face this, too.

"I'm heading for those rocks. If it's clear, I'll let you know." He started to get to his feet and Buck gripped his arm.

"It's not Vin," he repeated.

Chris nodded, but in his heart he dreaded what he would find. He headed down the slope taking a diagonal path away from the shooter, darting from boulder to boulder. He paused occasionally, listening, but hearing nothing but the scatter-shot fall of pebbles disturbed by his passing.

At last, he reached the floor of the gully and made his way around the obscuring pile of rubble. Not far, fifty paces from where he stood, was the carcass of a horse. A dark bay – not Peso. Beyond the carcass, Vin lay, his buckskin-clad body nearly blending in with the clay-colored dust, except for the wet stain of blood marring his hide coat. Chris hesitated only an instant, wondering if Darwell was using Vin as bait. But friendship won out over fear and he darted across the ground, half-expecting a bullet.

Nothing.

Relief was short-lived. Chris knelt beside Vin, turned him carefully. Darwell's bullet had caught Tanner just below his collar-bone, but it had enough velocity to pass through. Chris pulled the bandanna off Vin's neck and folded it into a pad, pressing it against the wound.

And then, suddenly, he found himself flat on the ground, pinned beneath the tracker's wiry body. Tanner's knife was poised at his throat and a feral snarl twisted his lips. There was no recognition in his eyes, just savage rage.

Chris grabbed a fold of Tanner's jacket. "Vin!" he gasped, trying not to struggle to breathe.

Recognition dawned in those blue eyes. Vin released him like the black cloth of Chris's shirt burned him. "Chr-rris?" he stuttered, dropping the knife and staggering to his feet. "Whatcha doin' here?" He sighed, swayed and collapsed.

Chris struggled to his knees and did a quick check on the now genuinely unconscious Texan. He didn't seem to be any worse off than he had been earlier. Chris caught his breath and stood, walking out to where Buck could see him from the ridge and waved an all clear before he returned to Vin's side to began working on the still-bleeding wound.

Buck arrived with the horses a few minutes later, even with a repentant-looking Peso in tow. "Found him down by a trickle 'a water," he explained as he slid down from the saddle. "How's he doin'?"

"Had enough piss and vinegar in him t' try to jump me," Chris said with a shake of his head, "then went down like a felled tree. You got some water?"

"Yeah." He handed Chris a canteen and a clean bandanna. "Bullet go through?"

"Pretty cleanly, but I don't like the way he's bleedin'." Chris sighed. He worked for a few minutes in silence, finally satisfied the bleeding had nearly stopped. Vin was showing signs of returning consciousness, and as much as Chris was glad he'd been out while his wound was tended, he was more grateful now that Tanner was coming to. Chris rested his hand briefly on Vin's forehead. Heat, but not fever – yet. Chris rubbed his eyes tiredly. "How's your arm?" he asked Buck.

"Hurts like a sonovabitch." He tugged at the cloth he'd wrapped around it earlier, winced at the pain that lanced through it. "I reckon I'll heal."

Chris turned in his crouch. "Let me see." Buck offered his arm and Chris looked at the deep, bloody groove in the flesh. "You were lucky. Looks like it needs some cleanin' and stichin'."

Buck snorted. "It don't need stichin' and I remember your idea of cleanin' a wound, thank you very much."

"Hell, you're still alive, ain't ya?" He grinned and reached for the bottle of whiskey he kept in his saddlebag. "Take a good swig and it'll only hurt for a little bit." He waited until Buck took a deep swallow and wiped his moustache, then he soaked a cloth in the liquor and went to work cleaning the bits of dirt and fabric from the gash.

Buck was sweating and swearing by the time Chris tied it up again. "Y' ain't competition for Nathan, but you'll do," he admitted with a wry smile. "Thanks."

Chris looked up at the sun, now low in the sky. "We can't stay here, Buck. Not with Darwell out there and Vin as bad as he is."

"Only place close enough is Purgatorio. And that's a day's ride."

"Don't know what other choice we've got." He looked over at Vin's huddled body. "Start a fire, just big enough to make some coffee. We're gonna need it." He rose and stretched, feeling all the aches and weariness that he'd been holding at bay. He looked up at the clear sky. Traveling at night might not be such a bad idea; better cover and less heat.

He went over to Vin. "Hey, Cowboy. Need ya to wake up." He touched Vin's shoulder, felt that slim body shiver. Vin turned and opened his eyes. They were deep blue and shadowed with pain, but also awake and aware. "We're headin' back to Purgatorio," Chris said.

Vin's eyes widened. "I ain't givin' up on Darwell," he rasped. He struggled to sit up and fell back with a soft moan. "Shit…"

"Easy. We're not going anywhere until twilight. Easier for us and the horses, maybe harder for Darwell."

Vin grinned weakly at him. "Yer startin' t' think like me."

"God help me," Chris said and grinned back. He handed a canteen to Vin. "We'll start with water and work our way to jerky and coffee." He rose from his crouch and went to the fire.

Buck looked at him. "How's he doing?"

"He's Vin. Won't admit to how he is."

"I ain't askin' him. I'm askin' you." Buck's voice was gentle, reproving, seeing the weight of worry on Chris's hard-featured face.

Chris sighed. "The bleeding's stopped. Might not stay that way once he gets on a horse." He gave Buck a wry smile. "I hate doing this to him."

"Savin' his life?" Buck snorted and shook his head. "Yeah, a man's gotta hate havin' a friend like that." He poured a mug of coffee and added a dollop of their precious whiskey. "I'd drink to havin' a friend like that." Chris's surprise must have been visible. Buck nudged him. "Here, you need this."

Chris wasn't about to argue. He drank the hot coffee, appreciating the added warmth of the liquor, though it wasn't nearly as warming as the friendship of the man next to him. When he finished, he carried a mug over to Vin.

Tanner had dozed off again. Pallid from blood loss and still bearing the fading scars of his previous ordeal, he looked younger than his years and more fragile than Chris had ever seen him. Cursing softly, Chris left the mug of coffee in easy reach and mounted Pony.

"Where the hell are you goin'?" Buck asked.

"Darwell," Chris snarled. "Before the light fades, I want ta see if I marked the bastard. And don't try to stop me, Buck. It ain't gonna work."

Buck raised his hands like Chris had drawn his gun. "Just remember that me and Vin ain't up to cartin' your carcass back to Purgatorio."

"If I'm a carcass, ya won't have to." Chris urged Pony out into the gully. Buck shook his head. He knelt beside Vin, shook his shoulder gently. "C'mon, pard. I can't do a thing about Larabee, but I can get you ready t' ride out," he sighed. "And with the devil's own luck we won't be cartin' Chris hung over his saddle."

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Chris guided Pony up the rocky incline towards where he had last fired at Darwell. The shadows were blue, the light gold. The heat of the day was fading fast. Chris slid from Pony's back and touched a groove in a boulder carved out by a bullet. He looked down and smiled. A dark splotch marred the dust.

Blood.

It gave Chris some satisfaction that he had marked Darwell, but no satisfaction at all that he hadn't killed him. The few splatters of blood on the stones weren't enough to quench the slow burning anger in his heart, the anger that had been smoldering there since the moment he'd found Vin unconscious and beaten in the dust. He should've whipped the flesh from Darwell's body back in Blue Springs like he'd set out to do. Only the horror he had seen on JD's face had stopped him. Now he wished he'd finished the job.

He kicked at the dirt, obliterating the blood. The evening wind came up, swirling the dust away like it had never been. Chris shivered. The full moon was rising over the broken landscape. It was time to ride.

When he returned to the camp, Vin was sitting up, his arm supported in one of Buck's oversize bandannas. Food and hot coffee had put some color in his face, but not much, and the grim lines running from nose to mouth betrayed his pain. Chris sat down beside him. "I marked Darwell."

"Bad?"

"Enough to bleed, but not enough to slow him down. Didn't see any sign of where he'd be heading."

"He's jist out there watchin', Chris. Don't matter where we go, he'll follow." Vin shifted uneasily and paled at the movement.

"Three against one. He can't like those odds," Buck said. He handed Chris a mug of coffee and some jerky and dried fruit. Chris ate, knowing that it wasn't exactly belly-filling, but at least gave him some physical energy.

"Man like Darwell don't give a damn about odds," Vin said. He pushed himself wearily to his feet. "Sooner git movin', th' sooner we'll be in Purgatorio."

Chris thought that even if he could be there with a snap of his fingers, it wouldn't be soon enough.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

They rode for several hours before Chris noticed Vin listing in the saddle. "Buck, hold up. We'll rest a bit here."

"Here?" Buck looked at the barren landscape. "We're sittin' ducks here."

Vin reined in next to Chris. "Bucklin's right. We go a few more miles and we're in those hills." He gestured weakly towards the horizon. "Better cover 'n' I know there's water."

Chris touched his arm. "Vin, y' ain't gonna make it for a few more miles."

"Hell, I been hurt worse 'n this and done it." He straightened in the saddle. "Peso ain't gonna let me fall off."

"He won't because you're riding with me," Chris said grimly. "C'mon, pardner." He moved Pony close, snagged Tanner around his waist and pulled the unresisting man to the saddle in front of him. That he didn't argue was proof enough to Chris that he was fading fast. He settled Tanner close, felt the slump of his slim body against his and knew it had nothing to do with Tanner's habitual easy slouch. There was too much of utter exhaustion in that posture.

He looked from the horizon to Buck. "To those hills, then we rest."

Distances were deceiving in the moonlight, either that or they were making better time than they had any right to under the circumstances. The moon was halfway past its zenith when they finally took shelter beneath a rocky overhang near a small spring. Chris let Vin's lax body slide into Buck's waiting arms. It wasn't until the chill evening air hit his skin that he realized how hot Vin had been. He cursed softly and dismounted.

Buck had stretched Vin out on a blanket and covered him with a second, his own. He had opened Tanner's jacket and shirt. Chris could see that the bandages were dark. He knelt down next to Buck and laid a hand on Vin's forehead. This time there was no mistaking the heat of a fever.

Buck cleaned the wound, bandaged it and sat back on his heels. "Least the bleedin's slowed again."

"Jesus, how much more blood can he have in him? He's sick, Buck. And we can't afford more than an hour or two of rest."

"Then let's rest," Buck said. "We're hidden, ain't no sign of Darwell and Peso'd take a chunk outta anything or anybody comes close. Go on, Chris. You're lookin' nearly as played out as Vin."

"What about you?"

"Hell, I'll jist stretch out m' legs and look up at the stars. Maybe think on a few ladies I know t' keep me company."

"You're a dog, Buck."

Dark eyebrows waggled. "Must be that animal magnetism."

Chris rolled his eyes. "Where the hell that idea came from…" He dropped down to his blanket and pillowed his head on his arms. He never slept deeply, but drifted into a doze nearly the instant he closed his eyes.

Buck roused him just as the sky was growing light. Vin's fever seemed to be down and the bleeding had stopped for the time being, but Chris didn't like the nearly translucent pallor to his skin or his weakness. He needed heartening food, not trail rations; a place to rest and rebuilt his strength. Hell, the man needed Nathan, not the rough medical treatment Chris and Buck were giving him. The best they could do was to get him to Purgatorio as quickly as possible.

To spare Pony, Buck took Vin on his saddle. Without having to follow Darwell's trail, they were able to take a more direct route to Purgatorio, but still had to stop during the heat of the day when Vin's fever rose again. Chris let Buck sleep this time, while he kept watch. Vin slept fitfully, muttering occasionally in dark dreams and once, crying out in terror. Chris went to him, took him in his arms and held him until the nightmare passed. When he laid Vin back down, he sat for a while keeping his hand on his shoulder until he was resting quietly once again.

Even though they had seen no sign of Darwell, Chris felt his presence like a dark shadow looming over them. Maybe that instinctive awareness was causing Vin's dreams. It was making Chris's shoulder blades itch. If Darwell was out there, why was he stalking them instead of attacking when they were vulnerable?

Maybe because they weren't vulnerable, and he was. Chris's eyes took on a feral light as he considered that. The tables had turned once again – only this time, the hunter wouldn't realize that he was also the prey.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

They rode into Purgatorio at midnight. Chris took the back alleys into town; the same way they had left a few days earlier. He fingered the talisman he had taken from Vin's saddlebag earlier and prayed it would be charm enough for Jake Esteban to trust him.

He slid from Pony's back with a weary grunt. Buck was a hunched shadow on his mare, barely able to hold himself and Vin in the saddle. Chris moved silently to the door, opened it and went up the narrow stairs. He knocked softly on Jake Esteban's door. He heard the sound of the bed creaking, soft footsteps, and didn't think he imagined the faint snick of a pistol being cocked. He slid the talisman under the door.

"Esteban, it's Chris Larabee," he said softly. "I need your help." He stepped away and stood with his hands raised well away from his guns. The door opened slowly, the muzzle of a pistol appeared at gut level and the light from the hall fell on Jake's dark face.

The door opened a fraction wider and the pistol motioned for Chris to enter. Esteban peered into the hallway, suspicion warring with alarm. "Where is Vincente?" he asked.

"Down in the alley. He's hurt, needs a bed and better doctorin' than Buck and I can give him."

"Darwell?"

Chris nodded. "Will you help?"

Jake looked at the coin in his hand. "Were you followed?"

"Darwell's out there, but he ain't tracking us – not that I can see." He took off his hat, revealing his pallor, the strain on his face, his exhaustion. "Can we bring him up, please?"

Jake seemed to study him, weighing his suspicious against his faith and friendship in Vin. He finally came to a decision. "I would be a poor friend indeed if I refused," he said with a slight smile. "But hurry, these streets are not as deserted as they seem."

Chris ran down the stairs to the alley. Buck had dismounted and was holding Vin in the saddle with his last bit of strength. "We can bring him up," Chris said, and stepped forward even as Vin's body tilted and slid bonelessly from the saddle into their waiting arms. They carried him up the stairs to Jake's room and laid him on the bed.

He looked small, closer to death than he probably was, but still horribly fragile to Chris's worried eyes. Jake started stripping Vin down and Chris stepped forward as if to stop him, until Buck held him back. "Let him help, Chris."

Chris swallowed his objections. Esteban's big hands were gentle as he removed Vin's dirty, stained clothes. As soon as he was stripped, Jake covered his naked body, like he knew Vin's innate modesty. Then he carefully pulled away the bloody bandages from Vin's shoulder and back.

"Ah, amigo," he breathed. "Will you never learn?"

"Apparently not," Chris sighed. He sank down on the chair. "I don't suppose there's anybody like a doctor in town?"

Esteban laughed. "Not in Purgatorio, Senor Larabee. There is a midwife, an undertaker, and Carmela."

"Carmela?"

"She takes care of everything between birth and death."

"Will she help?"

"Si."

"Do you trust her?" Chris asked, a touch of asperity and impatience in his voice.

Esteban gave him an amused look. "Of course." He touched Vin's shoulder, shook his head. "I will bring her here." He rinsed his hands off in a washbasin. "Wait with him."

Because he had no choice, and because he was too exhausted to move from the chair, and because Buck was giving him a baleful look, Chris just moved the chair closer to the bed.

Buck poured a cup of water and passed it over to him. "It's for you, not Vin."

Chris drank, unaware until the cool water hit his throat, how very thirsty he was. Buck refilled the cup and Chris drank that down, too. When it was refilled once more, Chris held the cup to Vin's mouth, just tipping a few drops to his lips. They parted slightly and a pale tongue ran over the moisture, seeking more. Chris slid his hand behind Tanner's head and raised him from the pillow.

"Easy, Vin. One sip at a time, you hear me? There's plenty more." After a few more sips, Vin's eyes fluttered open. He blinked up at Chris, moved his hands over the blanket covering him.

"Where…?"

"Jake's place in Purgatorio. You're safe, partner."

"Don't feel like it," he breathed. "Darwell?"

Buck stood at the bedside. "No sign of the varmint."

Vin sighed and his eyes closed again. "Hurts like hell."

"I know, pard. I know. We'll take care 'a that, too."

Vin sighed and his lashes closed down, feather-dark on his pale cheeks. How a man who was as hard and deadly as Tanner could look like a sick little boy was a mystery to Buck. As for Chris, Buck had known him as Adam's papa. But he'd never thought to see that care and concern in the man he'd become. It almost made him believe in Josiah's miracles.

Almost.

Jake returned a few minutes later with a Mexican woman at his side. She wore a dark rebozo, and although her skin was unlined, her eyes held the knowledge of the ancients. She just nodded at him, didn't say a word, but set her basket on the bed and went to work on Vin's wound.

Chris leaned forward, watching. Carmela's hands moved skillfully, gently. Some of the herbs she used seemed familiar to him, others were new, but when she had carefully bound up Vin's wounds, he seemed to be resting easily, his pain eased and his fever decreased.

After Carmela had gathered up her medicines, Chris offered his hand. "Gracias, senora."

She looked to Jake, who used his hands to sign to her. She smiled shyly at Chris and covered her face with a fold of her rebozo. She let Jake take her arm and escort her from the room.

Buck sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Woman like that is worth her weight in gold in a town like this."

Chris thought she was worth that just for taking care of Vin. He stood, looking down at his sleeping friend, still pale and bruised-looking, but no longer seeming close to death. He drew in a shaky breath. The room seemed to darken and swirl away from him like water down a drain.

Buck caught him as his knees buckled. Chris's weight bore him down to the floor and he was too tired to remain standing. He was still sitting there holding Chris when Jake returned. Esteban took one look at them and pulled blankets and pillows from a chest at the foot of his bed. He spread them on the floor, making two beds, then lifted Chris from Buck's lap and settled him on one. He covered him, then poured Buck a strong whiskey. Buck drank it down, then crawled into the blankets. He sincerely hoped that the next light he saw would be dawn.

Chapter 8

His thirst woke him, his lips so dry and cracked that they burned and he believed that he was in the desert, hurt and alone.

He thought he forced the word out, but it sounded like the rustle of wind through dry husks of grass. He opened his eyes. No sign of Chris, but Jake Esteban was there, leaning forward to hear that barely audible whisper that escaped his lips.

Purgatorio. He couldn't say he remembered how he had gotten there, but he did remember Chris telling him that was where they were headed. "Thirsty…"

"Shhh, Vincente." Jake held a cup of water to Vin's lips. "Small sips, amigo."

Vin complied, too weak to gulp the water down. When he had finished drinking, Jake smoothed a cooling salve on Vin's lips. He tasted eucalyptus, honey, and sweet oil. "Gracias," and this time the word was audible. "Where's Chris?"

Jake inclined his head. "Sleeping. Your friends, they were as weary as you."

"Seems I led 'em a chase," Vin sighed. "I thought I c'd find Darwell myself. Save 'em a lotta grief. 'Stead I git stupid and git myself shot."

Jake laughed softly. "Amigo, you told me that you weren't riding alone anymore. It seems you need to remember that, no?"

"Y' been talkin' t' Larabee. Seems he's got th' same idea."

"It's a good idea, Vincente," Jake said quietly.

"Thanks fer takin' us in, Jake. I know it ain't what y' want 'r need. I ain't never wanted t' bring trouble t' yer door."

"Amigo, troubles come whether you bring them or they arrive on their own. Purgatorio ain't a place for anybody who thinks that they won't." Jake's dark eyes looked weary, his face sorrowful. He patted Vin's shoulder. "You need to sleep, amigo."

Vin closed his eyes despite his unwillingness to fall back into oblivion. There were men he could fight; Jake wasn't one of them. Never could take no for an answer. He felt Jake pull the blanket higher, settle it around him, warm and secure. Reluctantly, he slipped away.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Chris woke at dawn. Next to him, Buck was still deeply asleep. There was no sign of Jake Esteban. He got stiffly to his feet, stretching three days of trail soreness out of his muscles and, as soon as he could take a step without his joints setting up an unholy protest, he went to Vin's bedside.

Tanner's long hair was damp and curling. Chris touched his forehead and smiled. His fever had broken and he was sleeping easily. Seemed like he'd live to fight another day. Chris ran his finger lightly down Vin's cheek. Damn stubborn Texan.

A sound at the door made him whirl and reach for his gun. Jake Esteban opened the door slowly. He grinned when he saw the gun in Chris's hand. "Buenas dias, Senor Larabee."

Chris eased the gun back into the holster. "Mornin'."

"Vincente's fever broke during the night," Jake said, glancing over to the bed. "Carmela will be back later to see him."

Chris nodded. "You got any grub around here?" he asked. "Been a few days since we've had a good meal."

Jake grinned in response. "I thought you might be hungry. There will be food here, soon."

"Muchas gracias." Chris ran a hand over his heavily stubbled chin. "Got someplace I c'n clean up, lose these whiskers?"

"Down the hall."

Chris cocked his head. "Why the hell are you in Purgatorio?"

Jake shrugged his broad shoulders. "Perhaps because there is no place further to fall in this life."

Chris just gave him a level look. That, he understood. He'd spent enough time in towns like Purgatorio in the last few years. Difference was, he had friends who pulled him out before he was lost in the soulless mire. Problem was, you had to hang on to their hands and not let them slip away.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

When Chris returned to the room, Buck and Vin were both awake, Jake was gone, and the aroma of coffee and bread was tantalizing enough to make his mouth water. He shoved his damp hair off his forehead and took the coffee Buck held out to him.

Buck grinned at him. "Good thing ya came back when ya did. Me and Vin just about cleaned Jake out."

"Longer you take to eat, the colder the water's gonna get," Chris replied.

Buck grimaced. "I git the point."

Chris settled in the chair next to Vin's bed. The plate on his lap wasn't as empty as it should have been, bread and eggs nearly untouched. "Pardner, you're as pale as a piece of paper and about as thin."

Vin pushed the eggs around on his plate with his fork. "I ain't got much taste fer food," he whispered.

"You want t' give Darwell the satisfaction of knowin' that he killed you without hardly firin' a shot?" Chris asked sharply. "'Cause that's where you're headin' if ya don't start eating and healing." He leaned forward. "He's out there, Vin. I don't know where, Buck don't know where. We can't read his sign like you can. We need you, pardner."

"Cain't ask ya t' do more than you already done." Vin shook his head. "You ain't got a stake in this."

Chris raised a brow. "Yeah? Well, I think I do. I let you down by not killin' the bastard when I had a chance. I got yours and Buck's blood on my hands – way I see it, I got a damn big stake in this."

Vin looked down at his hands where they rested on his lap. He flexed his fingers as if testing their strength, then gave Chris a half smile. "Hell, you c'n talk yer way around an argument's good as Ezra when y' set yer mind to it."

Chris smiled back, a bit wryly. "Don't know why I do it, though."

"Don't know why myself," Vin whispered. "But times are I'm glad y' do."

It was an admission that startled Chris. "That's what partners do," he said quietly. "You just rest, build up your strength and let me and Buck worry about the next few days."

Vin drew in a resigned breath and released it. Moving as if it were against his will, he picked up the fork and pushed some eggs onto the tines. He scowled at Chris. "You gonna sit there an' watch me eat?"

"Nope." Chris stood. "I'm gonna have a look-see around town." Vin's eyes went wide and he made a move like he was about to climb out of the bed before Chris's hand on his shoulder stilled him. Chris shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Y' cain't go wanderin' 'round Purgatorio, Chris!"

"I don't have a price on my head."

"Mebbe not on a wanted poster, but that don't mean nuthin' to Darwell."

"Don't mean nothing to me, either," Chris said. "And Darwell can go to hell." He picked up his hat and settled it on his head, the flat brim shadowing his face. "Rest up," he said, turning, missing the expression on Vin's face – fear, frustration, impatience, all warring with the evident exhaustion.

Vin fell back against the pillows propping him up. He rubbed his forehead, the ache building behind his eyes. He recognized Buck's tread down the hall, heard the door open. Buck paused on the threshold, then quietly entered. Funny how a big man like Wilmington could walk so softly. He knew that if he didn't speak, Buck would leave him alone and was tired enough to be tempted, but worry about Chris over-rode his weariness.

"Mornin', Bucklin," he rasped.

"Thought ya were sleepin'," Buck said. He picked the plate from Vin's lap. "Don't look like ya ate much."

Vin rolled his eyes. "Y' know, I been feedin' myself fer a while now and I ain't starved yet."

"It don't look like ya missed by much," Buck said gently. He looked around the room. "Where's Chris?"

"Went t' take a look 'round town." Buck cursed and Vin gave him a twisted smile. "Yeah, that's what I said, but he warn't exactly in a listenin' mood."

Buck slicked back his hair, pulled on his shirt and buckled on his gun belt. "I git the feelin' you'd rest easier if I was out there with him. But I can't say I like the idea of leavin' you here alone."

"Give me my gun. I ain't gonna sleep so sound that I cain't blast the guts outta anybody who ain't s'pposed t' be here."

Buck handed him the Mare's Leg. "I reckon even Chris wouldn't argue with that." He watched Vin's hands move expertly over the weapon, familiar and easy. Didn't even look like he was paying much attention to what he was doing, but Buck sensed that Tanner knew every inch of wood and metal.

Satisfied that all was in order, Vin laid the gun alongside his leg and looked up at Buck. "Make sure Chris don't do anything t' git himself killed."

Buck gave a mirthless laugh. "Don't waste time worryin' about Larabee. Seems the devil ain't in a hurry to share his place in hell." But he softened his words with a touch on Vin's shoulder. "I'll keep my eye on him. Been doin' it for a while now and we're both still alive." He picked up his hat and closed the door behind him when he left the room.

Vin relaxed back on the pillows, one finger stroking lightly down the smooth wood of the Mare's Leg. He thought of Darwell coming through that door, wanted it badly enough that he could see the shock on his face, the horrified realization that he was about to be gutted by a blast from the Mare's Leg. His finger caressed the trigger guard, and the only thing that kept him from touching the trigger itself was an instinctive caution that not even his desire to lose himself in the vision of Darwell's death could overcome.

But his protective instincts were roused, and when Jake entered the room a few minutes later, he found himself staring down the muzzle of the Mare's Leg, and in the disconcerting knowledge that he was the target of Vin's narrowed blue eyes. His arms went up and he was backing out of the room when Vin began trembling, fading strength and pain taking the place of lethal necessity. The Mare's Leg slanted down, and then slipped from Vin's fingers as his body slumped against the pillows.

"Vincente!" Jake was back in the room and at the bedside in a few quick strides. Vin's narrow chest was rising and falling rapidly and a faint sheen of sweat filmed his pale cheeks. Jake poured a mug of water and carefully held it to his lips. Vin took a few swallows, then pushed Jake's hand away.

"'M all right. Sorry, Jake. Didn't mean t' git y' in my sights," he rasped.

Jake raised a brow at him. "Darwell?" he asked.

Vin sighed and looked away. "Mebbe. Didn't think I'd git so lucky."

"Where are your friends?"

"Chris went t' take a look 'round, an' Buck went t' look after Chris."

"You should not be alone." And then realizing how foolish that sounded when he had found himself faced with Tanner's gun, he grinned. "For long," he amended.

"Wasn't." Vin closed his eyes, suddenly weary.

"Carmela will be here soon to take a look at your wound."

"Carmela?"

"Ah, you don't remember… She took care of you last night."

"Who is she?"

"Just a woman who knows how to heal."

Vin opened his eyes. "That all?"

Jake ducked his head like he hadn't really heard Vin's question. Vin smiled. "Must be a real nice lady." He felt a certain pleasure for his old friend when Jake's silence confirmed his suspicion. He reached for the mug and drank a few more sips of water. Before he could say anything else, there was a soft knock on the door.

Jake opened it a cautious crack, then wider. A woman entered, nodded to Jake and shyly approached Vin's bedside. She touched his shoulder and he lay back, a bit wary and watchful. He wasn't a man who trusted to touch, a bit like a wild creature lately tamed. He found her silence odd until he saw her turn to Jake and her fingers flutter in some sort of private sign language they had developed.

Mute, but not deaf, because Jake replied in rapid Spanish and she nodded, comprehending. Vin figured he'd best let her do what she had to do, pretty much like he let Nathan tend to him. He could tell from her touch that she was gentle and wouldn't hurt him more than necessary.

She didn't. She peeled the bandages away from his shoulder, felt the skin for the heat of infection, bent close and sniffed for the scent of bad flesh. Smiling, she straightened and cleaned the wound with warm water that smelled like mint and eucalyptus, then smeared a cloth pad with ointment and bound it into place. When she had finished, she smoothed his hair from his forehead, like a mother might, settling the blankets close to his body. She stirred a packet of herbs into the mug of water. The beverage was cool and faintly bitter, but not as unpleasant as some of Nathan's teas. Vin drank the infusion, then decided to give up the fight to stay awake. He'd talk to Jake later… when Chris came back…

Purgatorio was not a town to wake at dawn. Chris walked down streets that were nearly deserted; a few drunks lingering in doorways and alleys – some stirring, some not, some possibly dead. He paused by a man passed out on the sidewalk, knew he was still alive by the groan as Chris rolled him over with the toe of his boot. Chris looked down at him with disinterested pity; ironic to think that but for the rage in his heart that drove him to revenge more than despair, he could have been just another drunk passed out in some nameless pissant town.

He didn't know what he was looking for. He certainly didn't expect Darwell to suddenly appear in front of him just waiting to be gunned down. That desire was so strong in him that he could taste the bitter tang of gunpowder on his tongue, feel his palm tingling from the recoil of his revolver. He flexed his fingers, shrugged the tension from his shoulders. He paused, his gunslinger's sixth sense telling him that there was somebody at his back. He turned, his hand poised above his gun and ready to draw.

"Whoa, partner. It's a bit early fer gunplay." Buck was backing from him, smiling but cautious.

The tension drained from him and his hand fell away from his gun, his shoulders relaxing and a grim smile touching his lips. "Y' ought to know better 'n to come up at my back, especially here, of all places."

Buck nodded, serious again. "Reckon I'm used to Four Corners."

Chris leaned against a wall. "Yeah." He'd gotten used to a lot of things he wished he hadn't. Used to having Sarah and Adam, used to not having them, used to liquor and pain. And, lately, used to having Vin and the others at his back. But his old instincts had never left him entirely and they came back in full force whenever he was in Purgatorio.

"You find any sign of Darwell?" Buck asked.

"No more bodies, if that's what you mean."

"He ain't here. He's out there, waitin' on us to ride out."

Chris studied his boots. "I don't know, Buck. If he were like any other man, I'd say that would make sense, but Darwell's not like that. He wants something, he'll go after it and not give a damn about what other men would do. He ain't sane… he ain't normal. And he wants Vin dead."

Buck heaved a sigh. "That's a real cheerful thought, Larabee. You got any more sweetness and light ya'd like to share?"

"Maybe we ought to take a look around. You feel like talkin' to the senoritas across the way?"

Buck smiled and stroked his moustache. "And what are you gonna do?"

"Have a few drinks," Chris replied tersely. "Meet you back in Vin's room in an hour."

The first cantina Chris stopped in was nothing more than a dark room – the lowest of places a man could get a drink even in a town like Purgatorio. He stood at the rickety bar and ordered a beer, figuring it was safer than the killer tequila and whiskey the cantina was bound to serve. The other patrons of the bar were slouched in chairs, their faces in shadows, hiding from prying eyes. None of them were Darwell. Chris wasn't even sure Darwell would have chosen this place – something about the generally seedy aura and furtive clientele seemed contrary to Darwell's character. He'd want to be seen, want to be found.

Chris didn't even drink the whole bottle. He laid a coin on the bar and went into the brighter light outside. He tilted his hat to shade his eyes and walked down to the next watering hole. He'd been in that one before and knew it was clean and the barkeep honest enough so his whiskey could be trusted not to burn a hole in your stomach. A man could sit in the corner and nurse his hurts in peace, or, if he wanted company of a different kind, a whore could be found to provide it. Chris knew a few of them, knew they'd talk to him for a price.

He pushed aside the beaded strands that hung in the doorway and stalked over to the bar. He ordered a shot of whiskey and took it to a table. He sat there for a while until two of the whores who frequented the premises entered the cantina. They moved languidly, like they were only half-awake. Probably were if they'd had a late night. Chris lifted his glass and one of them went to the bar and joined him at the table with a bottle. He'd seen her around, but had never slept with her.

She slid into the chair next to him and poured a shot of whiskey into his glass. Her hand moved intimately over his thigh and Chris watched her for a few minutes, saw the avid hunger in her eyes. Briefly, he considered letting her continue with her seduction, but his time was limited… and his money had to go for more than his personal satisfaction.

He covered her hand with his own and lifted it to the tabletop. "It's a mite early, senorita, and I had a long night."

"Al igual que yo," the whore murmured throatily.

Chris shook his head. "Ingles?"

"I also, senor."

"It's different for men," Chris said, not at all sure she understood, but she laughed.

"I could make it very easy for you." She freed her hand and before he could stop her, she was kneading his crotch.

Chris clasped her around the wrist and moved her hand away from his body. "That's not what I want," he hissed. "But I will pay if you make it worth my while."

She paled. "What do you want, senor?" She looked alarmed, nearly terrified and Chris got a queasy feeling in his stomach.

"I'm looking for a man, might be in town, might not." Chris described Darwell in a low voice and felt the whore's pulse leap beneath his fingertips. "You seen him?"

"N-no, senor." She shook her head and tried to pull away from his clasp. "Not that man."

He wished he knew the Spanish word for liar. He tightened his hold. "You have seen this man. When and where?" She looked around as if she expected Darwell to emerge from the shadows. Frightened still. "When?" he demanded.

"He killed Alma," she whimpered. "I saw him that night."

Chris released her. "Not since then?"

She shook her head. "No senor, lo siento, not since then." She rubbed her wrist as if it hurt and Chris saw the reddened imprint of his fingerprints on her skin.

"No, senorita, lo siento. I didn't mean to hurt you." He pulled out some money, about what it would have cost him for the hand job she had offered. "Gracias."

She snatched up the bills and stuffed them down the bodice of her blouse. Chris held out a few more coins. "If you see this man, you come to me, sabe? At Jake Esteban's. That goes for Rosita or any of the other girls you know. Comprende?"

She nodded and took the coins. Then she got up and went over to Rosita, whispering to her. Rosita looked at Chris, her expression one of fear and suspicion. Chris got up from the table, tipped his hat to the two prostitutes, and left. He didn't know what he felt – relief, perhaps that Darwell wasn't in town, apprehension that he didn't know where the bastard was, and exhaustion.

Tired in mind and body, he started back towards Jake's cantina. He wondered what Buck had learned from the women at the whorehouse where Alma had been murdered. He hoped Buck had remembered he was supposed to talk.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin was awakened from a doze by an insistent pressure on his bladder. He pushed himself upright with an effort and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The chamber pot was under the bed. He nudged it out with his foot so he could use it. When he had finished and realized he could stand upright without keeling over, he reached for the trousers and shirt that were laid at the foot of the bed, and dressed. His boots were nearby and he wrestled them on, using his left arm as little as possible.

Once he was dressed, he wandered over to the table where Jake had set the remains of his breakfast. He ate the bread, shoveled the cold eggs onto a tortilla and ate that. Would have been better hot, but he needed the weight in his stomach. He buckled on his rig and holstered the Mare's Leg. Every movement hurt and he felt as weak as a newborn colt. Disgusted, he cautiously opened the door and stepped out into the deserted hall. The aroma of coffee and frying onions lured him toward the cantina. He paused at the rail overlooking the main floor and saw nothing and nobody to cause alarm, so he ordered a plate of food and a cup of coffee at the bar. He sat at the corner table, his back to the wall and a clear view to the door. He wondered where Jake was and smiled to think that maybe he was with Carmela. There was no sign of either Buck or Chris. Worrisome, but not alarming, and the town was quiet as it wouldn't be if either of them had found trouble.

When his food came, he ate it, though he did so more out of necessity than true hunger. It was better than the trail rations of the last few days and he could nearly hear Nathan's voice telling him he had to eat to build up his strength. So he'd eat.

He was still sitting there when Chris stalked into the cantina, went to the bar and ordered a whiskey. Vin leaned forward slightly, waiting to see how long it would take for Larabee to notice he was there. It took about as long as the thought. Chris turned slowly, saw him and came over to the table.

"Rough mornin', Cowboy?" Vin asked, one brow aslant.

Chris hooked a chair over and sat. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked. His voice was gruff but his eyes were concerned.

"I'm eatin' breakfast. Looks like yer drinkin' yours."

Chris tossed back the shot he had poured. "You'd be drinkin', too."

Vin felt sick. "He ain't… Darwell ain't…"

Chris shook his head. "Not that anybody's seen. Even the whores ain't talkin'."

"Ain't or won't?"

"Maybe both." Chris eyed the inch of liquor left in the bottle and poured it in the shot glass, though he did not drink it. "You didn't see what he did to that girl. Buck is supposed to be talkin' to the ladies across the way."

Vin laughed at that. "Mighta been better if he'd gone drinkin' while you went across the way." He ate in silence for a few minutes, aware of Chris watching him. "Ya gonna count every mouth of food?"

Chris sat back, a grim smile on his mouth. "Just glad t'see you upright, though Nettie would say you're lookin' peaked."

"Hell, I'm feelin' peaked. But I been worse." He drew in a breath, looking deeply into Chris's eyes, searching for shadows and bracing himself to ask the next question. "Chris, what the hell 'm I doin' out here, killin' myself, maybe gittin' you and Buck killed, too?"

"You didn't have any doubts a few days ago."

"I'm tired, Chris. And if I said I warn't hurtin', ya'd know I's lyin'."

Chris knew it already, could see it in his face, in the slump of his body, in the hollow despair in his voice that was just barely tempered by his self-deprecating humor. He looked at Tanner, trying to read him. "Sometimes revenge ain't enough, Vin. Sometimes, it gets the best of you – eats away like a sickness until there ain't nothin' left but the fever burning you down to your bones. When it gets like that, maybe it's better to step away."

"You ever done that?" Vin asked.

"Yeah, I did. Not too long ago."

Vin swallowed, knowing Larabee was thinking of that day they'd joined up to save Nathan's life. He nodded. "Chris… I'm thinkin' I wanta go home. Least 'til I heal up, rest up. I ain't never gonna hear th' end of it from Nate."

"Maybe not. Though I think Nate knows somethin' about taking a step back, too."

Vin looked up as light flowed into the room briefly. Buck strode in, saw them sitting there and came over. His mouth was hard beneath his moustache. He didn't look like a man who'd spent time with the fairer sex. He looked angry and unsettled.

He dragged a chair over, sat, and drained the shot glass Chris had left untouched. "Nothing," he said. "Nothin' and nobody. He came and went, hasn't been back."

"We knew that," Chris said. "But I was hopin' somebody maybe had a line on where he sprung from."

Buck stretched out his long legs and sighed wearily. "Where does a man go when he can't hide out in Purgatorio? Seems like there ain't no place on earth that he could run to if he can't come here."

"There's places," Vin said softly.

Chris shivered. He had no doubt that Vin was speaking from experience. He'd hunted down enough bounties and been hunted enough to know those places. Chris, in his years of dark wandering, had heard of them, but had never searched them out, not even in his days as a hired gun.

Buck studied Vin intently. "Son, ya don't look like you're up ta chasin' your own shadow."

"M' shadow's headin' home, Bucklin," Vin said. "I reckon I c'n chase it that far."

"You sure ya want ta give up—"

"He ain't givin' up," Chris said harshly, "just steppin' back."

Buck lifted a brow at Chris but didn't say a word.

Vin pushed his chair away from the table. "I'm gonna say thanks t' Jake." He walked slowly across the room. Chris knew him well enough to read the utter exhaustion others would take for languor. He watched him until Buck's voice called him back to the matter at hand.

"Just steppin' back?" Buck queried.

"He's sick, Buck. Sick, weak, hurtin' and tired. Hell, I'm tired, and don't tell me you ain't."

"What about Darwell? He ain't likely ta hang around waitin' for us to heal up and rest."

"Something rotten always leaves a stench. When we're ready, we'll find him. Right now, we need to get Vin back to Four Corners."

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin gathered up his bloodstained clothes and rolled them into a bundle. He should just leave them with Jake and tell him to burn them, but was reluctant to do so. Maybe he just didn't want to leave any part of himself in Purgatorio, didn't want to leave a blood trail for Darwell to follow.

He heard Jake's footsteps and kept on packing even when the door opened and he felt Jake's presence at his back.

"You going somewhere, compadre?"

"Me an' the boys 're headin' back to Four Corners. Seems like there ain't no reason t' hang around waitin' fer Darwell t' come after me."

"You will kill yourself, Vincente."

Vin turned and gave Jake a half-smile. "Naw, I got too many other fellers after my hide t' do myself in. B'sides, I reckon Chris an' Buck wouldn't let that happen." He slung his bundle over his shoulder, wincing as his injured muscles protested the motion. His smile softened. "I– I ain't never had that, Jake." He seemed almost ashamed by that admission. "'Cept mebbe them years I's in Texas after the war with you an' Perdita…" He stopped, shook his head. "I'll be goin' now, Jake. Thanks fer what ya done – you and Carmela."

Jake nodded. "I will tell her."

"I cain't pay fer—"

"You have paid me." Jake pressed a familiar object into Vin's hand.

Vin looked down at the silver dollar he had drilled with a bullet a long time ago. "One a' these days y' ain't gonna be able t' give it back."

"On the day we are both dead, amigo." Jake held out his hand; he would have enveloped Vin in an embrace, but he already looked about ready to break in two, as slight and vulnerable as a stalk of prairie grass in a windstorm. But that grass had deep roots and hardy stems. Jake never doubted that Vin would survive. The soil might be nothing more than rough stones, but he'd be all right, anchored in the friendship of the seven men who had found each other. "Vaya con Dios," Jake said. He set a warm hand on Vin's shoulder.

"Y tu, mi amigo."

A short while later, Jake watched from the door to the cantina as three men rode out of town, their hats tipped low over their faces, their weapons in full view. The two taller riders bracketed the slim man between them, their unyielding spines speaking of resolve and protection, no matter the cost.

JD Dunne stood on the steps of the jailhouse, stretching the muscles in his back. He'd spent a good part of the night in his chair, listening to a drunk work off his liquor by singing off-key and off-color songs about his favorite saloon girls. The man had finally passed out around dawn and JD had been too tired to do anything but sleep in his chair. He sure could use a cup of hot coffee and some biscuits. Maybe some eggs and bacon… oatmeal with brown sugar… Breakfast was sounding better all the time.

It was going to be another hot day, he thought, looking up at the blue sky. Not a drop of rain in sight. A good day to be out at the swimming hole, or fishing. Too bad Buck wasn't around…

And that thought sent JD's musings off in a less happy direction. Where were the three missing peacekeepers? Had they found Darwell and dispatched him? Were they taking him back to Eagle Bend, and justice?

They had been gone too long, and JD didn't like that one bit.

Chapter 11

　Damn Larabee and his cheroot! Vin woke choking out Chris's name. In his dream, the gunslinger had been standing over him, puffing on a foul-smelling cigar, and the fumes filled his nostrils and throat, thick and clinging as bitter ash. His head hurt and his ears were ringing…

He sat up, gasping for air. He was alone. No Chris, no cheroot. But the smoke and alarm bells were real enough. He pulled on his shirt and trousers, stamped into his boots. He was still half dressed when Chris pounded furiously on his door.

"Vin! Get your ass outta bed!"

He jerked the door open. "Where's the fire?"

Chris grabbed his arm. "Don't know for sure. Not far, and they're gonna need help."

They ran downstairs and out into the street. The fire seemed focused but intense, smoke was billowing, shot with glittering sparks and lit by red-orange flames. Chris was several steps in front of Vin, his broad shoulders blocking the tracker's view of the street. He stopped abruptly, turned, his eyes wide. He reached for Vin's arm, as if to turn him away from the sight, but Vin shook him off. He stepped clear of Chris's body. Now he knew.

"Shit…" His heart dropped clear down to his boots. Wasn't enough that he had nothing to begin with – now it seemed all he had left were the clothes on his back, his guns, and Peso.

"Vin, I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, jist keep movin'. Might still be somethin' left t' save." He took off toward the alley.

Chris shook his head, but followed him.

When they reached the alley, the damage was apparent. His wagon was gone, nothing but the charred wagon bed resting on broken wheels and the obscene arch of the steel ribs, like a burned corpse.

"Geez, Vin. I'm sorry." JD rested his hand on Vin's shoulder.

"'S all right, kid. I started from nuthin' before. I c'n do it again."

"Ya ain't got nothing, Vin. You have us. You have friends."

Chapter 12

Chris's hope that being with the others would somehow ease the ache of loss Vin had to be feeling was dashed when, after he finished his whiskey and a glass of water, he stood, tipped his hat and left with barely saying a word to any of them. Chris slumped down in his chair, defeated.

"He's just going back to the boarding house, right?" JD asked.

"He was on his way out of town when I stopped him earlier," Chris replied. "I don't know what more I can do."

Josiah sighed, "You goin' after him?"

Chris stood. "I ain't gonna let him out there alone, not with Darwell on the loose."

"We'll all be watchin' with you, brother," Josiah reassured him. He pushed away from the table. "I'll take first watch so you can get some rest, Chris."

"Thanks, Josiah. Give me a few minutes to make sure Vin ain't taken it in that stubborn Texas head of his to light out again."

"And if he has?" Buck asked.

"Then we ride. That bastard Darwell will have to drain every drop of blood from my body before I let Vin take him on alone." He settled his hat on his head and left the saloon.

Chapter 13

The night was cold. The wind was rising and there were clouds scudding across the face of the moon, thickening as the night wore on. The weather change promised by the red dawn was coming.

Vin huddled in his blankets, trying to keep the others from seeing the shivers that wracked his body. It came on him like that sometimes since Darwell had hurt him – a memory of that night in the desert when he'd nearly bled out his life, the slow chill growing on him like death. He didn't want to remember how it was, but his body did, and his body betrayed him.

"Vin?" Chris rested his hand on his shaking shoulder. "You sick?"

He shrugged away from Larabee's touch. "Nah, jist cold. Go 'way. I'll be fine." He tucked the cover closer under his chin. Chris left, but returned a few minutes later to drape a warmed blanket over him – heat and comfort and a scent of smoke that reminded him of Chris's cheroot.

"Thanks," Vin sighed.

Chris's hand rested for a moment on his back. "Get some rest. We've got to ride in a few hours."

The shivering abated and Vin closed his eyes and drifted, half-aware Buck was nagging at JD to go to sleep. He heard Chris spreading his bedroll, a bulwark against the wind at his back with the heat of the fire on his face. His heart warmed and his body stopped shaking.

It seemed as if only a few minutes had passed until Chris was holding a mug of coffee under his nose and telling him Buck and JD had headed out on their flanking maneuver.

Vin wrapped his fingers around the mug. The coffee was hot enough to scald, the taste strong and bitter, barely sweetened because they weren't riding with full provisions. But it was the heat and the kick that he craved.

He sipped it, ate the hardtack Chris dredged in rendered fatback grease. It reminded him of the sort of food he'd eaten during the war – near starvation rations. This was one meal, not something he'd have to eat day after day as he had, but it still sat uneasily on his stomach. He ate it because he needed the sustenance, his body crying out for fuel.

Chris poured more coffee into Vin's mug and added the last of their precious sugar. He watched Vin struggle to swallow the hardtack. "It ain't exactly Miz Nettie's biscuits and country ham," he said.

Vin smiled wryly. "Don't think I could even eat that easy right now." He set his plate aside and took a few more swallows of coffee to clear the taste of grease from his throat. He spat the last mouthful out on the ground. "Let's git ridin', Chris."

Chris nodded, poured the last of the coffee on the smoldering ashes of the fire and kicked dirt over the last embers. He watched as Vin checked his weapons and did the same. Then they mounted their horses and rode off as the sun crested over the horizon.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

The day warmed as the sun rose. Buck and JD made steady progress over the rocky landscape. Buck was uneasy, uncertain they were doing the right thing by splitting up, no matter what Vin said. Wasn't sure they were doing much to mislead Darwell, either, though he supposed taking Darwell's mind off Vin would be a blessing for the tracker. Damn, but the boy had been looking mighty frail that morning.

He didn't often think of Vin as a boy. Anybody who'd fought a war wasn't a boy, no matter how young he was. Josiah said Vin had an old soul, but his real years weren't much more than JD's. Vin had never said how old he was, and Buck wasn't sure he even knew, as fractured as his life had been. It was just that, sometimes, Vin had a look about him that hit Buck like a fist to the gut.

"Buck," JD asked over his shoulder, "you think we're doin' any good here?"

Buck smiled at the similar turn of their thoughts. "I'm thinkin' we'll know more in a bit."

"Yeah, but I'm kinda wondering how we'll know."

Buck was pretty sure of the answer, but he held his tongue for JD's sake. "Just keep a sharp eye out, kid."

"I ain't a kid," JD grumbled.

"Didn't say you were," Buck answered and received a snort and a roll of hazel eyes in return.

They rode on, taking no particular care to be quiet or inconspicuous. They were coming on to noon when JD suddenly reined in and motioned for Buck to be quiet. They halted and JD pointed. "Smoke, up there behind those rocks."

Buck peered into the sky. Sure enough, there it was, barely a darker wisp against a blue-gray sky. He shivered. "Seems like we found our sign."

"What do we do now?" JD asked. He seemed skittish, serious.

Buck took a breath and dismounted. "I reckon we take a look, seein' as he left a sign."

"Buck… every time he's done that, it's been bad," JD said softly.

Buck braced his hands on his hips and looked up at the rising plume of smoke. He wasn't about to argue with JD. Hell, the kid was right, and he wasn't looking forward to seeing what was burning up there. Darwell was too smart to leave a fire burning for no reason.

"I'll go," he said. "You take the horses down to that stream we passed a ways back. There's good ground cover there."

"I ain't leavin' you, Buck."

"Hell, that's real sweet of you, kid," Buck jested, touched by JD's devotion. "But I've been takin' care of myself for a while now." He winked, then destroyed that illusion by pulling his gun from the holster. "Go on. Git."

JD opened his mouth to argue, but he knew Buck well enough to recognize when arguing was useless – seemed to be that way a lot when it came to Chris. He shook his head. "Chris would say you were being an idiot," he mumbled.

"Well, Chris ain't here."

That didn't keep JD from wishing he were. He gave Buck one last rebellious look, then led the horses back toward the stream.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

As the sun rose, the chill left Vin, though he still felt it lingering in the marrow of his bones. He knew Chris was watching his back, knew the gunslinger was studying him with narrowed eyes and knew without looking he had that hard set of worry to his mouth, which would, under any other circumstance, have him half-crazy with nerves, but which he now found reassuring. He didn't know if that was another effect of his beating, or if it meant he was losing the loneliness that had haunted so much of his life.

He reined in as the trail flattened out slightly, took out his canteen and tipped his head back as he drank. A movement, a shadow against the blue sky caught his eye and he brought the canteen down fast. "Chris!"

Larabee reined in next to him. "What is it?"

"Smoke." A jerk of his hat brim, and Chris's breath drew in sharply.

"Darwell?"

"Unless there's somebody else ridin' the backside of beyond," Vin said grimly. "I don't like it."

"Think it's a trap?"

"Don't know. Somethin' sure don't feel right t' me."

"Sittin' here thinkin' on it isn't gonna make it better." Chris focused those green eyes on him and Vin shifted in his saddle.

"Hell." He took another swallow from his canteen. He wanted time, and he didn't have it. He wanted peace, and he'd never find it. Not as long as Darwell held that power over him. "I'm endin' it. One way or another, I'm endin' it."

He nudged his heels into Peso's flanks hard enough for the gelding to know he meant business. Peso responded with a near leap up the next level of rocks. Chris urged Pony to follow, hoping that ending this would not cost any blood other than Darwell's.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Buck pulled himself up the slope. It had seemed deceptively gentle viewed from below, but once he started scaling it, he realized it was quite steep and treacherously slippery, pebbles and shale crumbling underfoot and sliding down the slope, making more noise than he liked. He half-expected a shot to ring out from above, certain that he was in plain and tempting sight.

He paused, wiped the sweat from his face with his bandanna and crawled behind a sheltering boulder. Gun in hand, he cautiously edged into a position where he felt secure enough to take a look-see.

Chapter 14

Chris had watched Vin track before, had seen the utter concentration in him, as if he were listening more than looking, using all his senses to catch some drift that Chris couldn't see or feel. But, somehow, Vin found the signs he was looking for – a turn of a pebble, the color just slightly different, the shape not quite fitting into the small hollow where it now lay. A tuft of bent grass, catching the light differently. Vin would pause, his head cocked slightly, his eyes narrowed, considering. And just when Chris thought they'd lost Darwell again, Vin would give him that half-smile and, with a nearly imperceptible nod of his head, they'd be off again.

Sometimes they moved fast, sometimes not, but Vin seemed to know the path, as if he'd followed it before. The sun was still hot, but long mares' tails of clouds were beginning to streak the sky. Chris took the canteen from Pony's saddle and lengthened his stride to catch up to Vin. He touched his shoulder. "Take some time," he said.

Vin looked at him. "Naw, I'm doin' fine. Gotta track with the good light."

Chris shoved the canteen at him. "Then drink."

Vin gave him one of those exasperated looks, but he didn't argue. He drank, capped the canteen and handed it back.

It didn't seem much lighter. Chris narrowed his eyes, seeing fatigue and pain in Vin's face, as well as calm determination. "Ready?"

"Been ready fer a long time," Vin said. It was the truth. From Texas and the graves of his friends, to Four Corners and the trail left by his own blood on the dry earth. Vin knelt, tilted his head, looking at the bend of the tufts of dry grass, the turn of a pebble that were as clear as day to his eyes – the shinings and dullings of a man's passage that he didn't even know he was leaving. Vin couldn't read many words, but he could read sign the way Chris read a book, better maybe, because words could twist and deceive, but the earth had never lied to him. He could look at the land, look at the lay of it and see the lines of drift a man might follow, paths determined by more than terrain.

"What do you see?" Chris asked, mystified by Vin's stillness and silence.

Chapter 15

Even if Vin had been in any shape to continue the hunt, it was pointless in the dark. They couldn't go back to their original campsite on the other side of the arroyo. The rising water had made crossing it too dangerous for the horses. They went instead to Darwell's former position where there was some shelter.

JD managed to get a small fire going against Vin's objections, which subsided when he brewed up a pot of coffee. It was obvious that both Chris and Vin needed heat and some food before either would be able to continue the hunt.

What brief energy had carried Larabee across the arroyo and had driven him to find Vin in the rain and darkness had fled. He was pale, even in the ruddy firelight. And if Nathan could see Vin, he'd drag the tracker up to his clinic and set Nettie out to guard the door – not to keep visitors out, but to keep Tanner in. He still might when they finally got back to town.

But, right now, despite his exhaustion, it was pretty clear that nobody stood a chance of distracting Tanner from his goal. Buck sure wasn't going to get in the way. Still, judging from what he saw in both of his friends, a few hours of rest until dawn would do them both a world of good. Wouldn't hurt any of them.

He motioned JD to his side. "I'll take first watch, kid. You get some rest."

"I'm—"

Buck silenced him with a scowl. "When are ya gonna stop arguin' with me? Ya know ya ain't gonna win."

Dunne grinned. "Maybe I don't know. Maybe I'll just keep it up until I do win."

Buck rolled his eyes. "You ain't gonna win tonight. So get some rest."

The others were quiet, exhausted. Buck poured another mug of coffee and settled in to watch, his collar raised against the mist. The horses were calm, which seemed a good sign. He sipped the hot beverage, still marveling that JD had thought to pack provisions and a lantern, and still traveled light. Seemed there were brains beneath that damned sissy bowler hat of his after all.

The mist dissipated gradually and as the night wore on, Buck could see a few faint stars peeking through the clouds. Seemed it would actually be light enough to track once the sun rose. After two hours, JD stirred, and yawning, came to take his turn on the watch. Buck stretched out and before he even had a chance to think about it, he was asleep.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Vin wasn't sleeping. He heard Chris's measured respiration and knew the gunslinger wasn't having the same trouble, but Vin figured if he'd lost as much blood as Larabee had, maybe he'd be asleep, too. Couldn't figure out why everybody was looking at him like he was the one who needed rest. He was wet, cold, hungry. Weren't they all? He opened his eyes a slit. JD was taking watch while Buck rested.

Part of Vin wished Buck and JD had gone right back to Four Corners, but most of him was glad they hadn't, even though he'd be taking them right back into danger. Odds never meant much to Vin, he knew one man with a rifle and good aim could decimate an enemy. Usually, he was that one man. This time it might be Darwell. The only thing Vin could do was make sure he didn't have a chance to use it.

His eyes could already tell the difference in the light, although dawn was still a few hours off. As soon as he could distinguish shapes, they'd be off. Resolutely, he closed his eyes again, and, this time, he was able to drift into a light doze – not the deep sleep he truly needed, but enough to replenish some of his resources.

It was a short enough time until he roused to find he could see the movement of his hand in front of his face. He stood, aching in every muscle and joint, his back tight and painful. He nodded to JD and stepped just beyond the campsite to relieve himself and work out the stiffness in his body. By the time he returned, JD had a fresh pot of coffee going and Chris was hunkered down next to the fire, holding a mug and looking cross.

He appraised Vin, frowned at him. "You sleep?"

"Reckon I got what I needed."

"Don't look it."

Vin gave a wordless snort of laughter. No point in even making a reply to that one. He took the mug JD offered with a nod of thanks. There wasn't much to go with it – some hardtack and jerky, but he chewed it dutifully. He couldn't help thinking longingly of Nettie's lighter than air biscuits, country ham and pan gravy. His stomach growled and he swallowed, hoping that, if nothing else, the food would weigh it down. Maybe his physical hunger would give drive to the urge to end this with Darwell. What was it Josiah said, "To sleep, perchance to dream?" That sounded good, real good.

He rose from his crouch, dumped the last swallow of coffee and grounds on the fire. "Time to hunt," he said, and went to saddle Peso.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

They got their first break when Vin retraced his steps from last night, though Chris wondered how he could do that when all he recalled was rain and darkness. It was like Tanner had a compass in his brain, able to follow some sort of magnetic north, and the rest of them just went along for the ride. Chris was the only one who wasn't surprised when Vin found his hat right where he had dropped it last night. Vin hung it from his saddle pommel by the latigo, and kept moving.

He reined in and dismounted by the clump of mesquite bushes where they had found him last night. He studied the ground for a long time, blue eyes narrowed, head tilted. Then he bent and touched a few blades of the sparse grass. He held up his fingers. Reddish brown stained them. Despite his grin, there was no laughter in his face. "Hit him. Thought I mighta. And he ain't on horseback."

In the dark and rain, from God knows how far away, and Vin had still managed to hit his target. JD's mouth hung open until Buck jogged his elbow and told him to stop catching flies.

Vin remained on foot, stopping every few yards to study the ground, touch a bit of grass or earth, rising with an occasional soft exhalation of satisfaction when he found more blood. This time the blood trail was Darwell's.

The landscape was changing. Even in the few miles they had traveled, there was more elevation, more rock formations that they hadn't been able to see in the dark. Vin was clearly becoming more uneasy as the possibility Darwell was holed up behind one of the fortress-like formations became more likely. The blood was still marking the trail, and Vin wondered why Darwell hadn't tied up the wound to keep it from dripping. Was he doing it on purpose? Using his own blood as a lure? Or had Vin's bullet left a wound so serious that it couldn't be bound up?

He looked up at Chris. "Keep an eye out. Looks like he's still on the move, but I don't know how long this trail will last."

"I wouldn't feel anything but glad if we found him dead at the end of it," Chris replied. He straightened in the saddle and winced. His own wound had stopped bleeding, but it felt hot and ached fiercely. "Might not be much satisfaction in it for you—"

"I ain't lookin' fer satisfaction." Color tinged Vin's pale cheeks. "I jist want…" He fell silent.

"Justice?" Chris asked quietly.

Vin nodded. "Guess that's the word."

"You'll get it."

"Not if I don't find Darwell." He gathered his thoughts. "Trail's been leading north fer a while. I'm thinkin' there's water ahead in those red rocks. If he's losin' blood, he's gonna be thirsty. The rain riled things up enough he'll be drinkin' mud if he don't find clean-running water soon."

Buck had joined them in time to hear Vin's last thoughts. "You aimin' to head straight at him?"

Vin sighed. "Don't know."

Buck frowned. "Seems like we could do this the easy way, or the smart way." He paused, waiting for Chris or JD to make some crack about which way he would choose, but they remained silent and serious. "Easy is there's four of us and one of him. If we keep north and ride down his throat, he might pick one of us off before we get him—"

Vin shook his head. "He could pick all of us off if he gits me first. I ain't riskin' that."

Buck grinned. "Then I reckon we go for the smart way."

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

They split up once again, Buck and JD heading west, Chris, east, and Vin tracking the blood trail, Chris traveling a parallel line to him, watching out for a possible ambush.

As Vin followed the trail, he became more certain that his shot had been a good one, even in the dark. He paused and knelt in the dirt, reading the signs better than most men could read words. They told him the blood was dripping from Darwell's right side. When he touched the stain on the grass it told him he was catching up to his quarry. The earlier blood had been nearly dry and no flies were buzzing over at it. These newer stains were tacky and the flies were still swarming over the drops like there was something sweet in its taste.

He squinted into the near distance. The terrain was working to his advantage, the increasing altitude and broken landscape were a minor hindrance to him, but for an injured man losing blood, those factors made every step a greater effort than the last, and the more effort, the more the blood flow. He brushed the flies away and touched the stain. He scented the blood on his fingers – clean, no hint of gut. Maybe an arm or a hand, judging from the way the splatter was falling.

The occasional heavier scuff in the dirt of a faltering step told Vin that the wound was taking its toll on Darwell.

There was a low mesa rising ahead, the slopes strewn with boulders. Even from a mile or so away, it looked like prime shelter. That's where the son of a bitch was holed up, waiting and watching. Vin figured he had a safety margin of a few hundred yards, probably longer. He wasn't going to take any chances on how good a shot Darwell was still capable of making.

He looked over at Chris. Larabee was paused low to the ground as well, waiting for Vin. His head was tilted slightly, enough to catch any signal Vin would make, but still alert to the possibility of sighting Darwell, if he were to get careless.

Vin nodded and motioned with his hand that Chris should move ahead. The trail was still leading them on.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Buck didn't like it one bit. He'd never liked the idea of splitting up to begin with, and it no sooner seemed he'd solved that once, than here they were again, him and JD heading off on their own, Vin and Chris in tandem, but not really.

Buck reined in and waited for JD to come alongside him. Being on horseback, they'd covered more territory than the others, and were on the west side of the mesa. Buck had kept tabs on the others and was still amazed that while Chris was fairly easy to spot, Vin seemed to shimmer and blend into the land, staying nearly invisible until he moved, or until he stayed still for long enough for Buck to pick out his form against the backdrop of stones and low scrub.

JD looked up at the rocks instead of searching for Chris and Vin. He tilted his bowler hat and squinted into the strengthening sunlight. "Getting hot," he said.

"Yeah."

"Think he's up there?"

"Vin seems ta think he's up there. I reckon that's what matters."

"Do we keep going on?" JD asked.

"Seems like we do."

"Good."

The sound of grim satisfaction in JD's voice made Buck give a short nod. Sometimes Buck wondered if the kid were cut out for this life. There was a lot of world out there beyond Four Corners, and he hoped JD would live long enough to see it. "C'mon, Vin's on the move again."

JD nodded and they turned the horses to head toward the higher ground. As the terrain rose, he felt more and more exposed, the grasses and scrub growing thinner as the soil became more rocky and inhospitable. The rocks, which had seemed no more than three or four feet in diameter from the plain below, were suddenly looming over his head, giving Darwell all sorts of shelter, all sorts of vantage points. His fingers itched to take out his gun and cock it, to be prepared to fire. He risked a glance at Buck and saw him stroking the end of his moustache with his thumb, a nervous habit JD sometimes wondered if Buck even knew he had. He knew Ezra had taken note of it, much to the big man's bafflement at the poker table. That Buck was doing it now, wasn't much assurance to JD.

"These rocks are pretty big, huh?"

Buck tilted his head. "Yeah, big, and good cover." His voice had dropped to a whisper. "Keep an eye out."

"Where am I supposed to look?" JD asked, his voice as low as Buck's but the sarcasm clear. "Left, right, up, down?"

"All of them."

"Geez, Buck!" The words were lost in gunfire.

Buck cried out, his hand clapping to his shoulder as he reeled in the saddle. JD grabbed his horse's reins before the animal could bolt in fright, reined in his own mount and Buck's, slid from the saddle as another shot rang out and half-dragged Buck off his horse. The third shot shaved splinters from a boulder just to JD's right, and he pulled Buck to the left, behind a large boulder.

Wilmington was cussing, blood welling through his fingers. He tugged off his bandanna and tried to fold it into a bandage with his left hand. JD jerked it from his fingers, made a pad, and shoved it into the wound, making Buck yelp. "Just hold it there, hard!" he ordered.

Momentarily, Buck obeyed. Long enough for JD to tie the pad in place, not long enough to keep him off his feet. As soon as JD tied up the bandanna, he was on the move, scrambling to recover his gun from the dirt, breathing hard while black specks swam in front of his eyes and his arm felt like it was on fire and useless at the same time.

It had only been a few minutes since Darwell's first shot, long enough for the bastard to reload, and start firing just as he reached his gun. Dirt kicked up not two feet away and Buck snatched his hand back, his fingers barely hooked through the trigger guard. "Goddamn bastard!" he hissed. He couldn't even tell where Darwell was firing from, only that it was higher up than they were. He peered upwards and saw nothing – no shadows cast by the milky sunlight.

"You see him?" JD hissed.

Buck shook his head. "We gotta get outta here. He's got us pinned down."

"Only until Chris and Vin—" JD broke off as the truth came to him in a rush. "Jesus, Buck. He's using us for bait!"

"He can't use us both," Buck said. "You stay here. I'm goin' up those rocks, see if I can't– What?"

Chapter 16

Vin might not have needed much help, but JD felt like bullets were flying from six directions at once. His first instinct was to protect Buck, his second, to keep Darwell from seeing Vin and Chris approaching from his back. The man couldn't know that, could he? JD wasn't so sure. But he kept on climbing, game and determined, as he heard Buck's pistol crack out. There was no answering shot from Darwell and JD wondered where the man had gone that he couldn't be seen. Maybe Vin was right and Darwell was the spawn of the devil.

Then, suddenly, JD heard the distinctive fire of Vin's Winchester and the sharp bang of Chris's big Colt revolvers. Before he could blink, another rifle shot rang out – Darwell's – from his right, and slightly above him.