All Or Nothing

Fourth of July Celebration read the banner strung across the main street of the town. It was stretched between two flimsy-looking poles set about thirty feet apart and was plenty high enough for a stagecoach or freight wagon to pass under it. Its flimsiness didn't matter. It was meant to last but a short time and to convey a sense of welcome, excitement, and fun. It couldn't be missed and wasn't by the three men riding in.

They were a bedraggled group, dust-covered, unshaven, and drooping in their saddles. One of them, despite the sling on his right arm, was handcuffed, his horse being led. The other two seemed a mismatched pair. One was elegantly clad in a crimson jacket, the ruffles of a white shirt showing beneath. He had a pleasant, slightly devilish smile on his face, as he looked at the sign and then lowered his gaze to the activities of the citizenry beyond it. The third man was dressed in black, unrelieved by any other color, until he removed his hat to draw his arm across his brow and revealed sandy blond hair, striking in contrast to his mournful attire. He wore no smile as he surveyed his surroundings with a serious searching stare. Then he nodded to his crimson-clad companion, tightened his hold on the reins of the prisoner's horse, and led the way into town.

+ + + + + + +

The saloon was hopping. Working girls made their way about, teasing and tempting their customers. In the spirit of the occasion, they all wore red, white, and blue ribbons in their hair. Some had even trimmed their dresses with those patriotic colors. A few hovered around the two poker tables or the roulette wheel, hoping to reel in a lucky winner should the opportunity present itself.

The piano player, forgotten in the corner, was playing O, Susannah!, the strains of his music drowned by the cacophony of sound that permeated the main room of the establishment.

There was another room, however, a small one sometimes used for private poker games or meetings, that afforded a haven from the throng without. That room was now occupied by five men, sitting at a round table deep in conversation and oblivious to the racket that could not be kept completely at bay by the closed door. They were concentrating gravely on the matter at hand.

"I don't think you should enter, Lyle," said Hiram Prendergast, a slight man sporting spectacles and a dark suit coat. The look of him said, stereotypically, "banker," which was appropriate, as that was his profession. He continued, "I mean, if you were to win, it might look bad, like a put-up job." Prendergast was clearly distraught.

"Nonsense," replied Lyle Ward, a man about sixty with steel gray hair, steel gray eyes, and steel in his voice. His casual dress belied his elevated position on the town council as well as his steel temperament. He was a hard man who'd been through hard times, and it was generally thought prudent not to incur the wrath of his unforgiving nature.

"There's no skullduggery going on here. That rifle should go to the best shot, and if I'm that man, I'm entitled to the prize!" He paused and fixed Prendergast with a suspicious stare. "You're not suggestin' I'd cheat, are you, Hiram?"

The banker cringed and visibly shrank two inches in his chair. "C-certainly not, Lyle!" he stammered. "I-well, I was just thinking about appearances, that's all." He shifted nervously and focused his eyes on a knothole in the wall just beyond Ward's head. "If-if all of you think it's all right, then, naturally, I have no objections, either." He swallowed, dared a quick glance at Ward's face, and breathed easier at its pacified appearance.

"Do the rest of you have any objections?" Ward asked, scanning the group.

"No, no!"

"No."

"Certainly not."

They all fell into line, with Chester, owner of the general store who had acquired the Spencer repeating rifle for the contest, adding most reasonably, "What kind of a contest would it be if the best marksmen were kept out?"

So, the final problem of the sharpshooting contest was resolved and the way cleared for Lyle Ward, one of the best shots around, to vie for the prize rifle.

+ + + + + + +

The sheriff's office was small and typically sparse of furniture, with only one barred cell, presently occupied by Razor Rankin. The notorious outlaw was stoutly built and had a pock-marked face, droopy lids over hard eyes, and a mustachioed mouth, which seemed set in a perpetual sneer. He was a killer, a bank robber, and now the Flatrock jail's newest resident, thanks to his escort to town by the two men presently talking to Sheriff Wilson.

"There ya go, Mr. Larabee," said Wilson, as he signed a paper and handed it to the man in black. "Did he give you a lot of trouble?

Larabee took the proffered document and cast a look in the direction of the jail cell and the man who glared back at him from within it. "Some," he replied. "You'd best keep a close eye on him."

The sheriff nodded. "I intend to. I'm glad he won't be here long, but I'm plannin' to put on a couple extra deputies while he is."

"That's a good idea." Larabee folded the paper and tucked it into the pocket of his duster. "Lots goin' on in town, I see."

The sheriff's mood perked up at the comment. "Yes, sir! Big Fourth of July shindig. Cake bakin' and eatin' contests goin' on right now. But today, we're mostly gettin' ready for tomorrow's doin's. Picnic, dance, and such. Say, you two...." He looked over at Larabee's well-dressed companion, one Ezra Standish, who was half-sitting on the sheriff's desk, laconically swinging his leg. Wilson began again, this time directing his words to Larabee. "Well, you planning to enter the big shootin' contest?"

"Contest?"

"Sure. You look like you know how to use that." He nodded at the stranger's sidearm.

Larabee stiffened a bit and turned to look out the jailhouse window. "When I have to," he said quietly.

"And, generally speakin'," volunteered Standish, "one would be wise not to provoke Mr. Larabee to 'have to'."

"I see," said Wilson with a knowing glance toward Larabee. "Anyways, the contest's not with handguns. It's rifle shootin', and the best shooter wins a spankin' new Spencer repeatin' rifle. Chester, over at the general store, sent all the way to Tucson for it, just for this occasion. Lots of fellas will be comin' in to try for it. Maybe you'd be interested?"

Larabee turned to the sheriff and after a moment said, "Well, I'm no sharpshooter."

"Your rifle's got that recalcitrant hammer, Chris. Perhaps you should consider participating," Standish suggested.

Chris turned again to the window. "I'll think on it," he said. "Sheriff, do you suppose there'd be any hotel rooms left in town?"

Wilson joined him at the window and looked up and down the street in thought. "I expect the hotel's filled, but they got a couple rooms over the saloon. Kinda seedy, so they might still be available-respectable folk aren't usually keen on stayin' there."

Chris cocked his head in Wilson's direction and gave him a small, sardonic smile. "Is that so?"

The sheriff realized his blunder and hastened to correct it: "Not that you and your friend aren't respectable; didn't mean that."

Chris eyed him in silence and then started for the door. Ezra slid off the desk to follow him.

"Will you be stayin' long, Mr. Larabee?" asked Wilson.

"Not sure."

"Well, if you need anything, let me know."

"Much obliged, Sheriff." Larabee touched the brim of his hat in salute and left.

"Good day to you, Sheriff," said Standish affably, carefully closing the door as he followed Larabee out.

As the two men crossed the street toward the saloon, Wilson watched them. He might have been a countrified lawman, but he was a good one. He had a knack for judging people, and he'd already sized these two up: a gunslinger and a gambler. Not reputable types. He'd best keep an eye on them.

+ + + + + + +

The raucous atmosphere of the Monroe Emporium had subsided not at all when Ezra Standish took a spot at the corner poker table and entered into a game of 5-card stud. It was an informal game with no house dealer; the saloon was nowhere near sophisticated enough for that. Monroe Emporium was a lofty name for what Ezra, from his considerable experience, determined was a lowly establishment.

He and Chris had been able to secure the one remaining room available on the upper floor. The only advantage of the flea-ridden place in Ezra's estimation was its proximity to the saloon below and its games of chance. Otherwise, the room had no amenities. The windows were unencumbered by curtains or coverings of any kind; a rickety table held a pitcher of water and a cracked bowl; the one chair had a broken leg, which had given way when Ezra sat on it-a mishap which drew a raised eyebrow but no comment from Chris; and the double bed had no springs, a lumpy mattress, and bedding of questionable cleanliness.

If that weren't enough, his sullen roommate made the prospects of the stay here even less inviting. Though Ezra had attempted to engage Chris in companionable conversation, he'd been unsuccessful. Even displaying the sartorial splendors of his new dress shirt, purchased that afternoon from a lovely local seamstress, failed to win a reaction from the somberly clad Mr. Larabee.

Had it been possible, Ezra would have chosen single accommodations and his own company. Of course, in many ways, being with Chris was like being alone; Ezra was essentially isolated by the other man's remoteness, and the gambler had to admit that was hard. Though Ezra had been on his own for a long time, depending on himself and no one else, his connection with his six comrades was growing important to him. Josiah had said that man was not meant to be alone, and Ezra was starting to believe that. It was comforting to have associates. "Friends" was a word he still found difficult to use, but Ezra was beginning to consider it an applicable term for the others-at least for five of them. Chris was another matter, and that realization troubled Ezra to an extent that surprised him.

He liked Chris, even admired him for his courage and decency. He knew Chris was haunted by demons, and wished he could help. However, Chris kept him at a distance, withholding his trust ever since Ezra had deserted him and the others at the Seminole village.

Ezra regretted that and continued trying to redeem himself. The others seemed to have accepted his efforts, but not Chris. And Ezra didn't blame him. Hell, there were even times when Ezra himself wondered what he'd do if his loyalty were truly put to the test. How could he expect Chris to trust him, when he didn't really trust himself?

That Ezra was here now was only by default; Chris had accepted Ezra's assistance out of necessity. The shoot-out with Razor Rankin and his gang had left both JD and Buck with bullet wounds requiring Nathan's attention, and Chris had decided Vin and Josiah should stay in Four Corners to watch over things in his absence. They being more reliable than I, Ezra thought ruefully to himself.

So, he'd volunteered to come along and help deliver Rankin to the local authorities to await arrival of the prison wagon from Yuma. Ezra had hoped the occasion might offer him an opportunity to prove himself, to break down some of the barriers between him and Chris. But that hadn't happened; the strain of the trip had made it impossible. Rankin's hatred of Chris was almost tangible, for it was Chris who'd shot him and crippled his gun arm. The killer had missed no chance to sling vitriolic jibes and almost endless threats at his captor, until Chris promised to gag him if he didn't stop. Rankin's mouth had stopped, but not the venomous glares he cast at Chris. Those looks caused Ezra trepidation, and he was relieved they weren't thrown his way. But the gunfighter had ignored the hostility. He was stern and controlled in his treatment of Rankin, but his apparent indifference to the outlaw's attitude clearly infuriated the man. And so the journey had passed, the tension leaving little chance for the rapprochement with Chris that Ezra had desired.

However, the gambler still hoped to turn the trip to his advantage, monetarily at least. Pickings appeared to be promising in this jovial atmosphere, where men of good will might be inclined to imbibe too much and risk even more; and Ezra was more than willing to oblige them. He settled in for a pleasant and profitable evening.

The piano player was no longer alone in his corner. He was now thumping out The Battle Cry of Freedom, surrounded by a would-be chorus of bad singers, heartily caterwauling to the tune. It was a Northern song, and its "down with the traitor, up with the stars" lyrics not much favored by some present. When those with Southern sympathies launched into a raucous rendering of Dixie, disaster became inevitable.

Ezra was concentrating on business. Holding three nines, he was wondering if his one remaining opponent, the one-eyed man across from him, would buy his bluff that it was a better hand. Absently humming along to the Dixie strains, Ezra was flabbergasted to be struck in the eye with what turned out to be a red, white, and blue garter. He looked up just in time to see one-eye keel over, felled by a flying whiskey bottle, and drop his hand, revealing a mere two pairs.

"Ah believe the game is mine, gentlemen," he said pleasantly, gathering in the wagers on the table. His voice was barely audible against the background din, but the man to his right took exception to its southern lilt.

"Leave that for your betters, Johnny Reb! Spoils of war-for the victors!"

The smile faded from Ezra's handsome face. "Sir, the war's over. We're once again brothers." The smile slowly returned, and he resumed the collection of his winnings.

"Sounds to me like there are a few battles still being fought," said his antagonist, launching himself at Ezra, who, despite his best intentions, responded by wholeheartedly throwing himself into the fray.

+ + + + + + +

"Why's he locked up in there?" Chris demanded of the sheriff, as he walked through the jailhouse door early the next morning.

On awakening, the tall gunfighter had found himself alone with no evidence that Ezra had ever returned for the night. Chris had dressed and headed downstairs to find the saloon a shambles. Amazed he'd slept through the ruckus that must have occurred there, he'd made inquiries about Ezra's whereabouts. The answer had brought him here without delay, where he now stood confronting the town's lawman with a piercing stare.

Wilson hadn't missed the edge in the gunslinger's voice, and he didn't like it. "He was disturbin' the peace," he replied sternly.

"As I understand it, he wasn't alone. It was a barroom brawl. Where's everyone else?"

"He was the only stranger involved."

"He's no stranger. He helped bring that scum in, and you locked him up with him all night?" Chris barely raised his voice, but its intensity was unmistakable.

"It's a small jail, and he broke the law. Besides, nothin' happened."

"Let him out!"

"Fine's twenty dollars. You gonna pay it?"

Chris searched his pocket, then tossed a twenty-dollar gold piece on the desk.

"Sorry, Larabee, but the law's the law." The sheriff stood up slowly, unhooked the keys from a peg on the wall behind him, and moved to unlock the cell door.

Freed at last, Ezra made a hasty exit and retrieved his property from the sheriff. "Thank you for your hospitality, Sheriff. The accommodations may well surpass those over the saloon, but the company lacks refinement."

He joined Chris, who was grimly waiting with his hand on the door latch, and together they left, Ezra tripping on the threshold in his eagerness to be gone.

Ezra was buckling on his gunbelt as he followed Chris across the street toward the saloon. "Thank you for extricating me from my predicament. That was a substantial sum."

Chris looked at him. "I'm sure it will be repaid," he said, with a smile that said it had better be.

"With alacrity, sir. Actually, I had won a sizable amount last night, just as the conflict erupted. However, my funds were subsequently confiscated as payment of what our minion of the law determined to be my just debt for the damage to the saloon."

Chris smiled. "You okay?" he asked.

Ezra noticed the concern in his voice and was grateful for it. "Yes, though I got no sleep whatsoever. I sat up all night listening to Rankin rail against you. I think the man's unbalanced. I've never heard such invective before. He's not fit to be in the company of normal human beings."

"Well, he won't be any more."

"Chris, he kept threatening. Promising that his brother would bust him out, and then the whole gang would come after you."

"I expect he'd like nothin' better, but the sheriff knows the situation and will be ready if Rankin's gang shows up."

"I do hope you're right."

Chris nodded and changed the subject. "Had anything to eat?"

"No. Not that I could have eaten anything had a repast been provided. Spending all night in a cell with Razor Rankin is not conducive to whetting one's appetite."

"C'mon then." Chris led the way to the saloon and breakfast.

+ + + + + + +

It was ten a.m., and Lyle Ward grinned at the sky in satisfaction. The weather was cooperating, despite some earlier suggestion of rain, and the contest would be held on time as planned. So far, twenty competitors had paid their entrance fee. There was still time for others to join in, and the more the merrier. Ward had every expectation of winning that prize Spencer himself, but he liked a good challenge; it made life more interesting. On the other hand, he didn't accept defeat easily or graciously. He didn't like it and wasn't used to it, and generally wouldn't stand for it. But there was no sense in worrying about the impossible, so Ward didn't.

Jonas Clement was approaching at a brisk pace. He was no doubt the second-best shot around and the only one with a chance to beat Ward. Lyle set a somewhat hypocritical smile on his face and stepped up to greet Clement.

+ + + + + + +

Chris sat in the Monroe Emporium sipping coffee, watching a fella sweep up after last night's brouhaha, and thinking about leaving. He'd considered staying till Rankin was picked up, but Wilson had said he was putting on extra deputies, and Chris wanted to get back to Four Corners. He was worried about Buck and JD, and the town had been pretty shaken by Rankin's raid. He belonged there, not here. Belonged. He hadn't thought he'd belong anywhere ever again. He liked the feeling. So, he'd decided to go back without delay. Earlier, he'd tried to send a telegram to let Vin know they'd made it here okay and were about to head home. However, the telegraph office was closed for the holiday, so he'd either have to wait or, if they wanted to leave now, give up on the idea. However, it was already late to get started, Ezra's arrest having held them up. As he took another swig of coffee, he noted the gambler coming in through the front door.

Ezra smiled; Chris didn't.

"They're getting ready for the contest out there. You planning to enter?" Ezra asked.

At the question, Chris turned his attention toward the saloon's still swinging doors, as though he could see through them to the activity beyond. "I'd forgotten about that."

"I'd recommend you give it a shot...er...no pun intended."

"You would."

"The competitors do appear vulnerable to defeat, lacking both experience and mental toughness."

Chris turned back to Ezra, commenting dryly, "Be a shame to take advantage of such a sorry lot."

Ezra thought he caught a humorous glint in his companion's eye. "Well, as they say, 'All's fair....' But in truth, a couple of them do look like they know one end of a rifle from the other."

Chris gave a small shake of his head. "I don't know. Vin's the marksman. Too bad he's not here."

"But Vin's rifle works, and yours is in sad need of repair or replacement. Not to mention, you derive a certain satisfaction from tests of skill."

Raising his coffee cup, Chris paused a moment before taking a final swallow. Then, he set the cup down, pushed back his chair, and stood up. "Well, c'mon then. It's too late to leave anyway, and I might as well 'derive a certain satisfaction' from testing my skill."

Ezra, wearing a surprised smile on his face, joined the soon-to-be contestant as he left the saloon, hoping that the wheel of fortune would turn their way.

+ + + + + + +

The town of Four Corners was quiet. Vin Tanner sat alone outside the sheriff's office pondering the why of it.

He was a good looking young man, quiet, confident and at peace with himself. However, he also gave the impression that there was more to him than met the eye, still water running deep. Vin had been in town only a short time and figured he'd be moving on eventually, but right now, Four Corners was home, and it was hurting pretty badly.

There had never been any extensive plans for Independence Day festivities, but now even the simple town picnic scheduled for later in the day had lost its appeal for most of the residents. Razor Rankin had left his mark, along with his two dead comrades and one dead citizen.

Ironically, the dead citizen, bank teller Mark Frame, had been planning to leave town the next week and move along with his wife and daughter to San Francisco, where he'd inherited a parcel of land. He'd been excited to find a safe haven from the dangers of Four Corners. Killed in the aborted hold-up attempt, he'd never see his land now. Vin wondered if he'd found a haven of a different sort. Josiah thought so, and Vin hoped he was right.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, got up from it, and walked to the edge of the boardwalk where he leaned against the wooden support post. Looking down the sun-splattered street, he spotted Mary Travis coming his way. He watched the young widow admiringly. With her lovely face and figure and her golden hair, she was a most striking woman. However, when she glided to a halt before him, Vin was quickly reminded of the way of things.

"Good day, Mr. Tanner. Have you heard from Mr. Larabee yet?" she inquired, her business-like tone belied by the concern in her pretty blue eyes.

Vin gazed down the street in the direction Chris, Ezra and Rankin had ridden off. "No. Nothin' yet, ma'am, but no need to worry."

"Do you think they've reached Flatrock by now?"

Vin turned to her with a reassuring smile. "Yes, ma'am, if all went well."

"There's no reason to assume otherwise, is there?" Now the concern was in her voice, too.

"He's all right, Mrs. Travis, and so is Ezra."

Mary pulled herself up, assuming an air of objectivity. "Naturally I was concerned for both of them. Roosevelt Rankin is a dangerous man, and those members of his gang who escaped might try to free him."

"Yes, ma'am, but Chris and Ezra will be on the lookout. It'll likely take them fellows awhile to lick their wounds anyway."

For a moment there was silence. Then Vin asked, "How are Mrs. Frame and Juliana doin'?"

Mary was grateful for the change of subject to one that allowed her to reveal her feelings honestly. "I'm worried about them. Sophie is deeply shocked and incapable of thinking straight, yet she's determined to follow through with their moving plans now that the funeral's over. She isn't facing Mark's death; she's acting as though nothing's happened."

"That's understandable; it's gonna take her awhile."

"Yes, but she has a six-year-old daughter who doesn't understand why her daddy doesn't come home. I've been through this, Mr. Tanner, and I know how desperately a child needs comfort, understanding, love and attention at a time like this. Right now, Sophie isn't providing Juliana with that kind of support."

Vin nodded. "I know, ma'am."

His tone spoke of personal experience, and Mary didn't miss it. "Well, I'm going to talk to Mr. Sanchez. Perhaps he can help."

"If anyone can, Josiah can. He's comin' now." Vin inclined his head toward the walk behind her, and she turned.

Josiah Sanchez had taken on the mantle of spiritual leader in Four Corners since his arrival. Though he struggled with formalized religion, he was a deeply spiritual man whose insights into the human soul had guided and comforted many. "Good morning to you both."

"Good morning, Mr. Sanchez."

"Josiah."

"Anything yet from Chris or Ezra?"

"Nope. I plan to check the telegraph office later this mornin'. Have you seen Buck and JD yet today?"

"Not yet, but I did see Nathan. He's says the two of 'em are startin' to get on his nerves with all their bickering."

Vin smiled. "Sounds like they're on the mend."

"Yeah, but I get the feeling it's not going to be fast enough for Nathan. Now, Mrs. Travis, you wanted to talk to me about Mrs. Frame and her daughter?"

"Yes, very much. I'm worried about them."

"Have you had breakfast yet, ma'am?"

"No, I haven't."

"Neither have I. Won't you join me? We can discuss your concerns while we eat." Josiah offered Mary his arm, and she took it in acceptance.

Patting her hand supportively, the tall preacher turned back to Vin. "Be sure to let me know when word comes from Chris and Ezra."

"Will do," Vin nodded, and Josiah led the young widow off in the direction of the hotel.

Vin watched as they made their way down the street and then noticed Ed Rice going into the telegraph office. Vin headed off to join him. Now was as good a time as any to check for a message from Chris.

+ + + + + + +

It was noon, and Flatrock's Fourth of July celebration was in full swing. At the moment, most revelers were focusing their attention on Main Street, where the sharp-shooting contest would soon take place.

The prize rifle was a Spencer U.S Army Model 1865 .56-50 caliber military carbine repeating rifle with magazine cut-off that permitted chambering of a single cartridge. It was displayed on a table in the middle of the street, guarded by Deputy Brig Austin. Sheriff Wilson was taking no chance that it might disappear and thereby mar the festivities, which thus far had been going so well.

The number of competitors had grown to twenty-four, and each of them was allowed to step forward to examine the weapon under the watchful eye of Deputy Austin. Chris took his turn sighting down its barrel and carefully checking its weight and balance. He decided it was a good piece and handed it to the next man in line. Picking up his own rifle, he moved away and caught a glimpse of Ezra off to the side. The gambler, surrounded by several men, held a notebook in his hand and was busily writing in it. Chris shook his head, the hint of a smile on his face. Ezra was taking bets. Chris wondered what odds Ezra was giving him.

He had little time to ponder the question, however, as a loud call interrupted his thoughts. "Attention! May I have your attention, everyone, please!"

At the startling sound of a gunshot, the crowd complied, turning en masse to look toward the noise and see Sheriff Wilson holstering his six-shooter now that some semblance of quiet had been achieved.

A short, stout man, a halo of white hair on his balding head and a wide grin on his face, stepped forward. Chris recognized him as Mordecai Chester, the founder of the feast, or at least the provider of the rifle that was the center of attention.

"Welcome, welcome, my friends," he began jovially, "and all of our visitors, too! We are delighted to have y'all at our Fourth of July celebration." He droned on, announcing other goings on, thanking each town council member by name, and finally coming to the present activity, how he'd been inspired to initiate it, and how he'd gone about acquiring the prize Spencer. At last he got to the contest and its rules, and the crowd and contestants stopped fidgeting and started listening.

"The contest will include three rounds of three shots each with judges determining the accuracy of each competitor. At the end of the third round, the best shooter remaining will be declared the winner. If there's a tie, the targets will be moved back twenty-five yards, and a shoot-off will be held. Are there any questions?" Chester paused in case there were. "All right then, we have six targets, so we'll shoot in four groups of six. We'll go in the order that the contestants signed up. First, Sam Michael; second, Hal Baxter...."

Having been among the last to enter, Chris would be in the last group to shoot; as he listened to the names being called, he allowed his eyes to roam through the crowd. Excitement abounded among the many spectators, men and women, young and old. A young boy about five or six years old attracted his notice. The child seemed unaware of the event at hand, his attention on the small dog he was chasing. He was laughing. Then it happened. As the boy ran toward the target area, he was pursued and caught by a young brunette woman, who happily snatched him up and swung him around in Chris's direction to carry him away. She saw Chris watching and smiled at him...and he froze. Her smile faded at his lack of response, but the boy was telling her something, and as she answered him, she turned away and walked off. Chris watched them go, but what he saw was not two strangers but rather another young dark-haired woman with her son-his son. He paled. Even after three years, the wound caused by their deaths was open, raw.

"Chris, you'd better go."

Chris was startled. "What?"

It was Ezra, looking concerned. "They just called your name."

Chris stared at him, perplexed.

"Are you all right?"

Reality returned. "I'm fine."

"Chris Larabee," Chester called a second time, and Chris, rifle in hand, made his way through the crowd to the firing line.

The targets were hung on bales of hay set on wagons stretched across the street about fifty yards from where the competitors stood. Chris was the last of this group of six men to take his place. When the judge gave the signal, the roar of gunfire began, each man taking his three shots. Quickly the round was over, and the judges ran to the targets to score the results. Only two men from that group put all three shots in the center-Chris and Jonas Clement. They'd go on to the next round. The others were eliminated.

After the second round, only three shooters were left-Chris, Jonas Clement, and Lyle Ward. Because so few remained, it was decided that in the third round they'd shoot one at a time. Ward went first, and the competition's head judge ran over to check his results: "Three bull's-eyes for Lyle," he called out.

Clement followed. "Two bull's-eyes and one in the first. Sorry, Jonas." Clement shook his head dejectedly and walked off. As he left, Ward patted him on the shoulder with a "too bad, Jonas" that to Chris's ear sounded lacking in sincerity.

It was Chris's turn. He chambered a bullet into his Winchester and stepped to the line. Taking careful aim, he fired three shots in deliberate succession, then waited to hear the outcome.

"Three bull's-eyes for Chris Larabee. We have a tie!"

Mordecai Chester sprang forward excitedly. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is wonderful, astonishing! Two excellent marksmen have tied, and to break that deadlock, we will now move the targets twenty-five yards farther away and have them shoot again." He moved off to oversee the effort.

"Well, Larabee, just the two of us now," said Ward.

"Yep. You're a good shot."

"No better than you, at least not yet, but I do intend to win that rifle."

Chris stared off down the street. "Well, we'll know in a bit. Looks like the targets are set."

"Okay. We're ready," announced Chester, bouncing back toward the two remaining opponents. "We'll toss a coin to see who shoots first." Chester called to a youngster in the crowd; Chris recognized him as the boy he'd noticed earlier, and his hands clenched on his rifle. Chester was speaking again. "Johnny here will toss the coin. Mr. Larabee, as a visitor, you call for heads or tails while it's in the air." Chris nodded, his eyes fixed on the boy. "Okay, Johnny, throw it up then."

Johnny tossed the coin, Chris swallowed, called heads, and won. He chose to shoot second, and Ward stepped to the firing line. He took three more shots. Then, slowly lowering his rifle, he stared intently at the target, as the judge approached it.

"Two bull's-eyes; one in the first," came the call, a tone of disappointment evident in the judge's voice.

Chris waited, reading Ward's face and the anger that flared there momentarily. Then Ward turned to Chris with an insincere smile.

"Your turn, Larabee. Take your best shots," he said.

Chris stepped to the line. Off to the side, he saw Johnny laughing and pointing at the target, while the young raven-haired woman listened with rapt attention. Chris wrenched his gaze from them and focused on the target. He pulled himself together and took aim. His first shot was dead center. Chris took a deep breath. He looked neither right nor left, only straight ahead. Then he put his second shot in the middle, right next to the first. He was calm now, numb as he'd taught himself to be. He took aim for his third shot and fired. But the feel of his rifle wasn't right, and he knew this bullet hadn't flown true. Unconsciously, he cradled his rebellious rifle in his arms as he waited.

The judge approached the target and, taking his time, examined it carefully. He began to turn to the crowd, then stopped and called Chester over. Together, the two of them studied Chris's target closely.

"C'mon, you two!" shouted Ward impatiently. "What's takin' you so blamed long?"

Chester walked away as the judge looked at Ward with an apologetic expression and announced, "Three bull's-eyes again for our visitor. Chris Larabee is our winner!"

Chris looked down in disbelief at his finicky firearm, then smiled to himself. There was a short presentation ceremony, after which he was accosted by well-wishers offering their congratulations. Eventually, Lyle Ward came up. Usually, the loser would have been the first to congratulate the victor, but Ward had broken that tradition to examine the targets personally.

"Lucky shot, Larabee. Some might say not a winning one. Congratulations."

Ward didn't offer his hand. Chris noticed.

"Some might say you're a poor loser, Mr. Ward." He smiled. "'Course, I wouldn't." He put his hand out, and reluctantly, Ward took it, stalking off immediately thereafter.

"Well, an unhappy man, I see," said Ezra, who'd appeared from somewhere in the crowd.

Chris nodded. "Seems so." He turned to Ezra. "You don't look too happy yourself."

Ezra shifted uneasily. Blast the man; those piercing green eyes were way too astute. He dissembled. "I am, naturally pleased at your victory." Then, smiling broadly, Ezra reached for Chris's hand and shook it vigorously. "Congratulations!"

"Thank you."

"May I?" asked Ezra, indicating the Spencer.

Chris handed it to him.

"That is a beautiful weapon!" Ezra opined enthusiastically.

Chris, looking over the waning crowd, asked, "How much did you win?"

Ezra halted his inspection of the rifle and threw Chris a startled glance before quickly looking away. "Win?"

"Looked like you were takin' bets earlier." Chris regarded the gambler narrowly, growing suspicion reflected in his eyes.

"Well, yes, I was." Ezra's gaze was darting nervously from left to right, conspicuously refusing to light even for a moment on Chris. At last, it settled on the saloon. "Let me stand you to a celebratory libation," he offered, starting off toward the Monroe Emporium.

Chris favored him with his slow smile. "Sounds good. With your winnings, you can buy drinks for the house."

Ezra slowed his pace. "Well, er.... The fact is my funds are insufficient to support such generosity."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I...a...." Ezra gave up. He stopped and faced Chris squarely. "The truth is I lost!"

"You lost? But I won!" Larabee was being no help at all.

"I know, and I wish I'd wagered on you...."

"You mean you bet on someone else?" A twinkle appeared in Chris's eyes.

"Well, yes-Ward. You see, with your rifle being unreliable, I thought the odds were against you."

Ezra looked like a recalcitrant child caught in the act, and Chris couldn't hold out any longer. He laughed, a real laugh, an open and hearty laugh, his green eyes sparkling with glee at Ezra's predicament.

Ezra, taken aback by the turn of events, closed his gaping mouth and began to chuckle himself. Chris's laughter was infectious, and Ezra took pleasure in having brought it about.

"Well, c'mon then," Chris said, getting hold of himself. "I'll buy you a drink."

He sauntered off, still grinning broadly, and Ezra, shaking his head in happy relief over Chris's reaction, hastened to follow.

+ + + + + + +

When Chris walked into the saloon early the next morning, it was already warm, the bright sun casting long shadows across the just-waking town. Chris had just wired Vin he was on his way, and he wanted to leave without further delay. He spotted Ezra at the bar, drink in hand, and joined him.

"It's a little early for that, isn't it?" he asked.

"Not early enough," groaned the gambler. "The bartender assures me that this concoction will ease my present discomfort with alacrity."

"Hangover?"

"I fear we celebrated overzealously last night." Ezra downed another swallow of his elixir and cast Chris an accusatory look. "How do you do it? You drank as much as I did."

Chris leaned his back to the bar and ignored the comment. Sometimes he thought he had too high a tolerance for liquor. No matter how much he drank, it was never enough to make him forget. He nodded toward the door. "You comin' with me?"

Ezra didn't pursue his own question but, instead, answered Chris's. "No. My head's not up to it. Plus, I remain short of funds, thanks to my misplaced trust in your faulty firearm. However, there's still a holiday spirit in town, and I imagine some willing wagerers."

"I suspect you're right there. All right, I'll see you in Four Corners in a couple of days then."

"Most assuredly, Mr. Larabee, and, if Lady Luck smiles on me, I will recoup my losses and be able to pay my debt to you at that time."

Chris nodded and took his leave.

+ + + + + + +

Only eleven a.m., and it was already hotter than Hades. Ezra was even considering removing his jacket. Generally, he preferred to maintain his "business" attire. However, under the oppressive conditions, he thought it might be more prudent to bow to common sense than to collapse in a heap on the less than tidy floor of the Monroe Emporium.

"I've got ya this time, Standish?" boasted his unkempt opponent from the opposite side of the poker table. "I'll see you and raise...." He paused to dig through his pockets. His hands came up empty.

"It would seem, Mr. Cobb, you are short of funds and the game therefore mine," said Ezra.

"Wait! Joe, stake me, will ya?" Cobb implored the only other man at the table.

"You haven't paid up for last time, Phineas! I ain't gonna be a fool again!"

"But I can beat him, Joe! I got a great hand, and he's been winnin' for three straight hours now. His luck's bound to run out soon!"

"If it is luck."

At that, Ezra eyed Joe with a glint of anger, quickly gone, and let the comment pass without further visible reaction. Moreover, he was distracted from the exchange when his notice was caught by an increase of activity outside. Several riders, dust-covered and rough-hewn, were making their way down the street, and he fleetingly wondered who they were and what they were up to. But it was no concern of his, and besides, Cobb was insistently re-claiming his attention.

"Well, wadda ya say, Standish?"

"About what, Mr. Cobb?"

"About my mine! Ain't you been listenin'?"

"Do I understand you own a mine you wish to wager?"

"Wadda ya think I been talkin' about here? Yeah! I own a mine. Gold!" He tapped his finger solidly on a paper lying on the table in front of him. "It's worth a bundle, and I got so good a hand, I'm willin' to risk it!"

"Listen, Cobb, if that there mine's worth so much, why ain't you paid what you owe me yet?" demanded Joe.

"When I win this hand, I'll pay you twice what I owe ya!"

Ezra was looking over the deed. A gold mine. He hesitated, remembering a different gold mine and a betrayal. Then he set aside the thought. That was in the past. This was now, and it just might make him rich....

"Well, Standish, wadda ya say? Are we gonna play this out or not?"

Ezra smiled. "Oh, I believe this is indeed a promising hand to play out, Mr. Cobb, shall we say a golden opportunity not to be squandered? Now, what dollar value do you ascribe to your mine, sir...?"

+ + + + + + +

It was mid-afternoon, and Chris was on foot, his horse, having come up with a stone bruise, limping along beside him. "We'll take it easy, fella, let you rest up tonight and see how that foot looks tomorrow," Chris assured him. Smiling a bit, he wondered momentarily if his comrades would be surprised that he talked to his mount. But, he reasoned, lonely men had to talk to someone.

He hadn't always been lonely, though. There'd been a time, all too short, when his life had been full of love and happiness. "Home, family-things worth fighting for," he'd said, and it was true. But when those things were gone, what then? Sarah and Adam, their coming child.... It was painful to remember and to wonder what might have been. Their images were always with him, held in his heart. He felt the tears on his face, tears he hid in the company of others. Here, with only his horse as witness, he could let them fall without shame....

His horse shied. A spray of dust flew up at his feet just as he heard the shot that caused it. In the moment it took him to realize what was happening, another shot hit nearby. No further thought was required; the instinct for survival took over, as Chris grabbed the saddle horn, set his horse in motion, and mounted Pony-Express style. As he spurred forward, Chris glanced over his right shoulder to see a half-dozen horsemen in hot pursuit. Facing ahead, he settled into a steady run, concern growing that his horse's leg could not withstand the pace for long.

They sped across arid open country that lay between rocky foothills. Ahead, those foothills closed together forming a narrow passage between them. It was the only way out of this basin. If he could make it there, Chris thought he'd have a chance.

His horse stumbled, regained its balance, and rushed on, but Chris could feel the change in its gait as the game animal noticeably began to favor its injured foot. Unable to keep up its earlier speed, the stouthearted steed shortened its stride and slowed, allowing Chris's pursuers to close ground on him.

Still, the draw was nearer. They just might make it.... As soon as that thought entered Chris's mind, the hope of its realization was gone. His horse went down at the very moment Chris heard the shot that felled it. Chris stayed in the saddle and for several harrowing seconds found his leg trapped by the fallen animal's weight, while the enemy approached and bullets showered around him. At last, by turning on his back and pushing urgently against the seat of the saddle with his loose foot, Chris was able to free himself. He grabbed his rifles, new and old, and amidst the hail of gunfire ran toward a nearby outcropping of rocks, paying no attention to the ache in his left ankle.

The sudden searing pain in his right shoulder he could not ignore, however. The bullet hit like a train and threw him to the ground. He cried out in agony, but gritted his teeth and with determination pushed himself up and stumbled on.

He heard rapid fire behind him as, finally, mercifully, he reached his destination and launched himself behind the protective refuge of the boulders.

Blood pouring from his wound, Chris got to his knees and quickly turned to face his unknown enemy....

+ + + + + + +

The terrain was desolate. Mesquite and sagebrush dotted the golden ground that stretched toward the dim distant range of mountains. Except for the occasional scamper of a lizard or the graceful overhead flight of a hawk or raven, there was no movement to be seen. It was a soundless world, its silence deafening.

Into this forbidding place, disturbing its eerie stillness, came a solitary horseman. He looked neither to the right nor to the left, oblivious of the countryside through which he rode at breakneck speed.

Urging his horse on to even greater effort, Ezra rushed forward with single-minded intent. He had to reach Four Corners with the greatest possible speed. He had committed himself to protecting the town just as the others had, and now when his help was needed, he likely wouldn't get there in time to give it.

And, what if they should catch up with Chris before he reached town? Chris was their real target. His danger was acute, and he didn't even know they were after him! But Chris had a head start, Ezra reasoned, and would likely reach Four Corners well in advance of his pursuers. He grasped at the thought, cursing himself for not accompanying Chris that morning. He wouldn't be all alone now if I had, Ezra chastised himself. But no, as usual he'd been more interested in Dame Fortune and the wealth she might bring than in accompanying a compatriot, particularly one who made him feel so ill at ease and aware of his shortcomings.

For a while, it looked as though his choice had been a fortuitous one. He'd won; at last he'd acquired his long-dreamed-of gold mine, and was rich! At least he was if Cobb hadn't been exaggerating the value of the claim. It had all come so easily, too. Ezra had feared Cobb might take his loss poorly and challenge the outcome of their game, but the man had seemed more in shock than anything else and had signed over the deed without open hostility. At Ezra's request, he'd even drawn a map to the Cobb's Comfort Mine. Ezra had felt almost guilty about his bon chance and had just bought Cobb a glass of a different kind of comfort when all hell broke loose.

Shots rang out, followed by the shouts and cries of people running in every direction. Ezra jumped to his feet, upending his chair in his haste, and hurried to the door of the Emporium. He reached it in time to see six mounted men, their horses picking up speed, gallop by.

Turning in the direction from which they'd ridden, Ezra spotted a flurry of activity around the jail. Putting two and two together, he felt sure he knew what had happened and ran down the street to find out, all the while hoping he was wrong.

He wasn't. His suspicions were confirmed at the sight of Sheriff Wilson lying in the middle of the street in his own blood-dead. Lyle Ward was standing over the fallen lawman in stunned disbelief. "What happened?" Ezra asked him, wanting details.

Ward turned to him in bewilderment, all his former bluster gone. "All I know is that Rankin escaped," he said slowly, his voice barely audible over the surrounding commotion.

"What about the deputies?"

"Deputy? Been shot, I think. Doc's with him in the sheriff's office."

Ezra patted his shoulder in support, gave him a cursory "thanks," and headed for the jail. He could barely get in; way too many people were milling about in the small area doing nothing but gawking and getting in the way. Ezra pushed through them to find Deputy Austin lying face down on the floor, the town physician tending to the bullet hole in his back.

Ezra knelt down beside him. "Deputy Austin, I'm Ezra Standish. Do you remember? I'm one of the men who brought Rankin in."

"Mr. Standish, please! This man's been shot and can't talk now!" interrupted the doctor.

"'S all right, Doc. He's a lawman."

"Can you tell me what happened?" asked Ezra.

"Don't rightly know. I was gettin' some coffee over by the stove when I was shot." He caught his breath and stopped for a moment before going on. "Next thing I know, there's guns goin' off all over and a bunch of men come in, kicked me, and broke Rankin out. I pretended I was dead, which likely kept me livin'!"

"You're probably right about that. Where are the other deputies?"

"There aren't none. Sheriff couldn't find anyone willin' to nursemaid a killer. 'Sides, there was the celebratin'."

Ezra clenched his jaw. "Did you hear anything? Did they say where they were going?"

"Ow, Doc!"

"Brig, ya have ta lie steady! Sheriff Standish, I gotta get this bullet out! Can't this wait?"

"Sorry, Doctor," said Ezra, not bothering to correct the medical man's erroneous understanding of his position. "I'm afraid not. Rankin's a dangerous man, and it's important to find out where he's headed if at all possible."

"Four Corners," gasped the deputy.

"What! How do you know?"

"One of the men said somethin' about headin' straight for the border, but Rankin wouldn't have none of it. 'We're goin' back to Four Corners,' he says. 'I'm gonna get Larabee for what he done ta me or die tryin'!' That's all I remember."

And that had been enough! Ezra had wasted no time. First he headed for the telegraph office to alert Vin; then he ordered the fellow at the livery to saddle his horse; and finally, he rushed to the saloon to pick up his gear. In twenty-five minutes, at a dead run, he took his leave of Flatrock. It wasn't yet noon.

He'd made good time so far, but now he slowed his pace. His horse couldn't keep it up. The game steed was wheezing and gasping for breath, and his body was lathered in sweat. It would do no good for anyone if he dropped dead from exhaustion. So, reluctantly, Ezra resigned himself to progressing at a steady walk, for a while at least, till the animal recovered sufficiently to again increase his level of exertion.

They descended into a dry wash for some distance, the flat bed easier going than the rocky terrain lining it on either side. It was toward the end of this stretch that Ezra thought he heard something and reined in. There, he heard it again. Gunfire! He spurred his horse to a gentle canter and climbed the bank to the right of the wash. The sound was louder now. Gunshots, all right, and lots of them. He quickened to a gallop toward the rise ahead. He halted at its crest just in time to witness the horse shot out from under a rider being pursued by half a dozen gunmen. Ezra was taken aback as he recognized the downed man.

"Chris! My God!"

He drew his rifle and set off at a run toward his besieged comrade. As he closed in, he dropped his reins, steering his well-trained mount by the pressure of his knees, and freeing his hands for the firing of his weapon. He didn't really expect to hit anything at this speed, but he hoped at least to succeed in driving off Chris's assailants.

As he rode, he was horrified to see Chris thrown forward, obviously hard hit. Ezra swore and abandoned all caution or concern for his own safety in his wild dash to save his...friend.

+ + + + + + +

As Chris scrambled to set himself behind one of the boulders providing his cover, he quickly assessed his plight. Six men were closing in on him from the south, and fast. Trying not to think about his weakening shoulder, he tossed his Winchester down. Heaving the Spencer up, he used the boulder to support his arms and steady his aim. He was shaking now from reaction to his wound and noticed a slight dizziness. He couldn't give in to either complaint; to give in would be fatal. Whoever these people were, there was no mistaking their intent to kill him.

He took aim and answered their continuing fire with his own. But their constant and quick motion and his own unsteadiness and deteriorating condition combined to work against him. Again and again, he missed. It was only his hiding place that was keeping him alive, and that would soon be overrun. They were fanning out now as they neared his position, and soon he'd be flanked. Even two men might hold them off-for a while at least-but a man with a bullet hole through him and all alone had little or no hope of protecting himself. And Chris was all alone.

Then, intruding into his consciousness came the sound of rapid gunfire. It was off to his right, coming from the southwest. Looking in that direction, Chris caught sight of a flash of what appeared to be crimson. Was his blurry vision deceiving him, or could it be Ezra? As the oncoming horseman sped toward him, Chris allowed himself a smile. Indeed, it was Ezra. Chris wasn't alone after all.

But he realized, too, that Ezra, in trying to reach him, was exposing himself to enemy bullets, gambling that a swiftly moving target would be an elusive one for men also on horseback. Ezra was wagering his life for Chris, and Chris wasn't about to let him lose the game. Chris turned his attention to covering Ezra. His blurring vision and his dizziness were becoming serious handicaps. Merely to focus on what was happening was a fierce struggle for him, but Chris wouldn't give up. A friend was in need.

As Ezra raced toward Chris's position, three attackers changed direction to concentrate on him. Firing as he came, Ezra hit one of them, but then disaster struck; his horse stumbled, throwing him. He was up quickly but was now on foot, running toward Chris with the remaining two men in hot pursuit. Ezra had lost his rifle in the fall and now drew his handgun, but he was at a disadvantage, the men giving chase gaining on him. It was clear to Chris that something had to be done. With enormous effort, he stood, and, lifting the Spencer to his throbbing and blood-drenched shoulder, he fired at the horseman now almost on top of Ezra.

Chris never knew when the bullet struck him in the head.

+ + + + + + +

Ezra saw Chris break his cover and set his bead in the gambler's direction. He knew the risk Chris was taking, and as he heard the hoof beats of his pursuers grow closer, he understood why. Chris fired, and the oncoming horse collapsed at Ezra's heels. At almost the same moment, Ezra witnessed his protector spin around and fall to the ground.

The shot that took the gunfighter down had come from one of the trio converging from behind him. Ezra continued his forward advance, his steady stream of shots aimed at the oncoming cowards who'd shot Chris from behind. He emptied his handgun at them, hitting nothing, but apparently causing sufficient apprehension for the yellow cutthroats to break off their attack and head off to the southeast.

Reaching the boulders at last, Ezra braced his arm on one of them and swung himself over it. He spotted Chris's Winchester and grabbed it; then he turned immediately to find out what the men who'd been chasing him were up to. Of that lot, one was lying still where Ezra had dropped him, while the one whose horse Chris had brought down was now riding double behind man number three, as they, too, headed southeast at a gallop to join their cohorts.

Hate shown in Ezra's eyes, but he had no time to waste on worthless bushwhackers. He quickly turned his attention to Chris.

+ + + + + + +

"I don't see nothin', Buck! And where's Chris? Shouldn't he be here by now? I mean, the telegram from Ezra came yesterday, and Chris left there before that!"

JD was clearly distraught. He stood with his friend at the end of the boardwalk, staring beyond the outskirts of the town. His pronounced squint was further testament to his desperate concern, as he searched the outbound trail till it dissolved in the distance, hoping for some sign of the man he so looked up to.

Equally worried, Buck eyed JD and tried not to show it. The boy was still on the mend from his wound and didn't need this kind of pressure. "Takes a couple days from Flatrock, JD. You know that. And Chris probably ain't in no hurry."

"Yeah. I suppose.... But wait, Buck!" JD turned his piercing stare toward his mentor. "If he ain't in no hurry, what if they catch up to him? He don't even know they're comin'!" JD's face was anguished now and looking to the older man for reassurance.

Buck tried to give it but couldn't put much conviction into the words. "Don't worry, Kid. Ol' Chris can take care of himself. Been doin' it a long time now, ya know. Besides, Ezra is likely ridin' like the devil to catch up to him."

JD continued staring at him, still not convinced.

"C'mon." Buck gripped the younger man's elbow and turned him toward the saloon. "Let's get you in out of this heat. It'll be a lot cooler in the saloon."

"But Buck...."

"No arguin', now. Nathan don't want you overdoin', ya know. We can talk more while we're sittin' with a cool beer in hand."

JD hesitated, but after one more glance toward the incoming trail, he relented and headed with Buck off to the saloon.

+ + + + + + +

The moon was full. Ezra didn't know whether that was a blessing or a curse. Rankin and his villainous curs might be able to use the moonlight to light their way to him and Chris. On the other hand, that same moonlight might make it possible for Ezra to spot them moving in. The gambler peered into the dappled darkness, straining to detect any movement, but saw nothing.

A stirring behind him drew his instant attention. Chris was restless, and Ezra, with one final check of the shadowed expanse beyond, went to his side. He felt Chris's forehead. Warm. Fever. And in this God-forsaken place, there was little Ezra could do about it. He pulled back the blanket and inspected the bandage on Chris's shoulder. The bullet had gone clean through. Ezra didn't know if that was good or bad. He did know the profuse bleeding had to be stopped. So, he'd wrapped the wounds as tightly as he could with whatever material he could find in his own saddlebag and Chris's, which he'd retrieved after sunset from the injured man's dead horse. The only source of fabric spared had been the gambler's newly purchased fancy dress shirt. Ezra looked first at the exit wound in front and then rolled Chris slightly to the side so that he could see the entry wound in his back. They were both still oozing but slower now, he thought. If only Nathan were here, he wished for at least the hundredth time. Continuing his examination, he carefully turned Chris's head so the moonlight would catch the bullet graze to his temple. The bleeding there had almost stopped. It was the lesser of the two wounds, though when Ezra had seen Chris felled with it, he'd feared the worst. And had the bullet hit a fraction of an inch one way or the other, or had it struck at a slightly different angle, the worst might very well have happened.

Ezra readjusted the blanket and gently squeezed Chris's good shoulder. "Hang in there, my friend. We'll disengage ourselves from our lamentable plight somehow." He hoped he was right, though at the moment, that hope seemed a hollow one.

They had to get out of here, and soon, or at dawn, if not before then, Rankin and crew would be back to finish the job. Ezra was sure of it. Rankin was a fiend who wouldn't quit till he was sure Chris Larabee was dead. But Chris wasn't dead yet, and Ezra shuddered at the thought of what Razor would do to the now helpless man if he ever got hold of him. Absently, Ezra squeezed Chris's shoulder again. There was resolution in his voice when he reassured the unconscious man, "He won't get you, Chris. I promise you that!"

The low whicker to his right prompted Ezra to check on his horse. Leaving Chris's side, he approached the animal slowly, clucking to him and calming him with soothing tones. " 'S all right, son. No need to fret, at least for the moment."

The horse was the one piece of luck Ezra and Chris had had so far. After Rankin et al had ridden off, the loyal mount had found his way back to his master. He seemed little the worse for wear, despite his near fall that had unseated Ezra, and he'd come bearing water, a bedroll, and material for bandages. He nuzzled Ezra now, happy for the company, and Ezra kissed his muzzle in appreciation. "Be patient, son, and rest. You're the only chance we have to get out of here."

+ + + + + + +

"You made it."

Ezra spun around, startled at the sound of the soft voice. Then he grinned broadly. "Thanks to you!"

Chris attempted to sit but fell back with a groan, as a wave of dizziness hit him. Ezra hurried to his side.

"Careful!" he admonished. "You're in no condition to be exerting yourself."

Chris didn't argue but lay back waiting for the world to stop spinning. "What condition am I in?" he asked at last.

"Well, without doubt your normally peak physical form has been undermined by two gunshot wounds."

Chris managed a hint of a smile before asking, "How bad?"

Ezra became serious. "Bad. You've lost a lot of blood due to that hole through your shoulder, which is why you're feeling so weak. How does your head feel?"

"Like it might explode at any minute."

"Dizzy, too?"

Chris nodded and immediately regretted it.

"You have a head wound to thank for that. It's only a graze, and I think it'll be okay, but it will likely hurt for a while."

"You sound like Nathan."

"And I do so wish he were here and that I had half his expertise in the art of healing."

"Seems to me you've done just fine."

"I thank you, sir!" Ezra bowed in response, feeling genuinely complimented.

Again, Chris tried to sit up and this time succeeded, as Ezra helped him, adjusting his position so that he could rest against the boulder beside him. For a moment Chris sat quietly, recovering his energy and peering into the shadowed night.

"Are they still out there?" he asked at last.

Ezra sat beside him and followed Chris's gaze with his own. "Well, I have no concrete proof, but I'd wager they're still there." A distant whinny sounded through the silence, and the two men turned toward each other. "And I'd win," concluded Ezra.

"Who are they?"

The question was unexpected. Then Ezra realized Chris didn't know what had happened and had had little chance to recognize his assailants.

"Razor Rankin and company. His gang broke him out of the Flatrock jail and killed Sheriff Wilson."

By the moonlight, Ezra saw a look of alarm spread over Chris's face. "They could be headed back to Four Corners, then!"

"They are. However, Vin and the others have been alerted. I telegraphed them from Flatrock."

Chris breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. That will give them time to get ready."

"True. However, Razor seems to have a special interest in you, so you and I would be wise not to tarry here too long. That cur would delight in dispatching us as expeditiously as possible so as not to delay his incursion upon Four Corners."

Chris smiled in spite of himself at the ostentatious language. "You're right. They'll likely be here at first light. If you leave now, you'll have a couple hours start on them, and I should be able to buy you a bit more time."

"If by that, Mr. Larabee, you mean that I should abandon you here, I'll not do that."

"I couldn't stay in the saddle, and even if I could, we only have one horse."

"You noticed that," said Ezra, glancing briefly at the gelding. "Still, you will be able to stay in the saddle with my help; we'll ride double."

"That would slow you down too much. If you leave me, at least one of has a chance to make it."

"Chris, you're just wasting energy you can't spare by arguing about this. Either we both make it, or neither of us will. I won't leave you here to die!"

"Ezra...."

"I deserted you once before. I won't do it again!"

Chris, taken aback by the passionate conviction in the gambler's voice, conceded. "All right, Ezra. All or nothing."

Ezra smiled with satisfaction. "All or nothing. And I'll lay odds on the 'all'"

+ + + + + + +

The two men needed as much time as possible to safely distance themselves from their enemy. Chris was right; riding double would slow their progress, as would his physical condition. So Ezra wasted no time getting ready to leave. He threw the saddle on their horse and fixed their rifles and gear to it.

With that done, he took on the more critical task of getting Chris mounted. Carefully, Ezra lifted the injured man to his feet. Chris helped as much as he could but was hampered by his wounds, his dizziness, and his fever. He cursed his weakness and leaned heavily on Ezra, who half-carried him to the horse. Looking at the animal through blurred eyes, Chris thought he'd never seen such an insurmountable obstacle. But he did his best to follow Ezra's instructions, gripping the horn as well as he could and holding on while Ezra guided his left foot into the stirrup.

"Ready?"

Ezra's voice came as though from a distance, but Chris nodded 'yes.' Then suddenly, he felt the weight leave his right leg and somehow found himself aboard Ezra's great beast. Chris's dizziness, returning in full force, caused him to sway precariously in the saddle, but with Ezra's steadying hand on his arm, he found his balance. Ezra handed Chris the reins and took one backward look at their place of refuge. Then, he mounted behind Chris, reached around him to take the reins, and started them off slowly toward the west.

+ + + + + + +

It was unlike Vin Tanner to pace; only severe agitation of mind set him to it. He was engaged in it now, in the middle of Main Street at the edge of town. There'd been no sign yet either of Chris and Ezra or of the Rankin gang. And at the moment, he was more worried about his two compadres. The town was ready. If Rankin expected easy pickings, he had a rude awakening coming.

Vin halted his strides and faced the outbound trail. It was already mid-morning. If Ezra and Chris had eluded Rankin, they'd be setting a good pace for home and should arrive by early afternoon. But if Rankin had caught them, they could be in real trouble.

"Well, my friend, when do we leave?"

Josiah had approached quietly behind him, but Vin wasn't surprised; he'd felt him come up.

"What makes you think we're goin' somewhere?"

Josiah smiled sagely. "Chris and Ezra aren't back, and you've got that far-off look."

Vin faced the preacher with a glint in his eyes. "Not what I meant. I asked why you think we are goin'. You're stayin' here. Nathan and I'll go."

"But...."

"Josiah, if Chris or Ezra are hurt, I'll need Nathan for doctorin'. You need to take care of things here. Buck and JD can help, but they're still not fit. The town'll look to you."

Vin was talking sense, and Josiah nodded. "When will you be going?"

"As soon as I find Nathan and we can get our gear together."

"Go with God."

"I sure do hope He'll come with us!" smiled the plainsman, as he strode off toward Nathan's rooms.

+ + + + + + +

It was going on noon when Ezra pulled to a stop at the top of a rise. He dropped the reins on the horse's neck and adjusted his hold on his saddle mate. Chris had lost consciousness some time ago, and Ezra's arms had grown stiff holding the limp man aboard. There was a soft moan.

"Chris? You awake?"

When no reply came, Ezra altered his arm position yet again to feel Chris's brow. It was hot. "Lord, Chris! You're burning up!"

Ezra looked up to the sky. The sun was high and blazing. He'd removed Chris's duster and his own jacket some time ago, but it had provided small relief from the torturous heat.

He turned to look over his shoulder at the country they'd just traversed. In the distance, he saw several riders coming. Rankin's bunch. Ezra's face was etched with strain and fatigue as he turned to scan the valley ahead of them. His anxious eyes searched the landscape. Then, slowly, his furrowed brow smoothed, and realization dawned on his face. He took Chris's full weight with his left arm, while with his right he fumbled with his jacket now lying across the saddle between them. Finally, he found the inside pocket he sought. Pulling from it a folded paper, he manipulated it open with his one hand.

"Well, Mr. Cobb, let's see how good a map maker you are. I dearly hope you're more adept at that than you are at playin' poker."

Ezra studied, first, Cobb's map and, then, the terrain that lay before them. Then, he stuffed the sketch inside his shirt. He retrieved the reins, took a firm hold of Chris, and cast a last glance over his shoulder. The gang of riders was not now in sight.

"C'mon, Chris," he said. "Let's see if we can get you out of the sun and this heat. Let's go find Cobb's Comfort Mine." And he nudged their steed forward into the valley.

+ + + + + + +

The terrain was rough and semi-arid, far from the lush valleys Ezra had known as a boy. Footing was poor, and their horse stumbled several times, causing Ezra instinctively to tighten his grip on Chris. There was no shade, and the gambler could feel the heat emanating from his friend's fevered body. As they moved along, Chris grew restless. Twice, Ezra stopped to offer him water. It had been an awkward maneuver, working from behind to raise the canteen to the sick man's lips, while still holding him securely in the saddle. In the end, it failed, though Ezra used the water spilled in the process to moisten Chris's face in the hope of cooling him down.

They rode on. Ezra periodically studied Cobb's map and searched the countryside for the landmarks pictured there. He had stopped now to make himself and Chris more comfortable and to try once again to relate the map he held to the land spread out before them.

"There must be fifty old mine trails around here. How the devil am I supposed to figure out which one is the right one?" he complained, as he continued to study the view. Suddenly, his eyes settled on a steep incline off to the left. Topping it were twin pillars of stone.

"Wait! Those two rock columns...." Again he scrutinized the map. "I think they are what Mr. Cobb refers to here as 'two thumbs,' Chris." He expected no reply and got none, but he went on anyway. "And if they are 'two thumbs,' then below and off farther to the left, a stream should run out from.... Let's take a closer look, my friend," he said, a note of optimism beginning to creep into his tone.

He spurred their fatigued mount, startling him to a sudden jump forward. Ezra managed to keep both himself and Chris astride, while in a gentle voice assuring the animal that all was well. As they approached two thumbs, they moved toward a low hillock. Ezra reined in momentarily and smiled broadly at what he saw. "The spring!" Then he moved them on again, rounding the raised mound and at last coming upon what he'd been seeking. A wooden slat nailed to the entrance beams and its crudely scrawled inscription confirmed it. Cobb's Comfort Mine, it read.

"We made it, Chris!"

The mine's opening was set in the hillside and shorn up with timbers. Ezra urged the tired horse up the slight incline that led to it. Once there, he dropped the reins to the ground and dismounted, keeping a steadying hand on Chris's back and taking a quick look around. Seeing nothing untoward, he concentrated on Chris, who was now lying forward in the saddle. Ezra's face took on a look of fear, as he realized how much the ill and injured man had deteriorated during their taxing ride. He took off his hat and threw it aside. Then he drew Chris from the saddle and hefted him over his shoulders. Adjusting Chris's weight as best he could, the gambler bore him into the mine.

Inside, it was dark and damp and, thank God, it was cool. Ezra carefully lowered his burden to the floor and headed back outside. He returned shortly, the tired gelding in tow. Untying the bedroll, he spread it out beside Chris. "Come, my friend, let's get you off all this dirt," he said, as he moved the helpless man to the blanket. He then retrieved his jacket from the saddle, folded it neatly, and set it beneath Chris's head.

Chris, his fever raging, was becoming agitated, and his face was flushed and hot to the touch. Ezra rushed back to the horse. He grabbed the canteen and yanked his new white shirt from the saddlebag. Returning to Chris, he ripped a sleeve from the garment and soaked it with the remaining water from the canteen. Then he washed Chris's face and neck, applying as much moisture as he could squeeze out of the fabric, afterward folding the wet cloth and laying it across Chris's forehead.

"I'll be right back, Chris. We need more water," Ezra explained. But as he turned to go, he was stayed by a surprisingly strong grip on his arm and an emphatic, "No!" Chris was awake, staring at him with eyes wild with fever. "Don't come back! Go! Leave me here!"

Ezra gently disengaged himself from Chris's vice-like grip. "Mr. Larabee," he said lightly, "you've apparently forgotten our pact. We stay together. 'All or nothing,' remem-"

"No!" Chris screamed. "You'll die. They all die. Everyone. Because of me! Sarah. Sarah!!"

Chris tried to sit up, but Ezra foiled his attempt. He understood now; Chris was delirious and didn't know what he was saying. "Shh. Lie back, Chris," he instructed, holding down the distressed man. Though Chris tried to fight free, the exertion quickly exhausted him, and with a final cry, he fell back, completely spent.

Ezra replaced the damp cloth on Chris's forehead and then sat back for a moment to pull himself together. He was shaking, the whole ordeal taking its toll on him, and worst of all was his anxiety about Chris. Ezra cared about him, and seeing this man he admired and respected so helpless and perhaps dying was almost too much.

"God help him," he prayed. "God help us both!" Then he set to work, turning what remained of his new shirt into bandages for Chris's shoulder wounds before he headed outside to get fresh water.

+ + + + + + +

"It's blood, all right," agreed Nathan, kneeling on the ground within the boulder-strewn alcove where Chris and Ezra had earlier taken refuge.

Vin merely nodded and continued to scout the area, looking for any and every sign that might shed light on what had happened to their two friends. Some things were obvious: The two dead horses, for example, one Chris's, the other unknown; the dead body of a character Vin recognized from the bank robbery attempt in town as one of Razor Rankin's gang; Ezra's broken and abandoned Remington rifle. And there was the blood. Vin guessed it most likely was Chris's, given the fact that the gunfighter had been unaware of Rankin's escape and that it was his horse lying dead.

"Find anything?" asked Nathan, joining the tracker who by now had roamed off some distance.

"Lots of tracks, human and horse."

"What do you figure happened?"

Vin halted his survey of the scene and faced the healer. "I think Chris and Ezra holed up here awhile and then rode off early, probably before sunup. There's one set of hoof prints diggin' deep, carryin' double. Sometime later, Rankin and his men overran the place, saw they were gone, and followed after."

"Which way?"

"West," answered Vin, his eyes turning that direction.

Nathan's gaze followed Vin's. "What's west?"

"Nothin' for a long ways, but it was likely their only choice at the time," Vin said, as he continued to stare off into the distance.

Nathan paused before asking, "Whose blood do you think that is?"

Vin slowly shook his head and then met Nathan's concerned eyes. "Don't know, but my guess would be Chris's."

"There's a lot of it, Vin." Fear was evident in the healer's voice.

"Yeah. We'd best be movin' out to try to catch up to them before Rankin does."

And before someone bleeds to death. The thought hung in the air but was left unspoken.

+ + + + + + +

Cobb's Comfort Mine was not easily seen coming in the way they had, and that was good. It would make it harder for Rankin to find them. But the same raised ground that concealed its entrance from outsiders also served to obstruct the view from the mine. New arrivals could not be seen until they were practically on the doorstep, a dangerous drawback of which Ezra was acutely aware. At the moment, he was atop the screening hillock, scanning the horizon. So far, no one was in view, but he was uneasy. They'd been here two hours already, and Rankin and his gang couldn't be far away. But there had been no choice. Chris couldn't have gone on, and Ezra and their gallant steed had badly needed rest as well. However, to stay longer would be to push their luck too far; the lady only smiled on one so long. With one final check of the approaching terrain, Ezra made his way back down to the mine.

Entering from the bright sunlight into the dark interior, he paused to let his eyes adjust. The entrance area of the cave was a wide chamber that narrowed toward the rear into the main tunnel of the mine. Ezra had earlier explored that as far as it went, finding a broad vein of ore only about twenty to twenty-five feet into the passageway. Cobb had begun to work it and had supplied the mine with explosives, lanterns, and tools for the purpose. Probing deeper down the tunnel, Ezra had found progress more and more difficult, with footing becoming increasingly uncertain and the tunnel itself in places diminishing to nearly impassable size. He did succeed in reaching its end and was surprised to find there a back way out, hard to get to, perhaps, but there nonetheless.

Once his eyes had adapted to the dim light, Ezra made his way to Chris. The wounded man had suffered intermittent bouts of delirium but now was lying very still, deathly still. Ezra anxiously dropped to his knees beside him. "Chris?" He could hear the fear in his voice, and he felt a tightening knot in his stomach as he placed a noticeably shaking hand to Chris's face. It was wet with sweat; it was cool! At the gambler's touch, the gunfighter moved his head slightly and opened his eyes.

"I was dreamin' of a little lady I knew in St. Louis a while back and open my eyes to find it's you and not her strokin' my cheek." Chris's voice was weak, but it was accompanied by a wan smile.

Ezra instantly pulled back, then grinned. "A cruel disappointment for you, I'm sure. Not for me, however. For a moment there, I thought you were gone to your Maker. I am gratified to have been in error. How do you feel?"

"Tired. Weak."

"You lost a lot of blood, but, thank God, your fever's broken."

Chris made an attempt to sit up, but Ezra stayed him. "Wait. Let me check your bandages first."

"Pretty fancy bandages, too," Chris observed, as he watched and waited. "Don't think I've had any with ruffles before."

"Likely not. However, I had limited resources with which to work," Ezra replied, as he continued his perusal of Chris's dressings.

"It's the new shirt you bought in Flatrock, isn't it?"

Ezra finished with his ministrations and sat back on his haunches. "Yes, but I doubt the sleeve design would have worked well with my trick Derringer. And unencumbered movement is required for efficacy, so it was no great loss."

"Still, I owe you a shirt," Chris said lightly.

Ezra, however, grew suddenly serious. "No, my friend, you don't."

He said no more, and Chris didn't pursue the matter. Instead, he allowed his eyes to range over the place they were in, seeming to notice it for the first time.

"Where are we?"

"Cobb's Comfort Mine, though I do plan to rename it."

In response to Chris's perplexed look, Ezra explained further. "My gold mine. I won it in a game of chance," he smiled, "and I do believe there's a vein of ore just off to the right in the tunnel beyond."

"So, you're rich?"

"Well, that must yet be ascertained. It may merely be a small pocket. We shall see. But right now, we must concern ourselves with leaving this place quickly, before your nemesis and his companions arrive."

"Rankin?" Chris asked, knowing the answer already.

"Yes. He must be close by now."

"All right. Let's go then."

Ezra helped Chris to a sitting position and cast him a worried look, as the injured man paled and abruptly placed a hand to his head.

"What is it?"

"Dizzy. Just give me a minute."

"Here." Ezra adjusted Chris, so that he leaned against the near wall of the cave. "Rest while I saddle up and fill the canteen."

Chris sat back and watched as Ezra worked. He was seeing a man he hadn't known before, a man who had risked his own life to save Chris, who was continuing to risk it; a man who had refused to abandon him. Chris smiled to himself at his discovery of the real man Ezra strove so hard to hide. For a long while, Chris had doubted Ezra's trustworthiness, wondering how the gambler would behave in a life-threatening situation. Would he save himself first, as had been his impulse at the Indian village, or would he look to the well being of others? The gunfighter had never expected that question to be answered in such a personal way.

Ezra finished saddling and packing the horse. Then, assessing Chris's condition with a quick glance, he left the cave, canteen in hand. As he rinsed out the container and refilled it with the cool stream water, he thought he caught a muffled sound on the wind. Slowly, he capped the canteen, listening carefully. Hoof beats. Approaching horses! He jumped to his feet and threw the canteen over his shoulder. Keeping low, he quickly and silently climbed to the top of the small hill and saw them, five horsemen coming. They were only minutes away. Ezra beat a hasty retreat to the mine.

"They're here!" he informed Chris, as he rushed in.

The gunfighter's well-honed instincts for survival were instantly aroused. "Give me a rifle, and get me to the entrance!"

"Chris!"

"There's no time, Ezra."

The gambler knew the truth of that and complied. Chris's weakness was apparent, as Ezra helped him to the cave mouth. He wondered if the injured man would even be able to hold the rifle, not to mention fire it. But, there was no other option: Either they both fought, or they both would surely die.

Ezra pulled over some empty crates to serve as cover for them and reloaded their rifles with the rest of their dwindling supply of ammunition. Then he led their mount a short distance into the tunnel, out of harm's way. Now they were ready, and as they waited, Ezra kept an eye on Chris and marveled at the man's determination and strength of spirit. After all he'd endured, he wouldn't give up; he'd hold out as long as his physical condition would permit.

The minutes stretched. Neither man spoke, as both listened intently for any sound that would tell them the enemy had arrived. Then it came-hoof beats slipping on hard dry ground-and the two men readied their weapons. They held their fire as the first man rounded the raised ground and came into plain sight. Spotting the mine entrance, he turned back to his still unseen companions, alerting them to his discovery. Chris and Ezra continued to be patient. If they could wait undetected until all five men were in full view, the odds would favor them, the element of surprise their strong ally.

A second man rode up, peered toward the mine, and urged his horse slowly forward. Ezra and Chris took heart. Apparently they couldn't be seen, and Rankin's gang was unwittingly moving into their hastily-set trap. However, they hadn't reckoned on Ezra's horse. Perhaps excited by the approach of others of his kind, he greeted them with a welcoming neigh. Ezra threw a disgusted look at the Benedict Arnold and an apologetic one to Chris. But the gunfighter hadn't been distracted from his focus of attention. As the two on-comers, recognizing their danger, hastily turned away, he pulled the trigger, hitting one in the mid-section and knocking him from his horse. Ezra, too, fired, but he had Chris's tricky Winchester, which chose that moment to misbehave. But although his shot wasn't true, it was good enough to wound his target in the upper arm, though the man was able to hang in the saddle and retreat around the screening mound, joining his cohorts there.

For a moment, Ezra sat back, watching and wondering when they'd return. His reverie was interrupted by a clatter to his left. He looked quickly to see Chris's Spencer hit the floor and Chris fall back with a thud against the cave wall. Ezra hurried to him. "Chris!"

The gunfighter was pale, and his eyes were closed. "Sorry, Ezra. I don't know what happened."

"Well, I do. You should be in bed somewhere, regaining your strength, not expending it all here."

Chris opened his eyes and smiled. "Not much choice."

Ezra gave a small nod in answer, then turned his gaze toward the tunnel behind them. "Perhaps there is another choice." Again his eyes checked outside. "They'll be back, and now they know we're here. If some of them get to that high ground, they'll be firing down on us, and it will be hard for us to reply. Worse, we're running short of ammunition."

"Are you saying there's something we can do about that?"

"Yes. While you were unconscious, I took a look around. There's a back way out, Chris. It's narrow and low, and it'll be a tight squeeze for the horse, but I think it's our only option now."

"You take that option, then. I'll hold them off."

"I said our option, not mine."

Chris shook his head. "Once they figure out no one's guardin' the door, they'll be in here and after us. And I'll only slow you down. You've done all you can for me, and I thank you, my friend, but now it's time to save yourself."

Ezra smiled. "My friend." Even had he been tempted to leave, those two words would have stayed him. "That must be one of your longer speeches, Mr. Larabee, and its content is further evidence of your feeble state. I'm certainly not about to leave you in such a condition. If you recall, we struck a deal-all or nothing-and I never go back on a bargain."

"Ezra...."

The gambler silenced him with a motion of his hand. "You are right. They will be in here as soon as we abandon the entrance, but I've thought of that, and there is a way to prevent it."

"How?"

"Dynamite, the tool of many miners. Fortunately, Mr. Cobb was no exception, and he has provided an abundant supply. I intend to use it."

"You plan to blow up the opening? Couldn't that bring the whole mine down?"

"That is a risk. However, if my placement of the charges is strategic and I am not overly generous with the amount I use, I believe the explosion can be confined to this area, leaving the tunnel intact."

"And your gold vein?"

"Losing that is a painful thought, indeed. However, I have concluded that no amount of gold will benefit me if I am dead. Thus, I'm willing to chance it."

"You're set on this." It was a statement more than a question.

"I am."

Chris smiled. What do you want me to do?"

"Guard the door. Are you up to it?"

Chris nodded. "Just help me up and hand me my rifle."

Ezra quickly settled Chris to the left of the mine entrance behind the crates he'd placed there before. He also added a crate beside Chris for the injured man to lean on. Then he hastened to work, setting the dynamite sticks in place at the base of the shoring timbers at the mine opening.

Chris was rapidly tiring but fought to stay alert, realizing that any lapse on his part could be fatal for them both. He had a good view of the immediate area outside the mine but fixed his attention primarily on the small hill to the right. It was high ground that would be advantageous for the enemy, and it was next to impossible that they would fail to use it. It bothered Chris some that so far they hadn't done that. Could there be yet another way in that Ezra didn't know about? Could Rankin have given up and headed for Mexico? Chris quickly discarded both notions. He trusted Ezra to have looked around thoroughly; and Rankin wouldn't give up so easily, especially after ruthlessly tracking him and Ezra over miles of rough country. His conclusions were proven correct moments after he drew them. He saw the glint of a rifle barrel as it peaked over the crest of the hillock. Chris gathered himself and cocked his Spencer.

"They're here," he called to Ezra, who, having set his last stick of explosive was busily laying a trail of powder across the floor of the entrance alcove to the main tunnel opening.

"Let's hope they wait to shoot. A stray bullet in the wrong place could mean a hasty demise for us."

They didn't wait, however, but began to pour heavy gunfire at the cave mouth. Chris ducked, grateful to find refuge from the barrage behind the heavy crates. Ultimately, he decided there was no way to return fire except from the floor of the cave. So, he lowered himself to his stomach, pulled himself around the corner of the crate barrier, and began firing rapidly from there. He doubted he had a chance to hit anyone, but he could at least keep their heads down and buy some more time for Ezra.

During the commotion, Ezra continued his work. He finished laying the powder and hauled the keg and the remaining dynamite deeper into the tunnel. On his return, he hurried to calm their nervous mount. "Now wouldn't it have been better for you to remain quiet? Let this be a lesson to you," he admonished the animal in soothing tones. Next, he made his way to Chris, being careful to stay hidden from view of the villainous curs besieging them. He lay down beside the gunfighter. "Everything's set," he said. "We'd best beat a hasty retreat."

Chris pulled back behind the crates. "I won't argue. I just ran out of ammunition."

Ezra helped Chris to back away from his post, and the two men moved to the horse. After Ezra got Chris mounted, he handed him the reins. "Hold on a minute," he said, and crossed to the mine entrance, staying close to the wall and concealing himself behind the shoring framework. He pulled a stick of dynamite from his pocket, lit it, and then waited patiently as he watched the fuse grow shorter in the flame. At last he deemed the time right, and in a quick but dangerous act, he moved into the open and threw the stick. His appearance drew immediate gunfire from the foe, cut short by an abrupt blast from atop the hill. Chris calmed his shying horse, as Ezra, without hesitation, drew out, lit, and launched a second dynamite stick before the Rankin bunch managed to recover from the first. Ezra then quickly returned to Chris, even as the next explosion sounded. He bent down, lit the waiting lantern and then the powder leading to the dynamite he'd planted at the mouth of the mine. As it began to burn, he took the reins from Chris, grabbed the lantern he'd lighted, and hurried them all into the dark recess of Cobb's Comfort Mine.

+ + + + + + +

Tracking was difficult over the hard, dry and often rocky terrain, and Vin and Nathan were making slow headway. Vin was crouched down, engrossed in reading sign that seemed to lead off in more than one direction. Perplexed, he'd just looked up to study the lie of the land, when a distant low burst of sound caught his attention.

"What was that?" asked Nathan, who had till now been standing silently by, holding the horses and observing Vin's activities.

"Don't know for sure. Sounded like it could have been an explosion."

Another blast soon followed, and Vin and Nathan, wasting no more time in discussion, quickly mounted and set off at a gallop in the direction from which it had come.

+ + + + + + +

Setting as fast a pace as he could, Ezra led his horse with Chris aboard deeper down the mine tunnel. He wasn't sure how long they had before the burning powder would set off the dynamite, but he wanted to be as far away as possible when it did. However, as they moved further on, the passageway became narrower and lower, and the cave floor damp and slippery. The lantern cast but a dim light ahead, making it difficult to see and slowing them further. The tunnel seemed to veer left, and Ezra followed it cautiously. Chris ducked in the saddle beneath the steadily lowering ceiling, and there were times when the passage grew so narrow that his legs brushed both sides of it at once. They continued on doggedly, in an unspoken pact that they wouldn't give up.

They became aware of a rumble of sound that grew in volume as it pursued them from behind. When it caught them, they were struck by the howling noise and an overpowering blast of pressure. The horse panicked, becoming uncontrollable, his wild bursts of movement in the confined space banging Chris brutally against the unyielding tunnel surface. The barely recovering man cried out in agony, lost consciousness, and began falling from the saddle. Again and again the horse's movements knocked him against the wall. Ezra desperately forced himself between the crazed animal and the side of the cave, pushing against the horse with all his might to give Chris space and keep him from being crushed to death. At last there was sufficient room for Chris to slide off. Ezra caught him and shielded him with his own body as he struck the horse's rump as hard as he could, driving the animal ahead into the shrinking corridor.

Ezra paid the beast no further heed as he carefully lowered Chris to the mine floor. It was only a miracle, for which Ezra fervently thanked God, that the lantern hadn't been broken during those frantic minutes of turmoil, and he retrieved it now. Chris was in a semi-stupor and moaning slightly.

"Chris, can you hear me?"

Chris grimaced and managed a slight nod, watching Ezra with pain-filled eyes.

"I'm going to try to move you. We can't stay here. The air is foul, and I don't have enough light to see how badly you're hurt. Do you understand?"

Again, he received only a feeble nod in answer. Ezra slid his arm under Chris's back and as gently as possible began to raise him. He heard a sharp intake of breath and then felt Chris go limp. Ezra sighed in relief; unconscious, Chris would be oblivious of the pain. Slowly, he pulled the gunfighter's long, lean frame across his shoulders, and with no small effort got to his feet, grabbing the lantern in the process. Then he cautiously proceeded down the tunnel.

+ + + + + + +

The blast was loud this time and close by. Nathan and Vin spurred forward at a run toward its source. Topping a slight rise, they sighted smoke billowing from someplace out of view beyond an area of raised ground off to the left. Again, they hurried onward.

+ + + + + + +

There was light at the end of the tunnel. Ezra had always thought of that in a figurative sense; now he knew the reality of it, and the relief. As he moved closer to the exit, his eyes began adjusting to the growing brightness. Nevertheless, he was still momentarily blinded when he stepped outside the tunnel into the full sunlight.

"Well, well, well, and what do we have here?"

Ezra froze at the sneering voice and squinted to see four men before him, three of them directly in front of him, the fourth standing farther back, holding several horses. The speaker was Razor Rankin.

"My God, a fickle gypsy Dame Fortune truly is!" commented Ezra.

"What's 'e yammerin' on about, Razor?" the horse-holder called out.

"Don' matter none. He won't be yammerin' much longer."

"How'd you know?" asked Ezra.

"Well, while we was tryin' ta figure what to do at the front door, we saw yer horse comin' from the back here, so we thought we'd have ourselves a look-see. And, by golly, if we didn't find you! Haulin' garbage."

Ezra didn't reply and unconsciously tightened his hold on Chris.

"Larabee don't look too good. Is he dead? Go see, Lam."

Ezra took a backward step, as the man to Rankin's left started to move. "Don't touch him!"

"An' what are you gonna do to stop us, hmm? Besides, I don't want him dead. I want him alive, so I can make him wish he was dead! I wanna cripple him up and let him go on livin' like he did ta me."

Ezra said nothing, holding himself in check and desperately trying to think of some way out of this trap.

"Take a look, Lam," Rankin directed. "And get their guns," he added, pulling his colt with his left hand and aiming it at Ezra.

The gambler had no choice but to let Lam approach and disarm them, cringing as the scum laid his filthy hands on Chris.

"He's alive, boss!" Lam reported.

"Take him! Tad, help him."

Ezra glared at Rankin, hate in his eyes, and stood helplessly by as Tad and Lam roughly pulled Chris from him. He'd sworn to Chris he wouldn't let this happen, and now that it was, Ezra's guilt was enormous.

"Wadda ya wan' us to do with him, Razor?" asked Tad.

"At my feet, where he belongs," snickered Rankin.

Ezra took a step forward but stopped as Rankin pulled back the hammer of his gun. "Just how much are you willin' to risk for him, Gambler?"

Ezra halted and watched in horror as Chris was unceremoniously dropped on the ground in front of Rankin. Chris, beginning to come to, groaned with the impact, and Rankin laughed.

"Wadda ya think of your high an' mighty Mr. Larabee now?" he asked, venom dripping from his tongue.

"He's worth a thousand of you!" answered Ezra through clenched teeth.

Rankin sobered. "He's not even worth wipin' my feet on," he said. Then he laughed again, and lifting his foot, he brutally stamped down on Chris's injured shoulder. Chris cried out in reaction, momentarily distracting his contemptible tormentor, and it was the chance Ezra had been hoping for. In an instant, he had his Derringer out. His first shot took Rankin between the eyes. His second hit Lam in the mid-section. Out of bullets now, Ezra launched himself toward the fallen Lam and the guns lying near him. But there wasn't enough time; Tad had already moved in, and the last man was close behind him.

"You killed my brother!" Tad cried. "You killed my brother!" He took aim at Ezra's head. "Now you'll die for it!"

There was a loud report, and Ezra started at the sound and fell back, watching in astonishment as Tad dropped to the ground, a bullet hole through his neck. After a shocked moment, Ezra looked up to see the last gang member standing with his hands raised high in surrender, as Vin and Nathan rode in, guns drawn.

Ezra pushed himself up and rushed to Chris. Rankin's dead carcass was lying across him and Chris feebly trying to extricate himself. Ezra yanked the scurvy mongrel off him, kicking him down the slight slope. Then he sat down next to Chris and eased his head and shoulders onto his lap.

"He's dead, Chris, and Nathan and Vin are here. It's over," he said comfortingly.

Chris whispered something, and Ezra bent closer to hear. "'All or nothing,'" Chris repeated with a weak smile.

Ezra's answering smile was one of triumph. "Most assuredly, my friend, 'all or nothing. And I'll lay odds on the all.'"

+ + + + + + +

It was going on Saturday evening, and the sun was close to setting, when Ezra exited the saloon. For a while he paused just outside the swinging doors. Hands at his waist, he arched his back to ease tight muscles. It was supper time and the calm before the Saturday night storm, when men released from their week's work made their way to town for a night of drinking and diversion. And they would gamble as well, in the hope of liberating themselves from life's labors with one turn of a card or throw of a die. It was a work night for Ezra, and he was taking a short break now in preparation.

As he stood on the boardwalk, his eyes casually surveyed the opposite side of the street before coming to rest on a still figure dressed in black and sitting just outside the general store. Ah, the elusive Mr. Larabee, the gambler thought, a look of satisfaction appearing on his face.

They'd been back in Four Corners for two-and-a-half weeks now, and for much of that time, Chris had been desperately ill, the consequence of his nightmare experience with Razor Rankin and his cutthroats. He'd been up and about for a few days now, but he was still weak and far from fully recovered. During those few days, however, Ezra had attempted without success to conclude a small unfinished piece of business with him. But Chris had continually and quite adeptly put him off, and since there was usually someone or other hovering about the recuperating invalid, Ezra hadn't been able to pin him down. Now, however, he was alone, and with purposeful strides, Ezra crossed the street to confront him.

Chris had been sitting quietly for some time, one eye on the saloon, waiting for Ezra to appear. There was a brown-paper package on the small table to his left, and he rested his hand on it as he watched Ezra's approach.

"Good evening, Mr. Larabee," Ezra greeted him, as he stepped up lightly onto the boardwalk.

"Ezra," replied Chris.

"How are you feelin'?" the gambler asked, lowering himself into the chair on the other side of the small table.

"Must be gettin' better. Nathan's been less of a mother hen lately."

"I'm gratified to hear it. And since you are feelin' better, there's something of long-standing that I wish to broach with you. It's the small matter of the debt I owe you from my stay in the Flatrock jail." He reached into his pocket and retrieved a twenty-dollar gold piece, which he placed on the table between them. "It seems you have been unwilling to discuss this matter, however...."

Ezra paused when Chris held up his hand in interruption. "I know you've been wanting to repay me, but I can only accept if you'll take this in return," he said, handing Ezra the package.

Taken aback, Ezra took it, a look of confusion on his face. "What is it?"

"Open it," Chris smiled.

Slowly, Ezra untied the string binding and pulled off the paper. Startled at the contents, he looked at Chris and then held up a white dress shirt of fine linen. "Mr. Larabee, you astonish me. Your taste is exquisite. However, I cannot accept...." He stopped as Chris pushed the gold piece back at him across the table. "Chris, that's a just debt; you owe me nothing!"

"I know, but I'd like you to accept it as a gift."

Ezra hesitated. "Well, if you put it that way," he began, once again admiring the striking garment. "The craftsmanship is excellent, and this sleeve design would work nicely with my trick pistol," he continued thoughtfully. Then, his decision made, he turned on Chris a beaming smile. "Thank you!"

"Thank you," returned Chris with quiet sincerity and a deeper meaning. When Ezra dropped his eyes in embarrassment, the man in black grinned. "For the twenty dollars, that is," he quickly added, retrieving the coin and dropping it into his pocket.

Ezra's smile resurfaced. "Ah, yes, the twenty dollars. You're welcome."

"Have you been back to your mine?" Chris asked, adjusting his position in the hard chair.

"No, not yet," Ezra answered, glad to have moved on to a different subject. "I was hoping that when you're feeling up to it, we could ride out there together. We can find out whether I've become a man of wealth or whether I must still aspire to that state."

"All right," Chris agreed, smiling at Ezra's endless and good-natured avarice. "Thought of a name for it yet?"

"As a matter of fact, yes!" said Ezra enthusiastically. "I think the 'All Or Nothing Mine' has a nice ring to it, and special meaning, don't you?"

Chris laughed. "I like it!"

"Then the 'All Or Nothing Mine' it shall be," said Ezra happily, as his face gradually began to take on a perplexed look. "By the way, where is everyone tonight?"

"Well, Nettie and Casey invited Vin and JD over for dinner, and Buck managed to get himself invited along. Nathan's at the Gunderson's deliverin' a baby, and Josiah is over at Mrs. Frame's."

"And the lovely Mrs. Travis, who has been hovering over you since our return?"

Chris's answering blush was apparent on his still pale face. "She was just helpin' Nathan out."

"Umm. Most assuredly," came Ezra's knowing response.

Chris cleared his throat. "Anyway, she and Billy are over at the Frames' with Josiah."

"Well then, that would seem to leave the two of us to our own devices. The saloon should be lively tonight, and you haven't been there lately to hear the new singer. Would you care to join me for a bite of supper and a libation at our local drinking emporium?"

Chris's expression became thoughtful. "If you consider that the establishment would welcome the return of two such disreputable individuals."

Ezra's jaw dropped. "Why, Mr. Larabee, I'm impressed with the obvious expansion of your vocabulary!"

Chris flashed a delighted smile. "It's the company I keep, Mr. Standish," he replied softly.

"Touch�," laughed Ezra. He stood and with care laid his new shirt across his arm. Moving to Chris's side, he helped the still unsteady man to his feet. Then at a leisurely pace, the two friends crossed the street toward the saloon.

~End~