Chance Met Friends
"Good thing I came along."
"Good thing you did."
The words he and Buck had exchanged the previous day came back to him as he watched his old friend grin at something JD said, giving the kid a rough, affectionate cuff on the shoulder.
Buck was a good man to have around. Despite what he'd said to Vin, Chris knew he *could* always count on Buck. Hell, he hadn't been able to get rid of him even *before* they had become friends. Back when they'd first met on that cattle drive. So long ago now.
"Nice weather we're having, hey pard?"
Chris Larabee grunted sourly in reply and pulled his slicker a bit tighter around his lean frame in a vain attempt to ward off the driving rain.
"I must've been even drunker than I thought to sign up for this gig. No women, the food is enough to give a man a permanent case of indigestion, and everyone's mood is sour enough to curdle milk. Present company excepted, of course." Chris' companion sent a sly grin in his direction. Purposely needling him. Chris had been a sullen, cranky, sour son of a bitch this entire drive so far. He wanted to be left the hell alone. And everyone had been happy enough to oblige him.
Everyone except Buck Wilmington.
The self titled ladies man extraordinaire had grated on Chris' nerves from the moment they had met, at the beginning of the trail. Unrelentingly cheerful, with a mouth that never stopped talking, and the apparent need to acquaint himself with every female between the ages of eighteen and thirty five that he came into contact with, Buck couldn't be more different from the wild, angry young gunslinger with a penchant for acquiring enemies rather than friends.
Chris had to admit, rather grudgingly, that Buck was good at his job though. The man was no goldbricker or slacker. He did his fair share of work, and while you might not be able to trust him with your wife or daughter, you could trust him to guard your back on the job.
But the gunslinger didn't want anyone guarding his back. He wanted to be left alone. Which was why he'd abandoned his former acquaintances, he wouldn't dignify them with the term friends, without a word and signed up for this cattle drive. He'd felt trapped. Restless. He was getting tired of looking for trouble and finding it. Tired of having to watch his so called friends almost as closely as he watched his enemies. He wanted something different. He just didn't know what. His whole adult life had been spent with bitterness, violence and anger as his companions. He wasn't sure he knew how to be anything else anymore.
First there had been the fights with his father. The bitterness and anger that came with being disowned. Then had come the war. Blood. Death. Hate. They had left the twenty-four year old Chris Larabee with scars on his soul that he thought would never heal. And then he'd spent the last two years since the war running and running and going nowhere. Except maybe to hell.
Well, he'd had enough of hell. And so here he was. Cold. Wet. Still angry. And no closer to knowing what he wanted than before. And he was still alone. That was what really drove him. The sad bitter knowledge that he was alone in the world. He no longer had a family. No sweet woman waiting for him. Most of his so called friends wouldn't think twice about betraying him, for whatever reason. There was no one at all on God's green earth who cared if he lived or died. The last person to care had been his brother. Dead now. The ache of that loss never quite went away.
He wondered suddenly, if Buck was perhaps as lonely as he was. If that was why the other man dogged his footsteps, despite a marked lack of welcome on Chris' part. Buck was well liked by the rest of the men. He could have ridden with any of them. But he seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time riding alongside Chris. Telling those long rambling stories of his. Mostly about various blondes. Or brunettes. Or redheads. Completely undisturbed by the way Chris ignored him. Or by the occasional acerbic comments Chris directed at him when he *wasn't* ignoring him.
"Only a few more days of this and then we can collect our pay and go on to something new. And hopefully a hell of a lot better." Buck wrinkled his nose and wiped at his sodden mustache.
"What are you gonna do? Any plans to raise some hell? Some little woman you want to go see? Family you miss?" There was a hint of emotion in Buck's voice. Something that went beyond his usual light hearted, merry banter. Something that struck a chord in the gunslinger.
"No." Chris said the words roughly. Angry with his momentary flicker of response to his damned annoying companion. Chris might be lonely, but it was better than the alternative. Getting close to someone only to lose them or have them betray you. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Buck's involuntary flinch at his angry reply. It was so slight as to be nearly invisible. But Chris had seen it. And guilt rose up in him. An emotion he hadn't felt in a very long time.
"A ranch," the gunslinger said the words so softly, he wasn't certain the other man would hear them. Wasn't certain he *wanted* the other man to hear them. But it was too late to take them back now. Buck had turned his head and was looking at Chris quizically.
"A ranch?" he said slowly.
"Yes." Chris snapped, embarrassed. "A ranch. You asked what plans I had. Well, I want to buy a ranch. Raise horses." With that, he spurred his horse and rode on ahead. Wanting to be alone. Where it was safe. And so he missed Buck's wistful reply.
"Sounds nice."
Buck Wilmington glanced up from the table where he and JD were sitting and saw Chris. The tall blonde gunslinger was by himself. He appeared to be lost in thought. And he had a small smile on his face. The last was so unusual that Buck was on his feet and moving towards his old friend before he even realized what he was doing. Drawn by the smile.
By old ties. Memories.
He hesitated as he approached Chris' table. Maybe he shouldn't? But Chris glanced up at him, a clear welcome in both eyes and voice. Buck relaxed. Things might not be the same between them anymore, but their friendship was far from lost.
"Buck." Chris gestured briefly at the chair across from him and Buck sat down. Leaning back, he took a sip from the glass Chris slid over in his direction. He watched the gunslinger quietly as he let the whiskey burn its way down his throat, into his stomach. Quiet was not Buck's normal state of being, but right now it seemed a good thing. A comfortable thing.
"You remember when we first met? On that damned cattle drive?" Chris broke the silence between them, surprising Buck with the question.
"Course I do. Meeting an ornery cuss like you. You damn near gettin' your head blown off by an old friend. Having to save your sorry butt. How could I forget?" Buck grinned at the gunslinger and shook his head. "Some things never change."
"No." Chris spoke softly. "I don't guess they do."
Chris Larabee flung open the saloon doors and stalked in. He was never, he swore, ever going on another cattle drive. And if *anyone* called him cowboy ever again, he was going to shoot the unlucky bastard. He'd had his fill of cows and the men who worked with them. He ached for that ranch he'd let slip about to Wilmington. A place of his own. Where he'd raise *horses*. Not cows.
"Whiskey." Chris ordered gruffly when he reached the bar. He accepted the drink from the surly looking bartender and turned to survey the room. He quickly passed his gaze over Buck and the rest of his erstwhile companions on the trail. He wasn't in the mood for that sort of company. He felt tightly wound as a spring. Maybe a woman?
He looked over at the array of brightly painted, gaily dressed women available. But they weren't what he wanted either. Not tonight anyway. Not when he could see the desperation, the tiredness, beneath their bright smiles. Not when he could hear the sadness in their too loud, too cheerful voices. Tomorrow, perhaps, when he could no longer see such things. For tonight he guessed he'd drink whiskey and be content with his own company.
He sat at a table and watched as people mingled and talked and conducted business all around him. He waved off the girls who approached him, drawn by his looks. His youth. He stared levelly at the various gambling men, cowhands and drifters who tried to sit down at the table with him. The boys from the cattle outfit he'd just got quit of knew better than to bother. They'd all wandered over to another saloon down the street a while back anyway. All except for Buck.
Chris glanced over to where Wilmington held court, surrounded by women. The gunslinger didn't know how he did it, but the women really seemed to like him. Maybe it was the way he had of looking at them. As if he actually liked *them*. Gave a damn what they wanted. What they said. Just then, Buck looked over and caught his eye. Damn. Chris had been avoiding the other man ever since he'd made that confession about wanting a ranch. But now Buck was heading this way.
"Hey pard. What's your poison there?" Buck said breezily as he pulled up a chair and sat down.
"Aint in the mood for talk, Wilmington." Chris didn't want to feel the lure of friendship that this man seemed to radiate.
"Never are. But that's ok. I can talk enough for both of us." Buck grinned. Chris felt the urge to smile back. And that made him angry.
"What's the matter, Buck? You hard of hearing? I don't want to talk. Especially not with you." Chris got abruptly to his feet and stormed away, leaving Buck still sitting at the table, smile slowly fading from his genial countenance.
Chris stepped outside, so intent on avoiding Buck that he almost missed the click of a hammer being drawn back. He ducked and rolled instinctively, just a bare second before the gun was fired. A few people came drifting out at the sound, hoping for a good show. But no one was going to get involved. And certainly not for *him*. He was on his own. Crouching behind a barrel, Chris drew his gun and peered out, wondering who the hell could be shooting at him. He could make out a dim figure in the moonlight. But it didn't look like anyone he knew. He returned the man's fire, thinking vaguely how absurd it was to be shooting at a man that he didn't know for no reason that he was aware of. The man went down screaming a few moments later, from a bullet in the leg, and Chris stood up. He was about to go over there and demand to know what the hell was going on, when he felt a cold steel barrel press into his back.
"Hello Larabee." Chris knew that voice. Andrews. One of his old "friends". One that he'd beat half to death because Chris had found Andrews pouring kerosene all over a stray dog and then watched horrified as the man had tossed a lit match in the dog's direction.
Chris had left Andrews lying in that alley, not caring if his "friend" lived or died. Because Chris could still hear the echo of the dog's agonized cries and Andrew's delighted laughter. Sick bastard.
"Andrews." Chris' voice was cold and deadly.
"I've waited for this day. You don't know how much I look forward to shooting you down. Like a dog. In the back." Andrews was so close,
Chris could feel the spray of spittle as the man spoke. The gunslinger tensed, debating his options, when he heard a familiar voice.
"Oh, I think you'll have to wait a bit longer there, pard. If anyone's gonna shoot this surly bastard, it's gonna be me." Buck grinned briefly at Chris then transferred his gaze back to the man who was threatening to shoot him.
"No. I'll send him to hell even if I have to escort him there personally." Andrews snarled the words, finger tightening on the trigger. But, fast as he was, Buck was faster. And, with a surprised grunting sound, Andrews slumped to the ground behind Chris. Dead.
"Good thing I came along, huh pard?" Buck was smiling.
"Good thing you did." This time Chris smiled back. Finally letting himself take a bit of the proffered friendship. Finally offering a bit of his own in return. Having someone like Buck watch his back might not be such a bad thing. Even if he did talk too much.
"Buck?" the gunslinger broke the silence one final time.
"Yeah?"
"Nothing." Chris couldn't find the words. Never could when he needed them.
"Uh huh. Me too, pard. Me too." Buck knew what he meant, anyway.
The End