When Shadows Fall

Part 1

A weary Chris Larabee was just about to step through the doors of the saloon when they burst open practically in his face. Buck Wilmington stumbled out with one of the new saloon girls in his arms.

"Damn it, Buck!" Chris said angrily.

Buck looked at him and laughed. "Sorry, Chris!" He turned back to the woman in his arms. "Come _on_, darlin,'" he said to her and the two of them moved away from Chris down the busy street, Buck holding the woman in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. Chris watched them for a moment, then brushed his hand sharply down his arm as if wiping away non-existent dust and entered the saloon.

He'd just poured a glass of whiskey when Vin Tanner entered carrying a rifle. He stood for a moment just inside the doorway letting his eyes adjust to the change in light. "Hey," he said quietly as he approached Chris, laying the rifle on the table and setting his hat on top of it before he pulled out a chair and settled himself into it. Chris acknowledged him with a brief nod.

"Been a long week," Vin observed, reaching for the whiskey bottle.

"Two trail crews in town, a bank robbery, and the Delano mine caving in. Yeah, I'd say it's been a hell of a long week." Chris took the whiskey bottle back from him. "This town is getting too damn big."

Vin looked at Chris assessingly. "Chris, I been thinkin'..." he began.

At that moment, however, they both heard the sharp sound of gunfire from the street outside. The two men rose as one, Vin grabbing his hat and rifle without even breaking stride. Outside, they found Buck standing in the middle of the street holding one man by his collar and pointing his gun at another one. "Get up, now!" he shouted at the man. "Come on! I said now!" The man, clearly dazed by the swiftness of events, struggled to his feet where he stood blinking and looking around as if he had no idea what had just happened.

"What the hell is going on, Buck?" Chris asked, yelling over the muttering of people on the boardwalk.

"Just a couple of cowboys with too much whiskey and too many bullets in their guns," Buck told him cheerfully. He looked over at Vin and at Chris, who was frowning at him as if he'd started the whole thing himself. "You boys don't need to worry about anything. Go on back and finish your whiskey," he said loudly. "I can take these fellas over to the jail my ownself." He shoved the man he'd been holding by the back of the neck and gestured meaningfully at the other fellow with his gun. When he didn't move fast enough to suit Buck he grabbed him by the coat sleeve and pushed him ahead of him, thumping him in the back as he went past. "Come on, I said!"

Chris turned around and went back into the saloon. He was already sitting at the table with a glass of whiskey in his hand when Vin joined him again. He watched Chris for a minute. "Seems like Buck has plenty of energy," he observed.

Chris shrugged. "Yeah, well, Buck doesn't know when to quit," he said. And Vin waited for a minute to see if he'd add anything more, but he just went back to staring into the depths of the whiskey in his glass.

After several minutes of silence, during which Chris drank two more shots of whiskey he looked up abruptly at Vin and asked, "Josiah and JD back from the mine yet?"

"Haven't seen 'em," Vin said. "Which reminds me, I thought Buck was goin' with 'em. How come he's still here?"

"'Cuz I had somethin' else to do," came Buck's soft voice from behind Vin. He reached across to the next table and grabbed a chair, turning it backwards and straddling it.

Chris looked at him with a flat unreadable expression. "Something real important, I imagine," he said bitingly.

Buck's eyes narrowed and he straightened his shoulders. "I reckon it was," he said quietly. He pushed himself out of the chair, went to the bar and ordered a beer. With the glass in his hand, he turned around and looked at Chris and Vin, but he didn't return to their table. The woman he'd been with on the street came up and tucked her arm into his. He looked down and smiled at her and let her draw him away to a table in the back.

Chris watched him go, then he slammed down another whiskey.

"Somethin' botherin' you, Chris?" Vin asked.

"A pretty woman comes along and off he goes. He doesn't think!"

"It ain't nothin' new," Vin said mildly.

Chris looked at him for a moment as if he were about to launch into him too, then he shook his head abruptly and rubbed his eyes with his hands. "I feel like things are closin' in," he said. "This town, the railroad, all the new people. Pretty soon they'll be wantin' badges again. And where do you think that'll leave us?"

Vin figured Chris didn't actually want an answer to his question so he sipped his whiskey and watched the crowd in the saloon and waited. After a minute or so, Chris looked at him again and said. "Ah, hell, Vin. I don't mean to take it out on you."

Vin shrugged. He watched a man two tables over snake out a hand and grab one of the saloon girls, dragging her, laughing, into his lap. He turned back to Chris. "Listen, Chris, maybe this isn't the best time, but I've been meanin' to tell you. Chanu's people have invited me out to the reservation for a few days. They got that Green Corn Festival, you know. And they said they wanted to talk about somethin'. I reckon I won't be gone more'n three or four days."

"Three or four days!" Chris didn't need to shout. His disapproval was evident in each clipped-off word. "With everything going on? Hell, don't you think we need you right here?"

This time it was Vin's turn to straighten. "It's just a few days, Chris," he said quietly. "This town don't own me."

"Fine." Chris slammed his glass onto the table. "Do whatever you want." He rose and stalked out the door just as Josiah and JD, dusty and sweaty from their long ride, walked in.

They came to Vin's table. "What's with _him_?" JD jerked his thumb toward the still-swinging doors as he pulled out a chair and sat. Josiah sat too, signalling to the bartender as he did so to bring them some beers.

Vin shrugged. "You know Chris." He waited for Josiah to take a long drink and sigh with satisfaction and then he asked, "Find anything at the mine?"

"Not a darn thing," JD said before Josiah could speak. "I don't know why we had to go out there again. Just because Mr. Delano thinks someone's sabotaging him? Old mines like that, they cave in all the time." He shook his head and crooked his arm over the back of the chair, surveying the room as he sipped his beer.

Vin turned to Josiah.

Josiah raised an eyebrow. "I don't know," he said. "Coulda been dynamite like Mr. Delano said. Coulda been an accident. Sure can't tell anything the mess it's in now. Man like Delano, desperate to hold on, he'd likely be seeing saboteurs everywhere."

"Reckon we oughta keep an eye on it, though," Vin said.

"Yeah," Josiah said with a sigh. "Reckon we'll _have_ to." He raised his glass and swallowed the last of his beer, thumping the glass back down onto the table. He grinned widely at Vin and JD "And now, gentlemen, I must bid you farewell for I'm off to prepare myself for an evening with an angel." He rose.

JD looked at Vin with a puzzled expression. "What's he talking about?"

"I think he's goin' courtin', JD."

"But I thought you were hot an' tired, Josiah! We just got back. Why would you go get all prissed up an' ride out to see some lady NOW?"

Josiah Sanchez grinned genially at the youngest of his six friends and shook his head. "Son," he admonished, "it's clear you haven't yet learned about the healin' balms to be found in a woman's arms."

"Aw, hell!" JD set his beer mug down on the table with an exhausted thump as Vin laughed.

"So, Josiah," said Vin, sliding down in his chair as he squinted up at the big preacher, "when are we gonna' get to meet Miss Belle?"

"Soon, I hope. She said she just might come to services this Sunday." Josiah's grin grew even larger and his eyes rolled up towards the ceiling in ecstasy as he contemplated the thought.

"Ooooh." Buck had left his back table to approach the three friends, and now he grinned happily and threw a conspiratorial look at JD as he settled into a chair at their table. "Well, I just might have to come to church my self, that bein' the case. After all, can't have 'the most beautiful woman this side of Paradise' makin' an appearance in Four Corners without a suitable escort. An' since you'll be busy preachin' . . . "

"Yeah, Buck. That's a good point!" JD's tired black eyes brightened a little with the spark of mischief he'd caught from the other man.

"Now you boys had better just behave yourselves if Miss Belle comes. I'd hate to have to knock your fool heads in." Josiah's placid expression didn't change a fraction as he lovingly went on to threaten his two friends with details of the assorted bodily injuries he would inflict upon them in the event that they offended Miss Belle, and by the time he strolled out of the saloon JD was shaking his head.

"Oh, Buck!" he groaned. "If I wasn't so dad-gummed tired, I swear I'd try to find a way to play a practical joke on Josiah about this woman. It would be so funny."

"Not hardly, Kid." Buck threw down a coin on the table, smiling, and stood up to leave. "Teasin' Josiah is one thing. But that's ONE man who don't take to practical jokes about love." Buck's eyes twinkled. "'Course, that's true a' most anyone."

"Amen, brother." Vin finished his whiskey and rose, too, tipping his hat at JD as he left.

In a corner of the room two men sat and nursed their beers. One of them watched Vin and, after he'd walked out through the swinging doors, the man rose casually, threw a couple of coins on the table and strolled outside himself. The other slouched back in his chair, sipped his beer and studied the tall man with the moustache who had returned to the back table, to sit laughing with one of the saloon girls.

Part 2

The Clarion
Four Corners, Arizona Territory
Editor: Mary Travis
Today's Editorial:

To Flourish -- Four Corners Needs a Doctor There are many tales about towns in these territories that were born, flourished, only to die and pass from memory. We cannot let Four Corners become one of these forgotten towns. Lest not forget our history and how we have persevered. The town is booming. We have banks, merchants, a newspaper, hotels, and we offer the services settlers seek as they pass through daily. Unfortunately, all this bounty could not save Mrs. Cotter, formerly of Collinsville, Illinois. Her family came to town urgently in need of medical treatment for the fever she had acquired on the trail. The only healer was not in town because he was tending to Mr. Robert's serious accident at his ranch. There was no one in town who was able to diagnose and treat her medical condition. Four Corners is flourishing but basic services still need to be established. Our first efforts need to be directed at obtaining the valuable, professional services of a physician. Four Corners needs a doctor. Mr. Jackson has been an invaluable asset to Four Corners but even he admits to the limits of his medical knowledge and when he is called from town, there is no medical assistance available here. There was no one for Mrs. Cotter. A failure this town must address.

+ + + + + + +

Ezra Standish let the newspaper drop from his suddenly numbed fingers. Jesus, Mary, what the hell were you thinking? Ezra would've picked up the paper but it would take more energy than he was willing to expend. He had been stuck playing jailer to the various miscreants that found their way into jail in the past 24 hours. Now numbering six with the inclusion of two boisterous drunks courtesy of Mr. Wilmington. Hell Buck, couldn't you have just let them leave town? Guess Buck hadn't forgiven the crews for that incident earlier in the week. Didn't really make any sense, after all, there was no woman involved. And it almost always involved a young lady with Mr. Wilmington. Ezra shrugged and groaned when his body protested the movement.

After 16 hours of guard duty, Ezra was stiff and in a foul mood. No relief seemed to be forthcoming so the highlight of the morning had been the lovely Mrs. Travis personally delivering the newspaper to him. He had relaxed back to enjoy the paper. Although he was well aware of the local gossip, he always enjoyed Mrs. Travis's take on events in her various columns: 'Local Record of Passing Events,' 'What We See and Hear,' and 'Hither and Yonder.' She always seemed to make any event reflect favorably on Four Corners, which often took some interesting linguistic manipulations. If you were aware of the true nature of local events, it provided for great entertainment. Ezra groaned as he leaned forward and skimmed the editorial again. Shaking his head, this is all we need right now.

The "all" Ezra was referring to were the seven men hired to protect the town of Four Corners and the surrounding region. Ezra smiled remembering the early days when the town attracted any number of the 'bad element' (to quote Mrs. Travis), who attempted to dominate this town because of the lack of effective law enforcement. Those days had changed when word spread of Larabee's Gang or The Magnificent Seven as Jock Steele, the dime novelist, had coined them.

Maybe Four Corners wasn't attracting the bad element these days but they sure were attracting everybody else. New businesses, settlers, cattle drives, mining operations, and the railroad. Ezra estimated the town must have at least tripled in size in the past six months. Despite their reputations, the Seven were busier than ever. Just this last week, there was a bank robbery that turned ugly when two town citizens had died. The Delano mine cave-in. Cowboys with two trail crews had gotten into a fierce fight over of all things, which of the Seven was the fastest draw. Ezra chuckled remembering the scene.

"We think there should be a contest to see which of The Magnificent Seven is the fastest?" One of the cowboys, full of more whiskey-induced bravado than sense, announced in the saloon. He swaggered over to the table where Chris and Vin were sitting. Noting that they were ignoring him, the cowboy jeered, "Worried Larabee?"

"Don't matter," Chris stated matter-of-factly. His flat, blue eyes bore a hole into the man who was challenging him. Shaken, the cowboy reared back several steps away from the table.

"Course it matters." Another cowboy from the other crew protested determined to show up the first cowboy's crew.

"No, it doesn't." Chris reiterated and fixed him with the same, flat glare.

The cowboy paused but started forward to protest again. Ezra stopped him. "I think what Mr. Larabee is telling you, is that any of us, can take you on?"

"Oh yeah, right," the cowboy replied skeptically. He glanced back to ensure his pals would back him in a fight. Satisfied, he turned back to Chris and Vin, his hand passing close to his holstered weapon.

Seven men stood as one, their guns drawn. No other man in the saloon cleared his gun from his leather. Silence. It was as if a gun had been shot to regain order but there was no gunfire.

The belligerent cowboy slowly backed away, his hands in front of him, well clear of his weapon. "I . . . I . . . didn't mean anything by it." He mumbled as he continued to retreat, stopping briefly at the table his pals were sitting at. "Fast," was his only comment. Several nods affirmed his statement. He continued walking out of the saloon, went directly to the livery, mounted his horse and left town.

And that was the end of that though Buck hadn't seemed to want to let it go. But there were no takers to his challenge to fight it out with fists. Thank God! Ezra didn't know if he had the energy. Ezra chuckled again. All in all, one of the easier confrontations they had this week despite what Mr. Wilmington may think.

Ezra rubbed his face trying to ease his exhaustion. As much as he hated playing jailer, he was luckier that several of his compatriots. At least he wasn't riding all over the territory. Josiah and JD had rode out very early this morning to the Delano Mine for the second time this week to investigate sabotage rumors.

And Nathan. Poor Nathan. That man had been run ragged. There had been the two victims of the bank robbers, both died but it had been several days before their demise. Nathan had fought valiantly, using all his acquired medical knowledge to no avail. He tended the injured from the cave-in, only to hurry back to town because Mrs. Andrews was due to deliver. Then, there had been the accident at the Robert's ranch. The death of the settler, a Mrs. Cotter. And last night, he rode out to assist Mrs. Andrews and the delivery of her new baby. Nathan had yet to return for the Andrews family lived some 15 miles from Four Corners. And now this. This editorial. People would talk. Question Nathan's skill. And worst of all, so would Nathan.

Well, it was not his problem. Ezra's problem was finding someone to relieve him. With all the men long on the trail and passing through town, they were looking for an evening's diversion. There would be several pockets ripe for emptying at his poker table. It could indeed be lucrative.

Ezra chafed at his enforced imprisonment. Come on somebody, anybody. Let Me Out Of Here!

+ + + + + + +

The batwing doors of the saloon were still swinging as Chris paused and morosely surveyed the main street of Four Corners. He could remember the days when half the storefronts were boarded shut. He glanced over at the offices of The Clarion newspaper and recalled the earnest efforts of Mrs. Travis to convince merchants to stay when thugs like James or Royal threatened the town. Chris always felt that the seven regulators received too much credit for the town surviving. The real show of force was one Mrs. Travis.

Dust churned up as the afternoon stage barreled down the street. Folks scurried to get out its way. That was different too, the sheer number of patrons on the street. Chris had meant to talk to the driver about slowing down in town but just hadn't gotten to it. Damn. Too busy. Too noisy. Too many people. He really couldn't blame Vin for wanting to get out of town for a few days. But he just couldn't afford the manpower.

"Larabee!" Chris rolled his eyes and reluctantly turned to face the aggrieved foreman of one of the trail crews. "Four of my men are in jail."

"Yes," Chris drawled slowly. "Our agreement was your men would keep their guns in their holsters. They get liquored up and the lead starts flying, they're going to jail."

"Come on," the foreman wheedled, "it was a long, hard, hot drive. They were just playing. Let 'em out."

Chris sighed. "I'll look into it."

The foreman realized that was the best he could hope for and entered the saloon, not pressing the issue further.

Chris turned and headed toward the jail. Occasionally a passer-by would nod in his direction but more often than not, folks avoided eye contact. Wouldn't want to challenge one of the deadliest men in the territory. Chris smirked. With the boardwalk so crowded it was difficult to avoid him, though folks were trying their best.

As he walked, Chris caught snatches of conversation.

"There's no doctor in this town."

"Only a healer, but he's out at the Andrews' farm."

"Former slave. Stretcher bearer during the war."

"You mean a darkie is the only healer!"

"Fifty miles to a doctor."

"Heard three folks died at the mine."

"There's been three deaths in town this week. Two shot in that bank robbery and one of the settlers."

"Mrs. Travis is right. We need a doctor in Four Corners."

Chris startled at that last comment. Mrs. Travis is right?!

By this time, he had reached the sheriff's office and entered.

"Ahhh, Mr. Larabee. Are you here to relieve me?" Ezra inquired as Chris entered.

Irritated, Chris shot Ezra a wry look. "Who you got there?"

"Six men from the two crews. All for drunk or disorderly conduct. Mr. Wilmington seems to especially enjoy throwing . . ."

Chris only half-listened to Ezra. Noting the paper, he cut him off, "that today's paper."

"Has the talk begun?"

Chris looked up suddenly at Ezra. "That bad?"

"I'm sure Mrs. Travis's motives are most noble but I fear the unintended consequences."

Chris groaned. He rapidly flipped through The Clarion to the editorial page. He skimmed the article, wheeled around, and quickly exited the jail.

"Oh, Mr. Larabee, about my relief . . ." Ezra's voiced trailed off as the door slammed shut.

"Damn," Ezra muttered. No relief, and now, he had no newspaper. He sunk back into the desk chair and pulled out his ever-present deck of cards. Shuffling smoothly, he then dealt out four hands of poker. He quickly beat 'his rivals' and railed at the injustice of continuing to be trapped as the lone jailer.

Come on somebody, anybody. Let Me Out Of Here!

+ + + + + + +

Mary Travis glanced up as the bell on the office door of The Clarion jangled. The smile of welcoming that crossed her face at the sight of Chris Larabee was quickly gone when she sensed the anger emanating from him. He looked quite dangerous dressed all in black, in his black duster with a Colt strapped low to his hips. She would have been fearful except she had gotten to know the man quite well and knew he would never hurt her, at least not physically. Rejection - well, that was a different matter.

Mary noted the crumbled newspaper in his hand. Coolly she asked, "do you have a problem, Mr. Larabee?"

Chris Larabee appeared to be valiantly trying to rein in his temper. "This editorial," he growled.

"Today's?" Mary asked, puzzled as to the problem.

"Yes, today's," Chris bit off. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Offended Mary retorted, "I was thinking, Mr. Larabee, that this town needs a doctor."

"Nathan has always been good enough."

"Mr. Jackson has exceeded all expectations."

"He saved a lot of lives."

"He's been here since the town got its fledgling start."

Mary's retort brought Chris up short. "Then why the editorial?"

"Because the town is booming. There is more work than Nathan can handle between his job for the Judge and the medical needs of the community. He needs help. He's exhausting himself trying to tend to everyone."

"So you're trying to help?" Chris stated quietly.

Mary nodded.

"Well, folks ain't as open-minded as you. They see this editorial as your call to replace Nathan."

"That's ridiculous!" Mary exclaimed offended. "Nobody could think that of me."

The argument was cut short by a call from the street.

"WE NEED A DOCTOR HERE!"

Part 3

Nathan rolled his shoulders to relieve the stiffness as he slowly rode into Four Corners. It had been a very long night. He rode out to the Andrews' farm yesterday evening expecting to be back by morning. Nathan hated nights like last night. By the time he had been called out, Mrs. Andrews had been in labor the better part of the day. She was getting exhausted and then it was a footling delivery. Rarely is there a good outcome to those deliveries. Nathan had only seen one before and both the mother and baby died despite a physician being in attendance. He railed at himself for not having more medical knowledge. Nathan could only hope he was doing the right thing. Fortunately, both the mother and baby survived.

He was appreciative of the help from Nettie Wells who had a calming influence on the family and was going to stay till Mrs. Andrews was back on her feet. Mr. Andrews never was too enamored with Nathan assisting his wife, but with no doctor in the area he had little choice. Nettie had made him understand that.

Nathan approached the livery stables and Yosemite, the burly liveryman, came out to meet him. "I'll take care of him for ya."

Nathan smiled his appreciation as he dismounted. "Thanks, Yosemite."

Nathan crossed the street and headed to his rooms. A hot meal sounded great but he needed to make sure there were no patients awaiting his return. It had been that kind of week. Last night was a victory but they had been few and far between this week. Five patients he tended and one he never got a chance to help had died this week. Those were the patients that haunted him. Was there more that could have been done?

"WE NEED A DOCTOR HERE!"

Nathan rushed down the stairs to the street. A crowd was gathering by the saloon and despite his weariness, Nathan sprinted to the emergency.

+ + + + + + +

"Son, don't move?"

"Where's the doctor?"

"There is no doctor."

"JD!" Buck yelled.

"Folks move back."

JD was lying on the ground desperately trying to catch his breath. He'd only had the wind knocked out of him due to a stupid mistake. He was so tired that he had been intent on debating the merits of leading or riding his horse to the stables; he had forgotten a basic step before mounting: checking that the cinch was tight. It was such a novice mistake that JD just wanted to hide. But no! Here he was flat on his back with the whole town starting to gather around him.

"Sir, move back," Nathan commanded as he arrived at the scene.

The stranger pulled his arm away. "Who the hell are you?"

"He's the doc."

"Yeah, right," the man retorted skeptically.

"Sir, I'm a healer. Let me tend to him."

"Boy needs a doctor." There were murmurs of affirmation from the surrounding crowd.

JD started to sit up and managed to rasp out, "I'm fine."

"Can't believe a town this size don't have a doctor."

Chris had just arrived and looked pointedly at Mary.

Mary ducked her head ashamed and once seeing that JD was fine returned to her office.

"JD. What happened?" Buck exclaimed, obviously concerned.

"It was nothing."

"Now, it wasn't nothing."

"I just fell off my horse," JD mumbled.

Buck looked up at the saddle. "Christ, JD. Didn't think I need to tell you to tighten a cinch before mounting?"

JD flushed, embarrassed. "You don't."

"Well, it appears like I do," Buck retorted stepping over JD to adjust the saddle. "You tighten the cinch before mounting. Tighten the cinch slowly. If you tighten it too quickly you can cause your horse to be "cinchy", ya know - irritable, during saddling."

Several men chuckled at Buck's lesson.

JD's jaw tightened at Buck's display. Quit it, Buck. Why don't you tell the whole town just how stupid and green I am.

"JD, you all right?" Nathan inquired laying a hand on his arm.

JD jerked his arm away. Accepting assistance from the stranger who initially came to his aid, he got on his feet.

Ezra, Vin, and Josiah arrived. "You all right, son?"

"I'm fine. I'M FINE." JD grabbed the reins from Buck and stalked off leading his horse to the livery.

"Let's break it up folks," Chris ordered.

"Well, it is a relief the boy is okay."

"Good thing, he didn't need a doctor."

"Yeah, closest one is some fifty miles away."

Nathan still knelt on the ground, his hand extended to help JD. Yeah, good thing you didn't need a doctor, kid. Because I sure ain't one. He rubbed his face trying to brush away his defeat at the failures of the past week. Nathan's retreat to his clinic went unnoticed.

"You might take it easy on JD, Buck." Josiah commented.

"Oh really, after a stunt like that. That boy needs a caretaker."

"Think Josiah's right, Buck," Vin offered.

"You embarrassed him."

"Me. ME. I embarrassed him!" Buck stalked back to the saloon. He stopped at the doors. "He looked the fool, because he acted the fool." Buck commented before entering.

"Well. Now we have finished with JD's foolishness. Who is going to relieve me at the jail?" Ezra asked.

Vin and Josiah walked off without responding. Having put in full days in the saddle, they had no interest in being Ezra's relief. He had by far the easiest day of the seven.

"Hmmm, Mr. Larabee?"

"Let 'em go."

"Pardon?"

"You heard me. Release the prisoners."

"Are you sure?"

Chris didn't deign to respond but stalked off down the street away from the walls closing in on him, the crowds, the controversies, and the burden of responsibility for everything and everyone in this town. He had enough.

Ezra watched Chris walk away. It probably wasn't smart to release the men but he sure as hell didn't want to spend all night in the jail guarding them. Ezra hurried back to the jail before Chris could change his mind.

Ezra was about to enter but he checked the street one more time, fully expecting Chris would think better of releasing the prisoners. But he was gone. Ezra shrugged.

"Come on somebody, anybody. Let Me Out Of Here," one of the prisoners demanded just as Ezra entered.

"It would be my pleasure." Ezra reached up for the keys on the hook.

The prisoner's eyes widened in surprise at the response.

"Thank you gambler."

"You gentlemen wouldn't be interested in a game?"

Several said yes. One even offered to buy a round for the table. Ezra chuckled. He had no doubts about his ability to empty these men's pockets. He rubbed his hands together, relishing the thought of a very lucrative evening.

Part 4

A tall man with short reddish hair and a neatly trimmed beard leaned against the back of the livery stable and cleaned his fingernails with the point of a large knife. The way he leaned was casual and relaxed, as if he had all the time in the world and nothing better to do. His pale blue eyes were sharp and alert, though, watching everything up and down the narrow back street from underneath the wide brim of his hat. Nothing escaped his notice.

He heard a movement to his right, the sound of a pebble scraped by a boot. The hand holding the knife paused. An uncommonly perceptive person might have noticed the muscles in his neck tighten slightly. No one else would have noticed anything at all.

A moment later another man stood next to him. This second man was much shorter than the first and had jet black hair cut so short it appeared he'd used a razor, dark skin and startlingly green eyes. He was lean and wore a long tan duster and a navy-colored slouch hat. Though his face was so still as to be almost eerie, the fingers of his right hand betrayed his restless nature, pulling at a loose thread along the cuff of his sleeve.

"Thompson," he said quietly to the other man who nodded and went back to scanning the street. "Quiet?" the shorter man asked after a minute.

Thompson, the red-haired man, didn't answer for a minute and while he was waiting the shorter man began to pace, just three short steps, then he turned, three short steps, and turned again. "This is a right interesting town," Thompson finally said in a slow voice that made it seem as if he'd been considering what he was saying for a long time. "Lotta opportunities here for a man with...initiative."

"Thompson. Sullivan." A third voice, seemingly out of nowhere, snapped their names into the early evening air as if they were bullets seeking their targets.

Thompson straightened and pushed himself away from the side of the livery.

Sullivan stopped pacing. They looked at the man standing in the back door of the stable. He was maybe six feet tall, but so lean he appeared taller. He wore a gray duster and black hat and it was rumored that he carried four guns and six knives concealed variously about his person. Thompson and Sullivan knew him only as Striker and Thompson, at least, thought he was the most snake-like man he had ever encountered. Quiet, almost unnaturally still, and then, suddenly, out of nowhere, he'd strike. And his strike was almost always deadly.

"Striker," Sullivan said. His voice was naturally low, but when he said Striker's name there was an edge to it, like the slice of a sharpened blade.

"What have you heard?" Striker said. He walked toward them, his spurs jangling with every step he took.

"They don't know anything," Thompson said with a sneer. "They're too busy just holding on."

Striker's head snapped around and he looked Thompson straight in the eye. The eyes were empty, completely empty. Thompson figured it was like looking right into the mouth of hell. "_Don't_ underestimate these men," he snapped. "You need to watch them and know them and be ready." He tilted his head and by so doing managed to look even more intimidating. Thompson in his lifetime had without compunction set and carried out a half dozen deadly ambushes, lured three posses to their deaths along the upper Rocky Mountain trails, and taken on eight Pinkerton detectives straight-up, on his own, in the middle of the town of Fortune Flats, but there was something about Striker that bothered even him. "Nothing matters so much as being ready." Striker told them now. "And being strong enough to see this through to the end."

Sullivan spoke up unexpectedly. "We'll be ready," he said and there was a trace of satisfaction in his voice. "There is no question of that. And we will never quit." And then Sullivan did something Thompson had never seen him do before. He smiled.

+ + + + + + +

Chris found Josiah in front of the church, untying his horse from the hitching rail.

"I want to talk to you," he said abruptly.

Josiah gave him a smile, ignoring the tightness in Chris's features and the way his eyes looked--narrow and dark. "I'm fixin' to ride on out to Belle's ranch right now," Josiah said. "And what with all the activity I'm runnin' a mite late. So if it can wait--"

"It can't," Chris said, cutting him off. He looked sharply at the preacher. "Where was Buck?"

"What?"

"Why didn't he go with you out to the mine? He was supposed to go, and he didn't. And I want to know why."

"Did you ask him?"

Chris made a sharp motion with his hand as if that suggestion was too stupid even to respond to. "What did he tell you?" he asked.

Josiah took a step to the side so he could lean against the rail. His horse bowed its head and stamped one foot softly, but otherwise waited patiently. Josiah spoke quietly, as if he were oblivious to Chris's fingers tapping on the handle of his pistol. "Well, now, Chris, I can't recall exactly."

"He was with a woman." Chris said it flatly, as if he were already certain of the answer.

"Now, Chris, if you're having a problem with Buck, you'd best discuss it with him."

"There's no problem," Chris said in his coolest voice. He had that small half-smile on his face, the one that had been known to strike chills down a man's spine. "Just want to know."

If Josiah hadn't been in a hurry and reluctant to ask the beautiful and enchanting Miss Belle to wait even an extra minute for his arrival, he might have taken the time to put his hand on Chris's shoulder and walk him over to the saloon and drink half a bottle of whiskey with him until they both felt mighty fine. But tonight he was in a hurry. Afterward, when it was much too late, he would have time to regret that.

"We rode out pretty early, as you know," Josiah finally said, seeing that Chris was going to insist on hearing everything. "JD and I were in the livery saddling our horses. JD was going on about something. How early it was, how he hadn't hardly gotten any sleep. Something like that."

"And?"

Josiah looked at him measuringly. "And Buck came in as we were about ready to leave. He said that something had come up. He wouldn't be able to join us, but he figured we really didn't need him anyway." Josiah looked Chris straight in the eye. "Which was true. All we were doing was checking out rumors."

"Was he with a woman?" Chris's mind was running down a single track, and he wasn't about to stray.

"I couldn't rightly say," Josiah allowed. "He came in by himself. I didn't see anyone else. But he did glance toward the door a few times so there might have been someone out there waiting for him." Josiah pushed himself away from the rail he'd been leaning against. "And now," he said, throwing his horse's reins over its neck. "I'm going." He mounted his horse, tipped his hat to Chris, and trotted down the street.

Chris turned and watched him go, but he wasn't really seeing Josiah or his horse. He was angry. He didn't know why. And what he wanted more than anything was something to be angry _at_. He hadn't asked for this, this job taking care of a town. Hell, he didn't _need_ this. No one listened to him anyway. And it was obvious no one else really cared. Buck abandoned his obligations every time a pretty woman came along. Vin wanted to head off to the reservation at the drop of a hat. Ezra couldn't even finish an easy stint at the jail without complaining up one side and down the other. What did they all want, anyway? And what did he, Chris Larabee, want? That question, which he hadn't asked himself in a long time, startled him a bit. And he began to think about it--what _did_ he want?--as he walked, almost absently, down the street.

+ + + + + + +

Casey Wells cleaned the front porch. She'd swept it three times already today so she didn't raise much dust, but she didn't feel right pacing back and forth for no good reason and she had too much nervous energy to sit still. So, she swept.

She couldn't believe how stupid she'd been last night. What had she been thinking? Well..she knew. JD got to do everything. Wear guns. Ride with the seven. Have adventures! And all she did was the same old boring stuff day after day. Was that fair?

And then, there was so much going on in town right now. The two trail crews..and she'd bet they had all sorts of stories to tell. And the mine cave-in, which hardly anyone had even told her about. And all the good and exciting things that happened at night when she wasn't even there.

She swept the broom viciously along the weatherworn boards. All she'd wanted was to see the town at night, to see all those things that JD talked about, to have an adventure. And it _had_ been an adventure, though certainly not the one she'd anticipated.

Aunt Nettie had left the buckboard in town when she'd ridden out to the Andrews with Nathan. She'd asked Casey to come in and get it, meaning, come in in the morning and get it. But that had been Casey's excuse. It'd be easy, she figured. Go into town, look around, get the buckboard and come home. Simple.

Only it hadn't been simple at all.

First, it had been so much noisier than she'd expected. There were people everywhere. None of them were people Casey knew. And they were, well,...just different than the people she saw every day. The men kept looking at her and a couple of them tried to grab her. She dodged them easily but it had made her think that maybe she should just get her buckboard and get on out of there. She'd even thought of finding JD. But then she'd thought how he would act, all protective and...older, and that had made her square her shoulders and swear that she could do this.

She'd been almost to the livery and starting to relax when a man she'd never seen before had come up behind her and grabbed her and flung her into the alley. He'd shoved her up against the wall and put his hand over her mouth, whispering something to her that she didn't even want to remember. She bit his hand and he'd yelped and reared back to hit her and she'd managed to wriggle away from him only to be grabbed by another man. She kicked that man and left him cursing at her. The two men had run into each other in the dark and she'd managed to get away from both of them, but then they'd chased her. She'd taken refuge under the porch at the back of Mrs. Potter's store, but they'd looked for her for a long time, calling names and laughing in a way that Casey'd never heard before and that scared her even more. When they couldn't find her they'd gotten angry and even after their voices had faded and she couldn't hear them any more she'd been afraid to move, afraid that they were waiting for her, or that there were more of them out there. All she'd wanted at that point was to go home. But she was too afraid even to do that.

Gradually, it had gotten quieter and after a very long time, Casey had crawled out of her hiding place. She figured that she needed help at that point. She sure wasn't going to JD--not in the middle of the night. She'd have died rather than have Chris or Josiah or Vin find out she'd been so stupid. Buck's boarding house was directly across the back alley from the general store and she headed there. She stood for a long time in the /fanfiction/shadows outside the door, trying to figure out what to do next. She knew he'd help her. He'd been the first one who'd ever looked at her like she was, well, real. And he'd always been kind to her. And she didn't, somehow, mind him knowing like she minded the others. But she felt strange, too, just walking into a boarding house at four o'clock in the morning and knocking on the door to his room.

But as she was waiting there in indecision, the door of the boarding house swung open. Casey'd jumped back into the /fanfiction/shadows her heart pounding in her chest. Buck Wilmington had emerged. He'd been laughing, his gunbelt slung over his shoulder, and a woman in his arms. He'd kissed the woman and watched her appreciatively as she walked off down the street. Casey didn't know for sure, but she must have made some kind of noise then because he'd spun around, his hand going to his gun and stared into the alley.

"Somebody there?" he'd asked in a deadly voice that suddenly made Casey want to run away.

She'd stood there for a minute, her teeth chattering, though it wasn't very cold. "Buck?" she'd said in a shaky voice. And then, the minute he'd realized it was her, everything had been all right, although she still felt stupid and more scared than she ever wanted to feel again.

Buck had asked hardly any questions. He'd taken one look at her and seen that she needed help and he'd gone to the stable and told JD and Josiah he had something else to do. He'd taken her home and stayed there while she built a fire in the stove and lit the lanterns and even after that, until she stopped shivering. Then, he'd made her tell him everything. She'd begged him not to tell anyone, not Chris or Aunt Nettie, or heaven forbid, JD. And he'd smiled at her and assured her with his hand on his heart that 'ol Buck' would never let her down.

But he hadn't been smiling at all when he'd asked her to describe the two men who'd attacked her in the alley. And she wasn't sure he'd even heard her when she'd pleaded with him to just drop it. There'd been a look in his eyes that truly frightened her and she'd wondered for the first time what it would be like to be someone Buck was angry with.

The sun had already been up for several hours by the time he'd left and she couldn't help but notice that he'd ridden toward where the trail herds were bedded down and not back into town. In a way, she wanted to know what had happened. But, she thought as she swept the porch one more time, she was never going into town again.

Part 5

Something was wrong.

Josiah could feel it before he even rode into the yard of the little white house Miss Belle had bought only two months before and fixed up like a regular fairy-tale cottage. He dismounted slowly, looping his chestnut's reins over the hitching post with a sense of inescapable doom. She hadn't come out to greet him, like she always did. The sweet honeysuckle and red roses nodded around the edges of the empty porch like they were mocking him, as if they knew what he did not. By the time the preacher climbed the slender steps and crossed the porch to raise his knuckles to the wood, he felt like Death itself could open the door and stand staring at him.

But it wasn't Death that opened the door. It was Miss Belle. Looking like Death.

Josiah's mouth fell opened as she rushed into his arms suddenly with an enormous sob, to fall upon his breast with both her tiny hands cupping her face. Josiah took her two elbows in his large hands and bent over her.

"Belle, Darlin'. What's wrong?"

She cried harder, and Josiah's heart sank with confusion. Why did women carry on like this? It just made it so hard to figure things out. He half-lifted and half-pushed her into the house and shut the door behind them, then shook her arms gently and tried to get her to look up at him. When she did, he gasped. Even in the dim interior of the snug little house, with all the drapes pulled as though for mourning, he could see that her beautiful periwinkle eyes were swollen and red from weeping. Josiah felt a stirring of outrage run through his veins.

"Why, Belle!" he exclaimed, "has someone hurt you?"

The woman nodded wordlessly, then spun around so that her back was to Josiah. She bowed her head over one hand that he saw now clutched a wadded handkerchief, and continued to weep. Josiah moved around so that he was in front of her again. His voice grew softer, but carried in it a tone that was not to be argued with.

"You need to tell me what happened," he said softly. "Tell me what happened."

"I -- I--" the woman stammered, and Josiah winced at how hoarse her sweet voice had become from so many hours of suffering alone. He put one hand on her tiny shoulder and tried again.

"You can tell me," he said. "Tell me what happened."

"I can't be -- You can't court me no more, Josiah!" Belle burst out. Her crying rose to more of a wail at the words, and Josiah took half a step back in shock.

"WHAT? Why, Belle!?! What are you sayin'?"

The woman spoke in a muffled voice from within her two hands, sniffling between words. "You can't court me no more. I'm no fit wife material no more is what's happened." She looked up to fix Josiah with a haunted face that he thought would never leave his memory. "I've been ruined," she said softly, "while you were gone."

"Ruined?" Josiah's voice was barely above a whisper as he struggled to understand her meaning. Surely . . . He looked at the woman's pale heart-shaped face, black ringlets drooping in miserable curlicues around it, two tiny spots of rose high on each cheek showing where she burned with shame inside. He jerked suddenly as he understood.

"No," he cried hoarsely. "No, this can't have happened. Oh, Belle!"

The woman fled across the room to stand over the melodion, her head bowed and her shoulders heaving with her sobs. "It did," she said. "It did, and you are too good a man, too fine a man, to consort with such as I am now."

"No. It's not that way at all, Belle." Josiah was at her side in two giant strides, taking her in his arms despite the way he felt her body stiffen. He felt tears begin to sting his own eyes. "It don't matter to me," he said. "I love you."

"It matters to me," sobbed Belle.

Josiah paused. "Who did this to you?" When Belle was silent, he turned her around to face him. "Tell me who did this to you. I'll go take care of him, and then we'll talk this all out. I'll be damned if I'm goin' to sit by an'--"

"NO!" Belle cried out in horror and laid one hand in supplication upon Josiah's chest. "Please don't try to avenge my honor, Josiah. My dearest darling! Then my heart will be broken doubly, for you will wind up in prison for killing a man on my account. He has friends, and is deadly. He might even kill you instead. I could not bear that. I would surely die."

"Tell me his name," growled Josiah. His eyes flashed a sudden spark from beneath lowered brows, and Belle shuddered.

"I can't," she whispered. "You know the man. You would kill him, or die tryin'. I cannot have that on my conscience with all this other as well."

"Then I'll find 'im." Josiah stepped back with a look of cold fury on his face. "I swear to you, Belle, I'll find that misbegotten bastard and I'll beat the living hell out of him. And then I'll come back here and you'll put on your best dress and we'll find a preacher that ain't me, and we'll get married." He slammed his hat onto his head and burst out of the parlor like a bull. Belle followed him on tiny slippered feet, her curls shaking with her terror.

"No! Josiah!! Please don't do this!!" She followed him out onto the porch and remained there entreating him to let it all go, to forget everything, to start his life anew as she would also -- and all the while Josiah checked his cinch, mounted up, and turned his horse to throw a final, power-filled look at the woman before he galloped from the yard, sending a mix of pansies and bachelor buttons through the air in shreds beneath the animal's hooves.

Part 6

JD had kept his head down as he walked off toward the livery. He was infuriated with Buck. JD could hear the chuckles from some of the witnesses. Buck humiliated him with his saddling lesson. Here he was trying to establish himself in the town and Buck just gave them more reason to realize just how green he was. It hadn't been that long ago since Miss Annie was accidently shot in that bank robbery. It was hard not to have the trust of the town. Foiling the stage robbery by Achilles and his gang had helped. And he had done well earlier in the week when he was the first one on the scene of the latest bank robbery. He laid down cover fire till the rest of the seven could arrive. The robbers were pinned and killed attempting to escape. Just as well. During the robbery, two town folk were shot and later died.

Been a hell of a week. The bank robbery. The two trail crews. The Delano mine cave-in. The accident at the Robert's ranch. Hell, no wonder he was tired and short-tempered.

JD let the ritual of caring for his horse calm him. He stroked his horse's neck as he used the curry comb to break up the clumps of dirt that stuck to his horse's hair. Josiah and he had done some tough riding today. It was a good five hours to the Delano Mine. Then, they had rode around the site and the surrounding areas to find clues that could hint to the origins of cave-in. Was it a tragic accident or something more sinister as Delano suspected? It was such a mess up there, neither Josiah or JD could reach a conclusion, one way or the other.

JD noticed that Yosemite, the liveryman, was in the stable tending a horse.

"Hey Yosemite, is that Nathan's horse you're tendin'?" JD called.

"Yeah." Yosemite's deep, gravelly voice responded. "Doc was out at the Andrew's place all night. Rode in not long ago. Plumb tuckered out. Doc's had a lot of patients this week."

JD smiled. It was just like Yosemite in his low-key way to help out a friend. He remembered the fair price Yosemite had given him when he sold his horse before leavin' town. He was also real understandin' about JD wantin' to buy it back and he didn't jack up the price.

JD startled and his brush strokes stopped as he realized he had abruptly brushed aside the helping hand of a friend. They had called for a doctor when he had fallen and Nathan had come runnin'. JD had just pushed him away and accepted the hand of a stranger. Gee, Nathan. I'm so sorry. Can I make it up to you?

JD pondered the problem as he finished his horse's care. Knowing Nathan, he would probably return to his clinic to make sure there were no patients awaiting his return. That was Nathan's way. Take care of everyone else first.

JD smiled. He left the stable with a purpose. He considered walking to the hotel to get Nathan a hot meal but the restaurant was so much closer. They had this new German cook. He made these dishes like Sauerbraten and Gulaschsuppe. JD couln't stand the stuff. Neither could his friends except for Nathan and Ezra. For a loner, Ezra hated eating alone and frequently sought out Nathan to share some hearty German fare. They generally couldn't agree on anything but how good those meals were. JD couldn't see it.

"Hey, Andreas."

"Guten tag, Herr Dunne," the cook greeted JD.

"What's for dinner?"

"Ah, one of my favorite recipes - Swabian liver dumplings," Andreas announced proudly.

JD looked at Andreas skeptically. "Is that something Nathan would like?"

"Ah, the doctor. One of his favorites too."

"I want to buy Nathan dinner and take it to his room. I've got one other errand and I'll be back."

JD went to the bathhouse a few doors down and got a bucket of hot water so Nathan could wash up. He knew Nathan would appreciate it compared to washing up with cold water.

JD returned to the restaurant but Andreas wasn't around. JD went ahead and served up some liver dumplings. He already had Andreas's okay. JD wrinkled his nose at the smell of the food. Well, at least Nathan loved this stuff. He left money on the counter for the food and carried it and the bucket of hot water to Nathan's room.

JD kicked Nathan's door with his foot. "Nathan, it's JD."

Nathan opened the door.

"Hi, wanted to apologize for pushing you away this afternoon."

"No need for that," Nathan quickly averred.

"Yeah, there is. I brought these for you." JD indicated the food and hot water.

A broad smile crossed Nathan's tired face. "That food for me?"

"It sure ain't for me."

Nathan chuckled. He knew JD hated German food. He took the bucket of hot water from JD and poured some water into a bowl. "Thanks, JD. This is really great."

"I heard that you were out at the Andrew's place all night."

"Yeah," Nathan smiled with satisfaction, "they have a beautiful new girl. She sure made it hard entering the world. There were complications."

"Will they be okay?"

"Think so. Nettie Wells is staying with them to help out."

"Is Casey with her?"

Nathan smiled at the track of JD's thinking. That girl never seemed to be far from his thoughts. "No."

"She's at the ranch by herself!" JD exclaimed.

Nathan smiled again. "Think a friend would want to check she's okay." Not that Nathan really thought Casey wasn't fine. She was a very independent young lady and could easily manage on her own.

"Yeah, you would." JD answered slowly. "But things haven't been the same since Miss Annie died."

"Go out there," Nathan encouraged, clapping a hand on JD's shoulder to reassure him it would be fine.

"Thanks, Doc."

Nathan inclined his head at the food. "No. Thank you, JD."

Nathan finished washing, then quickly gobbled the hot food. It wasn't Andreas's best but Nathan was too exhausted to care. He stripped off his vest, shirt, and pants and layed down on his bed, quickly falling asleep. It was the hard, dreamless sleep of an exhuasted man.

Andreas, the restaurant cook, noticed the money on the kitchen counter. Huh, must have missed Dunne. He was young and had a lot to learn but you couldn't fault his integrity. Not like some in the territory. Andreas stepped out to the back garden and heaved the contents of the pot onto the compost pile in the corner. He knew he shouldn't of wasted his time, the calf's liver he bought from Royal had smelled off before he started. Fortunately he had prepared a second pot and no one would eat from this one.

+ + + + + + +

JD initially planned to take a bath and shave before heading out to the Wells' farm. But he was so tired, he was afraid he'd fall asleep in the bathtub and never get out there and he really wanted to see Casey.

As JD rode up to the Wells' farm, Casey was on the front porch vigorously sweeping. JD couldn't imagine it being that dirty. JD noted Casey froze, as she became aware of a rider approaching.

"Casey," JD called out.

JD frowned as he noticed that Casey visibly relaxed as he approached.

"Hi, JD. I wasn't expecting you."

"Nathan told me your aunt is staying out with the Andersons and I wanted to check on you." JD grinned sheepishly. "And to let you know I was back from the Delano mine."

Casey smiled weakly. "Uh, that was real nice of you, JD."

Casey startled as a flock of birds flew out of the forest.

JD dismounted. "Casey, is something wrong?"

"What . . . what would make you think that, JD?" Casey started to sweep the porch again.

JD smiled disarmingly. "I don't know. You seem a little jumpy." He reached over and took the broom from Casey. "Did you get a little nervous out here by yourself?"

"Of course not," Casey hoped she sounded affronted.

"Not just a little bit?" JD teased.

Casey couldn't lift her eyes up from JD's boots. "Maybe, just a little." She finally admitted.

"Well, then, it was a good thing I came along to visit my girl."

"You would think if you was visiting your girl, you could've at least shaved."

"So you admit it. You're my girl." JD crowed.

"Now, JD, I didn't never say that. All I was saying was that if I was your girl, you would have shaved."

"So, what's for supper?"

"I don't remember sendin' out any invitations."

"Well, guess I'll just have to find another date." JD turned and started to walk towards his horse.

"I have your favorite - chicken 'n dumplin's."

"Is that an invite?"

"Yes. Please stay, JD," Casey was trying very hard at this point to keep the quaver out of her voice. If he realized just how scared she was to be alone, well, it sure wouldn't be just her's and Buck's secret anymore. They would have to tell her Aunt and the rest of the seven were bound to find out about her run-in with those men.

"Thank you, Casey."

Casey's knees sagged with relief when she realized JD was going to stay.

"Well, its ready. Let's go in."

JD's appetite was hearty during supper that there wasn't much conversation to Casey's relief. JD's head flopped a couple of times as he ate and it became apparent he was valiantly trying to keep his eyes open. "Come on, JD. You need to get some sleep." Casey led JD to the back bedroom. He plopped down on the bed. Casey pulled off his boots and covered him with a quilt. It was a relief knowing he would be here tonight.

Casey went out to the main room and sat in her Aunt Nettie's rocking chair by the fire. The Spencer carbine at her side. Casey didn't figure she would be sleeping tonight.

Part 7

Vin threw the bedroll down out of the back of his wagon and angrily tossed several blankets down after it. He threw several packs around, looking for the beaded bag he'd traded for last month just specifically to give Chanu as a thanks gift for the Feasting they'd have at the ceremony, but finally gave up and leaped out of the wagon to the ground to escape the dust he'd raised inside. Man, things could get really out of hand if you parked your wagon in a town. Too many street vehicles, thought Vin sullenly, raising too much dust. Damned town. He picked up the blankets he'd tossed down and shook them out with a sharp snap, then rolled them tightly and lashed them to the bedroll. The beaded bag had to be somewhere, and he'd just have to find it later. For now, he'd get a whiskey to wash all the damned dust out of his throat while he let it settle back down again so he could come look some more.

Throwing the tied-together sleeping things over the wagon tailgate, the tracker headed towards the saloon with a slight frown on his face. He was hoping not to run into Chris this time. The gunman was getting way too bossy these days, and now he even seemed to think that Vin was some sort of day-laborer who had to get permission to go relieve himself. Well, it wasn't that way and Chris Larabee was just going to have to get used to the idea. Vin shoved the batwing doors apart with more of a bang than he'd intended, and dropped into a chair at the first empty table he saw, signaling the barkeep to set him up. The first sip hit his belly like a fist, but the second was a little gentler, and after the third deep swallow the tracker slid down in his chair with a sigh and felt himself start to relax.

Maybe it's ok, he thought. Everyone's just tired from so much happenin' this week. An' last week. An' . . . well, the week before. Vin chuckled to himself softly and shook his head, taking another big swallow of his drink as his eyes drifted to the raised table against the wall where a knot of tense men surrounded the high-stakes game Ezra had been in all day. Just then he heard the southerner's clear accents float out from somewhere among the mass of men: "Call;" followed a moment later by the collective exhale of all the watchers as they saw the hands revealed. Vin shook his head to himself again and smiled. All they needed was a little down time, and all he needed was some time out under the stars. The tracker sighed contentedly, thinking of his favorite hidden campsite between town and the reservation, then sat up straight with a snap as he heard the furious clatter of someone reining in outside and throwing himself into the saloon with a rush that could only spell trouble.

It was Josiah.

Vin watched in silent surprise as the big man shoved his way through several others to get to the bar, reached a long arm over the counter to drag a full bottle of red-eye from behind it, and pulled out the cork with a single enraged gesture. The barkeep took one look at the preacher's glittering eyes and backed away. Everyone knew that look. To cross it was to take your life in your hands.

Vin swallowed and kept his eye on the preacher as he sullenly retreated to the back of the saloon and began to drink from the bottle, holding the neck of it in one enormous fist as whiskey trailed out the corners of his mouth and down the sides of his face and neck. Ten minutes later, Josiah tossed the empty bottle aside with a hollow thump and went to the bar to get another. He wasn't even weaving yet, Vin noticed. Maybe now was the time to find out what was going on. When Josiah returned to his table, the tracker was sitting there waiting for him. Josiah started, then narrowed his eyes.

"I don't remember askin' you to join me," he growled.

"Reckon not," Vin agreed mildly, "but it looked like you could use some company."

"Suit yourself." The preacher's voice had a surly edge to it that made several people at nearby tables get up and move farther away. Vin just sat there quietly watching Josiah start working on the second bottle, relieved to see that at least he was slowing down some this time.

"Miss Belle doin' all ri-"

"NO!" Josiah leaped to his feet, his face red with sudden fury. "Miss Belle is NOT all right! And you've no call to bring her name into this!!"

Vin stood up, his expression even. "All right," he said.

"Get out," hissed Josiah. "Just take your sanctimonious shit and get out of my sight." He dropped heavily into the chair again, turning his back pointedly to the tracker. Vin sighed and shrugged. Sometimes there just wasn't any way to reach Josiah when he was like this. It would all come out later, but . . . the man threaded his way through the saloon and went outside. Josiah's chestnut stood at the hitching rail, its sides heaving and caked with sweat. Vin stepped up close enough to stroke the animal's long nose and then scratched its ears.

"Well, looks like you got the short end a' this stick, fella'." Vin undid the loop the reins were in and backed the animal out to lead it away. "C'mon. I'll getcha' down to the livery an' we'll fix ya' up right. Josiah'll be along in the mornin', once he realizes he forgot ya'." Vin walked off into the rapidly darkening street, the horse plodding docilely at his heels. He stopped once to run quick eyes through the /fanfiction/shadows gathering at the ends of the boardwalks, feeling a shiver of being watched run across his scalp. When he saw nothing, he shook himself all over and went on.

"Reckon I'm just gettin' plumb locoed from bein' in a town so long," he said softly to the horse.

The horse snorted and led on wearily.

Part 8

Casey remembered their laughs and startled when the Spencer carbine clattered to the floor. That evil laugh. Two men who were bigger, stronger, and didn't think twice about having their fun with a girl. No matter what price she paid.

Casey found herself sobbing. She bit down on her index finger so JD wouldn't hear. She didn't think she could ever bear if he knew about her near disgrace. As it was, she was never going to town again.

Casey managed to collect herself and start the morning chores. The restless energy she couldn't control consumed her. It would be hours till the sun rose. She didn't want to think about what the day would bring. All she knew was she wanted JD to stay and make it safe.

So she did chores. Everything she could think of. She collected the eggs. Fed the chickens. Tended the stock. Mucked the barn. Cleaned, dusted, and swept the cabin. Washed windows. Polished the brass and silver - mind you, there wasn't much but they'd never been so bright.

And she swept the front porch.

JD had been asleep one moment and awake the next. He wasn't in his own room in Four Corners. He fingered the familiar quilt on the bed trying to place it. The sun was well up and he could see the room clearly. When he saw the empty, unslept-in bed across the room, he realized he was at the Wells farm.

JD quickly swung his legs over the side of the bed and searched for his boots. He walked into the main room, no Casey. JD considered the options. Maybe she was at the chicken coop. Maybe she was at the barn. Or maybe . . . Then he heard it.

Swish, swish, swish.

She was sweeping that damn front porch again. It can't possibly be that dirty.

"Casey, what're you doing?"

Casey screamed. She had been so absorbed in her task, trying to keep the dark thoughts at bay that she never heard JD until he called out. Casey's hand shook as she covered her heart. Several deep breaths later she regained her composure. "JD, you gave me a fright. You could tell a person 'good morning' without making her jump out of her skin."

JD immediately realized he frightened her. She started to back away from him. He started forward toward her but stopped when he sensed her fear. "Hey Casey, I'm sorry."

"No, no, I'm sorry. If I weren't wool gatherin', I would have heard that you're up. It's all right." Casey's voice quavered. She didn't say anything for a minute, then offered, "would you like some breakfast?"

Casey smiled tentatively at JD.

"Chicken 'n dumplin's," JD teased.

"Bacon and eggs," Casey contradicted as she walked to the cabin door, swatting JD in the chest as she passed.

JD with his quick reflexes caught Casey's hand before she could enter the cabin. Casey froze. She looked up into his eyes. A rich, almost sable brown. JD held her hand longer than was proper. Casey swallowed. JD's thumb brushed over the back of her hand. Casey's body shook slightly. She offered a slight smile and then moved to withdraw her hand. JD's hand tightened slightly slowing her withdrawl.

Casey gave a tug and turned into the cabin. "Breakfast will be ready in a bit."

Casey closed the cabin door. Oh, Lord. Casey's body quivered. Her hands covered her mouth. She wanted to kiss him. It wouldn't have taken much. Just lean a little forward and touch your lips to his. The thoughts shamed her. She'd never thought she'd have those feeling about any man again. Maybe she deserved what happened in town. Bein' forward and all.

It occurred to Casey, she'd better start breakfast. Frowning slightly, she realized it was probably closer to lunch. Her stomach had an aching emptiness. Casey realized she had barely eaten yesterday and not at all today. She pulled the rashers of bacon earlier. With practiced ease, she prepared a tray of biscuits and put them in the oven. She set the table. When the rest of the food was near ready, she fried some eggs - 3 for JD and one for herself. She went to the cabin door and called out to JD.

"This all looks great," JD enthused.

Casey surveyed the table; proud of the meal she presented. Casey wondered if she would ever have a husband to cook for, a family to tend? No, she could never. Casey's stomach was queasy and her appetite faded. She pushed her food around her plate but the thought of putting any food in her mouth -- Casey ran from the room, her stomach heaving.

"Casey . . ." JD asked tentatively, coming upon Casey around the side of the cabin where she was throwing up.

"JD, please, please just go away."

"I'll do anything you want right now, except that -- I will not go away," JD countermanded firmly. He retrieved a towel from the outside washstand that he had used before breakfast and came to Casey, handing it to her.

Casey wiped her mouth. She walked over to the water pump, cupping her hand; she got some water to rinse her mouth out.

"Casey, somethin's not right," JD stated firmly.

Casey shook her head vigorously denying the statement.

"You might think I don't know things but I do. You're jumpy and you never are. You sat up in the rocking chair last night and you never got any sleep. You sweep like every grain of sand must be gone off the porch," JD paused and lifted Casey's chin so he could look into her face, "and you hate to sweep. So don't even try to tell me, nothin's wrong."

"Oh, JD," Casey started to sob and JD wrapped his arms around her, drawing her face gently to his chest. And he let her cry.

And he let her cry.

And he let her cry.

JD didn't think a person could cry so hard or so long. He stroked her hair, crooned softly, and rocked her in his arms. And he let her cry.

Casey finally quieted. JD held Casey, not willing to say anything that would start her to cry again.

After a long time, Casey started to withdraw. "I know I owe you an explanation. I just can't right now. Give me time."

"You can tell me."

"No, I can't." Casey turned out of his arms and returned to the cabin.

Every instinct JD had told him to run after her. He was hurt that she felt she couldn't confide in him. He had a pretty good idea she had a run-in with a man. When and how -- JD didn't know. She didn't seem physically hurt. But she was just too skittish around him. Any new sound made her jump. It was obvious to JD that Casey's calm and security had been shattered. And JD was determined he would restore it.

Right now, she needed time. Time to feel safe. Time to heal. Time to trust him.

Despite his reputation, JD could be patient All he had was time. Nathan knew where he was. There was no need to rush to town. Even if they came for him - a brief explanation from him would ensure he could stay with Casey.

And the only thing that mattered right now was that Casey needed him.

Part 9

Not even 8 o'clock in the morning yet, and already it was getting hot. Vin sat his black in the middle of the half-empty street and looked at the preacher who sat head-down and hatless on the edge of the boardwalk in front of the saloon. A brown glass bottle hung loosely from one hand and his legs were sprawled in front of him. Vin glanced up at the sun and back at his friend. Aw hell, he thought. If I leave 'im out here as drunk as that, he'll wind up fryin' his brain. The tracker reined his patient gelding over to a hitching rail and dismounted to approach Josiah cautiously but with a studied casualness.

"Hey, Josiah."

The preacher looked up slowly, his eyes so red and bleary that they made Vin wince involuntarily. The big man shook his head without replying and looked back down at the ground.

"C'mon," said Vin gently, "let's get you back to the church so's you can sleep it off." He bent to take Josiah's arm in one hand, but the preacher shrugged him off with a short, violent gesture. Vin sighed and licked his lips. OK. So it wasn't going to be easy. But he owed his friend at least one more try before he headed out to Chanu's village.

He had just reached down to try again when a woman's voice rang out across the way. Josiah's head snapped up so hard and fast that the back of his head hit Vin in the nose, knocking the tracker off his feet to the boardwalk. He sat up holding his nose and looked across the street to see what had riveted the preacher's attention When he realized what it was, he scrambled to his feet as fast as he could, but he wasn't fast enough. Josiah was already half-way across the street, shoving men aside and throwing a small cart out of his way. Several women cried out as they scurried for cover, and the street grew deathly still. Vin looked up to see that Chris had stepped out of the Clarion office just at that moment and was staring at the scene starting to unfold itself before their eyes.

Beneath the hanging baskets and pots and pans of the dry goods store, a woman was struggling in a man's arms. His back was to the street, but it was unmistakably Buck Wilmington's form. The woman began to scream and yell for help as Josiah drew closer, with the result that the big man sprinted the last few steps to leap onto the boardwalk and grab Buck by the back of the collar furiously. He hurled the tall gunman from him against the wall of the store so hard that the windows rattled, and then fixed protective eyes on the woman. She was holding up a torn sleeve and crying, and she lowered her face miserably when she saw that her rescuer was Josiah.

"Miss Belle?" Josiah's voice was deep and vibrant. The woman trembled even more and looked away, weeping. Josiah gazed slowly from Belle to Buck, then back to Belle. Buck straightened up shakily, wiping the back of his hand across a bleeding lip he'd somehow gotten when he'd hit the wall. His eyes were riveted on Josiah, the reek of alcohol from the big man almost overwhelming. He stole a rapid glance at Vin, who had drawn up nearby in an attitude of watchfulness, then looked back at the larger man.

Josiah reached out a single hand to the woman's shoulder, and she quailed. He hesitated.

"Belle," he said in a voice heavy with grief, "Did Buck . . .was Buck botherin' you just now?"

The woman nodded wordlessly. Vin shifted uncomfortably and looked at Buck, then down the street to where Chris was slowly approaching with a look of pure disgust on his face.

"He the one tore your sleeve?"

The woman gulped and nodded again. Josiah's face grew dark as a thundercloud, and he growled: "He's the one, ain't he. Buck's the one that . . ."

Belle turned a tear-streaked face to Josiah and cried in a wavering voice, "Oh, Josiah! Don't! Please don't do anythin' you'll regr-"

But he already had Buck, right then, before the words were even out of her mouth. Both enormous arms wrapped around the slender gunman's own arms and his ribs, Josiah bent backwards so that he lifted Buck's feet from the boardwalk. Vin ran up and grabbed Josiah's sleeve, yelling to break through his rage and get his attention, as Buck's face began to purple.

"Josiah!" screamed Vin, "Let 'im go! Let 'im go, Josiah!"

"ADMIT IT!" roared Josiah to Buck. "ADMIT WHAT YOU DID, YOU SON OF A WHORE!!"

Buck's face went white and he squirmed suddenly in Josiah's arms in a way Vin immediately knew was far more dangerous than anything that had yet happened. He tried to force himself bodily between the two men, but it was impossible. He heard the breath whistling out of Buck as Josiah crushed him more and more tightly, the tall man mouthing whispered words out of it as he struggled now to reach his gun.

"God damn you, Josiah," he was saying, "God DAMN you, LISTEN to me." Buck's face began to pale in an alarming way, and Vin thought for a moment he was going to have to draw his gun when suddenly the gunslinger had his pistol in his hand, the barrel pressed against Josiah's ribcage.

Everything froze.

"Now," hissed Buck. "Get your hands OFF me."

Josiah released the man with a furious gesture that could easily have set off the pistol by accident, and Buck staggered. Vin swallowed as the younger man regained his balance and returned Josiah's enraged glare with a steady look of pure threat. Not a man doubted but what Buck would shoot before he'd let himself be crushed to death. All that was audible was Josiah's heavy breathing, and now and then a soft sob from the woman.

"First off, I didn't know that was Miss Belle," began Buck.

"SHUT UP!" roared Josiah. He raised a meaty fist at Buck's head and the latter raised his pistol warningly.

"Put it away." It was Chris's voice. Vin jumped and blinked, and so did Buck. They both looked at the lean man standing in the street, his lips pursed into a tight line. "Put the gun away, Buck."

Buck sputtered a moment, then flushed deep red. "What the hell?! He tried to KILL me, Chris!"

"I said put the gun away." Chris's eyes had gone flat in a way that made Buck's eyes widen with comprehension.

"Oh I get it," he said. "You figure _I'm_ the threat around here now, is that it?" He threw a quick assessing glance at Josiah, clearly uncertain about what would happen if he holstered his weapon.

"Go on," whispered Josiah softly, his voice rumbling with threat, "get out. But if I ever see you near Belle again, I swear to God I'll break you in half."

Buck holstered his pistol bitterly and shoved his way past Vin to walk off. Vin looked at Chris and then Josiah. Belle staggered suddenly against Josiah and raised wide eyes to the preacher's face.

"I've decided," she said in a choking voice, "I've decided if he's that forward even in a town, no woman is safe. I want to press charges against him. For what he did to me."

Josiah wrapped his arms around the woman to shelter her as he led her off to the jail. Chris walked up to stand beside Vin, and the tracker looked his friend up and down in an appraising way as the few people who had been watching the altercation went back to business.

"I thought you'd be halfway to Brazil by now," said Chris coolly. Vin's eyes narrowed.

"Too bad you don't remember favors the way you do slights."

Chris's frame vibrated as if he'd been slapped. "Meanin'?" His voice was low and dangerous. Vin turned suddenly to face him.

"Meanin' Buck is your oldest friend. How could you possibly believe that--"

"That's just exactly the point!!" Chris shouted down Vin's words and then let the silence claim the space as his own. "I know him. You don't."

"I disagree." Vin's eyes had gone brittle now, too, and his stance rigid. "And as soon as 'Miss Belle' finishes tellin' her story over to the jail, I think I'll just have a word or two with 'er."

"Lookin' to find what?"

Vin's expression was cold. "The truth." He turned on his heel and started to walk away, but Chris caught him by one arm and whirled the tracker to face him. Vin's hand went to his mare's leg instinctively, and he took a step back. Chris raised his own hands above waist level to make it clear that he intended no gunplay.

"Get this straight," said Chris in a dangerously silky voice, "there'll be no questioning of that woman today. Not beyond what's necessary for her to file whatever charges she's planning to file."

"Charges!" Vin shook his head. "Chris, have you totally lost your--"

The gunman didn't even stay there long enough to listen, though. He just turned around and walked off, without even a backwards glance. Vin stood in the street a moment, turning over the idea of trying to maybe beat some sense into his friend's head. But in the end, he decided to go talk to Buck instead, and see if he couldn't find a way to make things better instead of worse.

Of course, at the time he didn't realize just how much worse things were about to get.

Part 10

Son of a whore
Son of a whore
Never be nothin'
You son of a whore

That's what the kids had said about him in Wichita when he was ten years old. And his mother had told him to leave them alone because they had fathers and a 'place' and no one would back a skinny whorehouse kid over them.

It was Wichita where he'd learned to fight, on his own with no one to back him. He'd gotten the hell beat out of him more times than he cared to remember. But he never quit and he never expected what he could never have--someone to turn his back to.

Years after that he'd met Chris. Then, he'd come here and he'd thought...well, it didn't matter what he'd thought because all that was just so much bullshit. He'd been a fool to ever think it was otherwise.

His spurs jangled with each step he made as he strode down the boardwalk toward the boarding house where he rented a room, setting up echoes of that long-ago taunt. Son of a whore, son of a whore...

He thought about turning around and going back and finding out just what Josiah was thinking. But, what was the point? Josiah had said it. Chris had backed him. All the rest was just lies they told when no one's back was against the wall.

He threw clothes into his saddlebags, not even caring what they were, just wanting to get out of there. Out of that room with its closed-in, stifling walls. And out of that town, where he'd thought there might be a place for him. His mouth flashed a bitter smile, there and gone so quickly that even if there'd been anyone there to see, they'd have been hard-pressed to notice it.

He straightened too quickly and the bruising on his ribs from where Josiah had crushed him grabbed at him, forcing him to pause at least long enough to catch his breath. He sank into a straight-backed chair and ran a hand still trembling with rage through his hair. What the hell had actually happened back there?

He'd been on his way to the saloon for breakfast when a woman he'd never seen before, a pretty little thing with dark hair and tiny delicate features, had stumbled right in front of him. She'd have fallen if he hadn't caught her and, as it was, she'd torn the sleeve of her dress on one of Mrs. Potter's fruit baskets. He'd helped her to her feet and she'd started to smile at him and he'd smiled back, preparing to tip his hat to her, when she'd gone plumb loco. At least, that was all he could figure. Yelling and crying, and he hadn't wanted to just let her go, afraid that she would hurt herself...and then--

He stood abruptly, jamming his hat onto his head and slinging his laden saddlebags over his shoulder.

And then--all hell had broken loose.

It wasn't something Buck even wanted to think on anymore. The world had turned out exactly the way he'd once believed it always would. And the fact that for a while he'd glimpsed a different sort of place, didn't make this world any more or less than what it was.

He stalked out of the boarding house and struck out for the livery. Miss Molly, the new seamstress, saw him coming and started to smile and greet him, but then the words she'd been about to speak died, unsaid, as she caught a glimpse of his face. He looked so alien...so dark and threatening and, well, frightening, that she lowered her hand and backed away. And when he was gone, she went back inside her store and closed the door and wondered if maybe she shouldn't just hide away in the dark until whatever evil had just descended, finished its feast and moved on.

Buck never even saw her. He never saw anyone as he made his way down the street. In that moment there was only the path out of town and the long empty road ahead of him.

And the ancient mockery of children still echoed with every step he took:

Son of a whore
Son of a whore
Never be nothin'
But the son of a whore...

+ + + + + + +

Sullivan checked his horse a second time. He'd loosened the cinch earlier and he double-checked it now to be sure he could tighten it when he needed to in one quick and simple movement. He checked the ties around his bedroll and the fit of his horse's bridle. None of this was necessary; everything was as it should be. Nevertheless, Sullivan checked.

He was waiting on a small ridge above the town because Striker had told him to be ready. Things were about to tear loose, he'd said, and Sullivan, who was always ready, had nodded once and headed on out of town to the spot he'd already picked out several days before. He had shed his duster for more comfortable buckskins, though he still wore the faded slouch hat to shade his eyes and leather cowboy boots rather than moccasins. He carried a long bow and a quiver full of arrows in addition to the rifle strapped to his saddle and the pistol on his hips. He looked like what he was, a man who belonged neither in one world or the other. And who had learned the art of hate from both worlds put together.

He wondered who would be the first to leave. He had managed, in the course of the two weeks he'd spent in Four Corners to find a reason to hate each of the men who protected the town. The young one, Dunne, he hated just for being young. So stupid and so eager, in his stupidity, to jump straight into everything. A boy like that deserved to die without ever growing old. And there was that healer, Jackson. Who did he think he was? A darkie had no business putting himself above others, pretending he had learning. Sullivan would be happy to take him out, to teach him what it was to know his place. The man in fancy clothes, the man in black, the one who called himself a tracker, the sanctimonious preacher. Sullivan hated them all. It was part of who he was, part of his talent, you might say, that Sullivan could find a reason for killing everyone he'd ever met.

He'd been waiting at his chosen spot for a little less than two hours when he saw a man riding out of town. He was mounted on a big grey horse and Sullivan had to wait a bit for the man to get close enough to identify. When he saw who it was, his face relaxed a fraction. Yes, he thought, this was what he had hoped for. The man with the moustache. The one who laughed too much and drank too much and stole women away from Sullivan that he'd only been thinking of approaching. Yes. This man, Buck Wilmington, he was the one Sullivan had already decided he hated the most.

He watched for a little while as Buck disappeared down the south road out of town. Then, he mounted his own horse and settled in to follow him.

Part 11

Chris stood in the jail with his hands on his hips and listened grimly as Belle told her story. What the hell was going on? Had everyone gone crazy? Buck had been stupid over women more times than Chris cared to count. If anyone should know that, it would be Chris. He'd bailed him out of more than one fix over the years. Heck, the first time they'd met it'd been when Buck had been about to get himself killed being chased by a bunch of brothers who swore he'd stole their sister away from them. Buck had been ready to face them alone and it'd startled him when Chris had stepped up and helped him. But justice had been important to Chris back then and he couldn't just stand by and watch someone beaten in a fight he couldn't win. They'd stuck together off and on after that. There were things Buck did that just made Chris cringe, but he was a good man to have in a fight; he never backed down, he never hesitated, and he would always cover your back when you needed him.

So, what, Chris thought, forcing his mind back to the issue at hand, was all this?

They'd been in the jail almost half an hour before Belle even calmed down enough to talk to them. "You're making her nervous," Josiah had said to Chris.

Chris had just looked at him and after a minute Josiah had looked down at Belle again and patted her hand. She was sitting in the desk chair and Josiah was leaning against the desk with his arm around her shoulders. His eyes were red and bloodshot, but they also glowed with an almost fanatical light. "Come on, Belle," he said softly. "Tell him what happened."

"Oh, I'm so ashamed," Belle wailed. "Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe..." she started to rise, but Josiah pushed her gently back down.

"No, no," he said. "It's gotta be done. You gotta tell us, Belle, or we can't help you."

Belle drew in a deep shuddering breath. She looked up at Chris, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watching her. "I was at the ranch. I was alone. I've been alone for several years. Since my dear husband--" she broke off and dabbed at her eyes. "Well, yes,...I have a foreman, but he was out on the range so I really was alone."

Chris tried to control his impatience. Couldn't she just get to the point?

"He came...that man...that--"

"Buck?" Chris asked harshly.

Josiah glared at him. "Chris..." he said warningly.

"I want to hear this story," Chris said. "I need to judge for myself."

Josiah's face darkened and he made as if to rise, but Belle's hand plucked at his sleeve. "It's all right," she said. "I'll...I'll...I'm trying." She raised her damp eyes to Chris and he backed off again.

'Okay,' he thought, 'I'll listen. But something's wrong here. Something has to be.' When he'd walked out of the Clarion and saw Buck in the middle of some kind of fracas involving a pretty woman, he'd figured it was just the same old thing. He was damned tired of it. And getting Josiah worked up. Damn! Buck ought to know better. But this...this was something else. And it wasn't adding up.

Belle's voice trembled a bit as she continued. "It was just past dawn yesterday morning...This man came to the door. This...Mr. Wilmington. He smiled at me and said that he'd heard about me from--" she looked at Josiah, whose face suddenly looked thunderous.

Buck had listened to his stories about Belle and then he'd moved in on her when Josiah's back was turned. His hand closed into a massive fist. He wished he'd killed him when he'd had the chance. "Go on," he urged her, trying to keep the rage from his voice.

Belle shrank lower in the chair. "He kept smiling. You know, that's what I remember most. The way he smiled. He pushed his way into the house. I couldn't stop him. He put his hand on..." She drew a deep breath. "He put his hand on me and he said, well he said just awful things and he wouldn't stop." She paused and buried her head in her hands again.

"You gotta tell him what he did," Josiah urged her. "Come on, Belle. You gotta."

"He _ruined_ me," Belle said dramatically.

Chris straightened. "How?" he asked harshly.

For a moment, Belle faltered. "How?" she repeated faintly. "He...he forced me to...I mean, he...oh this is just too terrible."

"Did he rape you?"

Belle moaned. Josiah leaped to his feet and moved toward Chris. "That's enough!" he roared.

Chris didn't even flinch. "I have to know," he said to Josiah.

Josiah moved another step closer and Chris could see that his hands had already formed into fists. The smell of whiskey on his breath was overpowering. "You don't have to scare her. My God! Hasn't she been through enough?"

Chris wasn't about to back down. "I want to know the truth."

"Yes!" Belle's muffled voice halted both men.

Josiah returned to crouch down beside her. He touched her shoulder. "What did you say?" Belle's shoulders heaved. "Come on, darling. Tell us."

"Yes. Yes, yes, YES!" Belle raised her head and shouted at both of them. "He raped me! He raped me! Is that what you wanted to hear? He held me down and he raped me and I want him arrested and put where he can never do it again!"

For a moment everything in the jail froze. It felt to Chris as if the temperature actually dropped. Because this was not what he had ever expected to hear. How could this be happening? He'd known Buck for years. He'd seen him make a fool of himself too many times to count. He'd seen him fight more than one good friend for nothing more than a woman's kiss. That's what this morning should have been. And Buck would have deserved it for messing with Josiah. But this--

"Look," he said. "You'd better be sure."

"I'm sure!" Belle yelled at him. "I know. Do you think I'd forget his face?" She buried her head in her hands again. "How can you be so cruel? Can't you see how hard this is for me?" She shook her head and cried. "You don't know. Neither of you. You don't know what it's like to be a woman alone. To not have a man to protect you. To be in danger and have no one to turn to. My husband..." she moaned. "If he were here, none of this would have happened."

Josiah patted her on the shoulder again. "_I'm_ here," he said. "I'm not leaving you, Belle. I know I wasn't...that I didn't." His voice broke. "I swear nothing more will ever happen to you." He looked at Chris a dark, shining light of rage and vengeance in his eyes. "We gonna arrest him, Chris?"

Chris had gone still and very quiet. "Why don't you take Miss Belle home, Josiah?" he said softly. "I'll take care of things here."

Josiah wanted his promise. He wanted to know that when he came back to town Buck Wilmington would be waiting for him behind the bars of the jail, but there was something in the look on Chris's face that made him decide, even in the midst of his own grief and anger, that now was not the time to push him.

Chris was barely aware of Belle and Josiah leaving. He stood for several minutes after they'd left and stared at nothing. Belle had said it and she hadn't even known--'you don't know what it's like...to not have a man to protect you.' And that was true. Chris didn't know. But he'd imagined it. Over and over for three years he'd imagined what it had been like for Sarah to be at the ranch alone when the men who would kill her had come. Had she screamed? Had she fought them? Had she prayed for Chris to return in time? It didn't sound right. It didn't sound possible. Chris never knew Buck to hurt a woman. But he couldn't flat out say that Belle was lying and Buck was going to have to face up and explain this one. Chris was going to make damned sure he did.

Part 12

Where the hell was he?

Vin scowled very slightly to himself and leaned against the upright at the edge of the boardwalk, his eyes roaming the street quickly to see if he could catch sight of Buck as he ran the whole thing over in his head again.

Buck had left the confrontation with Josiah upset -- understandably so. He might even have been injured by Josiah's crushing him; Lord knew the big man was a serious menace when he was in a dark drunk. Vin had thought someone needed to make sure the tall gunman was all right, and since Chris clearly wasn't going to do it Vin had decided his leaving for the reservation could probably wait another fifteen minutes.

But that had been thirty minutes ago now. Buck wasn't in the saloon, neither Flora nor Pansy had seen him, and he hadn't gone to Nathan's. Hell, NO one was at Nathan's. Vin's knocking had resulted only in total, empty silence. The tracker scowled again. What the hell was going on? And where was Buck? His eyes lit on his saddled gelding, still standing patiently head-down at the hitching rail where Vin had left him an hour ago when he'd spotted Josiah sitting in the sun, drunk. For one blindingly intense moment Vin thought of just heading on out to the reservation and letting the whole bunch of them stew in their own juices. Then a roar burst from the dark interior of the saloon behind him and he looked back over his shoulder into it, generally irritated as the spell broke and responsibility lit on his shoulders again. Sounded like Ezra had won another hand -- which meant he wouldn't be leaving the table any time soon. And with Chris and Josiah questioning Belle, and JD and Nathan God-knows-where, if Vin didn't find out whether or not Buck was ok it looked like no one would. Well damn.

There was really only one place left to look before he started combing the alleys, and Vin headed there with a sense of sticking his nose way too far into Buck's business. But there was always the chance that the gunman had gone to his room injured and not been able to leave again. The tracker wasn't surprised when no one answered his tap on the boarding house door. But he was surprised when he cautiously pushed it opened and saw the empty dresser drawer thrown onto the middle of the bed.

Pushing the door a bit wider, Vin looked quickly around the small room. No boots tossed in the corner. No hat thrown across the dresser top. No dirty bandannas hanging off the footboard. Hell!

Buck was gone.

Vin really didn't have to check the livery, but he did it anyway. The grey was gone, too. The tracker leaned against the stall door and rubbed a tired hand across his face. Things were getting way too far out of hand. He ought to just get on his black and ride on out to the reservation and leave all this mess to sort its own self out, he thought. Of course, then Chris would have no idea that Buck had left. He'd find out sooner or later, but meanwhile he'd work himself into even more of a rage than he was in now. Not that it mattered much to Vin at this point, but there were the townsfolk to consider. If Chris got much madder he was going to start shooting people for parting their hair on the wrong side. Vin sighed again and pushed himself off the door he'd been leaning on. Might as well get it over with.

He'd set his hand on the latch of the jail door when he heard the rising wail of a woman crying, and hesitated. It was coming from inside the jail and was accompanied by Josiah's rumbling bass, whispering reassuring words that could be heard halfway across the street. Vin took a cautious step to his right so he could see in the window slantwise, and when he saw the look on Chris's face as he stood watching Belle and Josiah at the desk, he changed his mind about going in there right now. The gunslinger looked like he had a mouth full of glass and no place to spit it out.

New plan, thought Vin. Wait for Chris in the saloon.

It took nearly an hour for the taut-lipped gunman to show up. He shoved his way into the dark and smoke, threw a poisonous glance in the direction of the high-stakes game that was still holding noisy court on one side of the room, and then stalked to the bar and stood there in a brittle posture that made the barkeep react quickly. He slid a full whiskey bottle down the polished mahogany; Chris caught it one-handed and tipped it to pour the dark brown liquid into a shot glass that he drained in a single swallow. He was pouring a second when Vin sauntered casually to the bar to lean his back against it, looking out at the room with idle eyes.

"That bad?" he drawled.

Chris just shot a look that flashed like summer lightning at Vin, and downed his second drink without replying. The tracker sighed and watched the men who were crowded around the poker table that was hidden in their midst.

"Josiah?" asked Vin after a long while.

Chris leaned his elbows on the bar and hunkered down so that his shoulders stuck up to either side of his hollowed back. His hat brim was low over his eyes.

"Took Belle home," he said. He turned his shotglass in his hand idly, looking at the contents rolling from side to side inside it. He sniffed, then finished the drink and looked sideways again at Vin, the empty shotglass still held between his fingers. "She says Buck raped her."

Vin felt his stomach lurch, but he turned only his head to look at Chris. Very slowly.

"She says what?"

Chris sighed and set the glass down gently on the bar. He turned to face Vin, one arm leaning on the counter. "She says Buck came out to her place night before last, just about dawn, raped her. While Josiah was out of town at the Delano Mine."

"Buck wouldn't--"

"She swore out a complaint. Formally."

"But, Chris--"

"I have to arrest him, Vin."

The tracker blinked and looked away again, his eyes wandering over the patrons at the various tables. What the _hell_ had gotten into everyone? He straightened up and turned to face Chris fully. He felt his hands close into fists, and concentrated on flexing them and trying to relax. Over-reacting wouldn't help a thing.

"Look, there has to be some mistake here. Buck wouldn't--"

Chris's face hardened and his eyes turned flinty. He looked Vin up and down in a way the tracker didn't like one bit, and then turned back to the bar in a dismissive way. "Don't tell me my business," he said.

Vin stood there a long moment looking at the side of his friend's face: the corded features, the disdainful half-sneer, the studied lack of concern. He felt himself growing cold. "Well, there's somethin' you outta' know then." Vin's voice had taken on a tight, raspy tone that made a slight smile play across Chris's lips.

"That bein'?" He didn't even look over.

"He's left town."

"Buck left town?" Chris turned at that, a look of genuine surprise flashing across his face, followed immediately by one of fury.

"Can't say as I blame 'im much, either," continued Vin, ignoring the question. "I'd a' done the same myself, you did me like that."

Chris's face turned dark red, and he cocked his head sideways slightly. "I'll forget you said that." His voice was threatening.

"Please don't." Vin's eyes narrowed and he shook his head. "I don't know what in hell is goin' on, Chris, but I'll go find Buck an' talk to 'im. Get this mess straightened out." He turned to leave, and Chris grabbed his arm. Vin froze.

"He's wanted," said Chris evenly. "If you're not back with him in 24 hours, I'm comin' after you."

Vin looked over his shoulder at Chris, then looked pointedly down at the gunslinger's hand, still on his arm. Chris released it, and Vin raised his eyes once more to the other man's face. "You just do that," he said.

He walked out.

+ + + + + + +

The two men sitting across from each other at the small table outside the saloon looked up from their game of checkers as Vin pushed through the saloon doors and headed straight for the black horse standing at the hitching rail. They watched as he jerked the reins from around the wooden railing with a snap and mounted up even as the animal was still turning around in the street, then legged it into a lope that left only hot dust floating in the now- empty space. The one with auburn hair scratched at his beard and smiled wryly at his companion.

"Well. That was unexpected." Thompson laid a black disc at the far end of the checkerboard. "King me."

A third man came out of the saloon quietly and slid against the wall behind Thompson's partner, Striker. They both looked at him and Striker raised one eyebrow a fraction.

"He's going after Wilmington," said this man softly. "Larabee's given him 24 hours to bring him in."

"Or?"

"Or he comes after them."

Thompson chuckled coldly, a sound like scales sliding across sand. "Well, everything else has gone so beautifully according to plan, I suppose it doesn't matter if this one thing switches to the back-up." He stood up and nodded to Striker, who sat back in his chair with long fingers tapping lightly on the checker piece that Thompson had just demanded be crowned. "I'll make sure he doesn't catch up with Wilmington. Or that if he does, he doesn't keep him from -- serving our purposes."

"That should go without saying," said Striker flatly.

"Yes. Of course." Thompson frowned very slightly and headed for the dun mare that had been standing saddled all this time next to the black gelding. He mounted up and touched his hat brim to Striker and the man leaning against the wall. His eyes went dark. "Sullivan has his man. I am on mine. You can just figure on two down; they're as good as gone."

He turned the mare and spurred her into a loose trot after the gelding. Striker looked back up at the man leaning against the wall behind him.

"Get back in there," he said softly, "and step on his toes or something if he starts to calm down." He looked at the checkers and smiled. "Got to make sure the fuse stays lit."

Part 13

"Ma, I'm back."

Mary smiled as the back door slammed and she heard her son clomp through the house to the offices of The Clarion. "No kidding, son." She opened her arms for a hug and her son obliged. Mary held him a moment longer than normal. She needed that; it had not been a good week.

Billy squirmed out of her arms. "I'm hungry. Can I have an apple?" Mary looked hard at Billy. "Please, may I have an apple?"

"Yes, you may."

Billy went to retrieve an apple. Mary followed him into the kitchen. "I need to go talk to some folks for some stories I'm working on. Do you want to go with me or play with your friends?"

Billy looked sideways over at his mother. He burst out of the chair with energy Mary could only envy and he was out the back door again.

Mary waved at the closed door. Nice seeing you son, so glad we had this long visit. Mary wiped her hands over her tired face. She hadn't slept well. She was worried about the doctor editorial and knew it would take a lot of effort to make sure that when Four Corners obtained a doctor that it is done right.

And frankly, she was very worried about Chris Larabee. He was definitely on edge. It had been a particularly busy week for the seven regulators. She knew he had spent most of the week in town because he would stop in for an early morning cup of coffee. They'd exchange pleasantries; he would get his coffee and go sit on the front porch. Mary had attempted to discuss events with him but he'd have some curt rejoinder that didn't encourage conversation and she didn't pursue it. And then yesterday, that stupid argument over the editorial. And it was the longest conversation they'd had in weeks! Mary shook her head. You're just feeling lonely and he can't or won't give you more of his time. And you, girl, just don't want to spend time with any other.

Mary wearily stood up. She grabbed a small notebook and decided she would walk over to Potter's to pick up on any gossip or stories she could put in tomorrow's paper. She just needed some fillers -- there was plenty of news: the bank robbery earlier this week, further deaths at the Delano Mine cave-in, and she had heard word of some Indian troubles.

Mary walked briskly down the boardwalk. The afternoon stage came barreling down the main street. Mary gave a heartfelt sigh -- guess she would need to talk to Chris about getting the driver to slow down in town. I'm sure that will be another pleasant conversation.

Mary pushed the door open to Potter's and surveyed the store. It was quite crowded. There were several couples, a trapper's wife in for a rare trip to Four Corners to restock supplies, and a stranger Mary didn't know.

"I think the town council should decide on qualifications and start searching for a doctor."

"Mary," Gloria Potter, the owner and Mary's good friend, called her over. "We were just discussing your call for a doctor."

Mary arched a brow at Gloria, my call.

Gloria smirked, yes, friend. Mary rolled her eyes at Gloria.

"I think the gentleman makes a good point about qualifications. Excuse me, I don't believe we've met?" Mary turned to the newcomer.

"John Bland. I've arrived ahead of my family. We'll be settling in these parts." He extended his hand and Mary shook it briefly.

"Mary Travis, editor of the local paper." Mary put her hand behind her and surreptitiously tried to wipe it. She thought she had an open mind but there were some people you feel are . . . are slime. Mary couldn't think of a better word. He was rather nondescript. A white man, medium build, brown hair, brown eyes. His hands were soft. That was it, Mary decided. Now, Chris's hands were rough with calluses that they'd scrape when he took her hand. He had this tendency to rub his thumb . . .

"Mary. MARY." Mary jumped and shook her head to clear Chris Larabee from her thoughts. "Mr. Bland was just saying . . ."

"I was dismayed when I found out there was no doctor here," Mr. Bland continued.

"We are very lucky to have Mr. Jackson," a farmer's wife joined the conversation.

"That won't do. He has no proper training," said Mr. Bland, "and can't get any formal schooling because . . . well, he just can't."

"Nathan was a stretcher bearer during the war. He is well known and respected by many physicians in the territory. He has consulted with them on patients and they have asked for his assistance," Mary contradicted.

"Pshaw," Mr. Bland snorted, "I can hardly believe that."

"There was the influenza outbreak at Gilley's Bend."

"The railroad accident when they were blasting at Elk Junction."

"Cholera at Eagle Bend."

Mary smiled at how quickly others in the store could think of examples of Nathan being called out to assist other towns or doctors.

"My family owes Mr. Jackson a debt we can never pay." Mrs. Job, a trapper's wife said. "When my Tommy was so sick with the fever last winter, I sent my eldest Jake to fetch Mr. Jackson. Storm was blowing something fierce by the time he got to Four Corners; Mr. Jackson got him a room at the boarding house. But the storm didn't stop Mr. Jackson from riding out. He sat with my boy for days, giving him medicine, nursin' him, sittin' with him -- well, with my husband gone tendin' the trap line and with the five young 'uns, I was just so glad he stayed. Offered for him to go back to town if he was needin' to. Mr. Jackson refused. Said he couldn't imagine a more important place he needed to be right now." Mrs. Job's voice choked as she continued, "come spring when we came down for supplies, offered Mr. Jackson some of my strawberry preserves and slippers from skins I made. He thanked me like I was doin' him some big favor. So you tell me, what doctor has you known, do that for you?"

"We lived outside Denver. Doctor was 10 miles away. He would only tend you if you paid in advance. Nothing in barter, only cash. And if he came out to your place, he'd charge $5 more," Seth Andrews, a local rancher mentioned.

"Oh, Mr. Andrews, I heard that your wife had the baby?" Gloria exclaimed.

Mr. Andrews beamed, "our Angel. Just the most beautiful baby girl."

"And your wife?"

"Well, there were complications so she needs to rest up. We're just lucky Miz Nettie is staying and helping till she's on her feet."

"My point exactly, that's why a doctor is needed," Bland announced.

"Don't see how he could've done much better than Jackson. Baby was turned around and a leg came out first. He took care of it and they're doing just fine." There was no missing the pure relief in Andrews' voice. The men and woman in the store, ranchers/farmers, gathered round Andrews' offering congratulations and silent prayers of thanks for his good fortune.

Bland watched the festive group. Damn. He turned and left the store disgusted. It had gone so well. He had started talking up the need for a real doctor. He had manipulated events so the editor published a call for a doctor. It had been going so well. But lately when he talked up a real Doctor in town, they all started to rally around Jackson. A darkie at that. Well, we'll just see how you all feel once the food poisoning pandemic breaks out. Bland had seen how busy the restaurant had been last night -- they closed early when they ran out of food. Oh yes, what will you think of him then, when you all are so sick and he can't help you. Bland chuckled darkly. Little would anyone realize. It might not all be going to plan. But close enough.

Part 14

Buck rode steadily southward for two hours. He was not the kind of man who dwelled on his decisions and he already saw Four Corners as something behind him. There were pretty women most anywhere and a man like him could always find something interesting to do. It would be strange for a bit to be alone again. But he'd get by. He always had. And if it had been good for awhile to have men who would watch his back and maybe even worry about him a little, well...he just wouldn't think on that anymore.

The sun was still rising in the sky and the day was already hot when he stopped to rest and water his horse underneath a small grove of trees along a river bank. He dismounted and let his horse drink greedily of the fresh clear water. He didn't realize that he'd been standing staring at nothing for several minutes until he felt his horse nudge his arm with a wet muzzle.

He rubbed his hand along its nose. "Hey, old pal," he said. "It's just you and me again." He adjusted the saddle and checked his saddle bags and bed roll. Then, he turned and led his horse back up away from the river.

+ + + + + + +

Sullivan crouched in a nearby rock outcropping and watched as Buck Wilmington watered his horse and prepared to ride on. 'Come on,' he thought. 'Come to me.' And if he'd been the kind of man who smiled, he'd have smiled. He'd been waiting and watching for the right moment since the minute Buck had left Four Corners. He had a job to do and he could have done it at any time once Buck was several miles out of town. But he was Sullivan and it was important to him that he do it at just the right moment. A moment when Buck was alone and vulnerable and not expecting an attack and Sullivan could make him feel as if the whole world had finally betrayed him.

He watched Buck approach. 'Just a little closer,' he thought. Then, Buck took another step and Sullivan, quicker than thought, nocked an arrow, pulled back his bow, took swift, careful aim...and fired.

+ + + + + + +

The arrow hit Buck high in the right leg, like a flat punch, slamming him backward into his horse. God damn it! He scrambled, pulling his horse back with him, trying to find some cover in the small grove of trees. A second arrow whistled over his head and he swept his hat off and crouched behind the largest tree trying to figure out where the attack was coming from. A third arrow came arcing into the trees and he fired his pistol at the rock outcropping. His leg felt like white fire, hot and cold at the same time. He pulled his horse toward him and pulled his rifle from its scabbard. He leaned on the tree and breathed hard and waited. Three more arrows came, each one swift and silent and deadly. Two of them buried themselves in the trees to either side of him. One struck his horse on the saddle, marking a deep gouge in the tough leather before slipping to the ground. The horse danced sideways, snorting nervously, its ears laid back and nostrils flaring.

Buck thought he saw movement among the rocks and he fired his rifle, emptying it into the rock outcropping. He could feel the fury building in him, trying to crowd out the pain from the arrow in his leg. This was it! The last stinking rotten straw! Who the hell were these guys? And why were they after him? He blinked sweat out of his eyes and reloaded his rifle and waited.

+ + + + + + +

Other men lived for their own reasons--to raise a family, to make a mark, to accumulate possessions. Right here on this small patch of ground, faced off against a desperate, wounded man--with Sullivan holding all the power--this was what he lived for.

He squatted back on his heels, breathing easily as he watched Buck down by the river. Things were going perfectly.

+ + + + + + +

When nothing happened for what seemed like an inordinately long time, Buck looped his horse's reins over a branch and sank to the ground, making sure to keep himself well-hidden from the rock outcropping. He lay his rifle on the ground right next to his hand and looked at the arrow sticking out of his leg. Shit, he thought. Why the hell is this happening? He leaned his head back against the tree. It had to be young braves from the reservation. There just weren't any other Indians in these parts. Hell! Hadn't he heard rumors of trouble in town this week? That fella at the saloon. He'd said some Indian braves had chased him off the reservation. And there'd been talk of butchered cattle, though Buck had to admit he hadn't been paying much attention.

And it made sense in a way. Take a bunch of young fellas, bring 'em up as warriors, then lock them up with nothing to do and something was bound to happen. They'd probably been preying on anyone coming through this area, far enough from the reservation so they didn't think they'd be caught. The sweat on Buck's face had turned cold and he swiped at it angrily. Well, he thought, they picked the wrong guy this time. He'd had a damn bad day already and he wasn't in the mood to just sit quietly and take this. They were going to be sorry they'd picked Buck Wilmington.

He looked down at the arrow again, moving his leg experimentally. He could feel the arrowhead shift, slicing a little deeper. The wound wasn't bleeding much yet, but he knew it would when he pulled the arrow out. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. With a growl that began deep in his throat, he grabbed the arrow shaft close to his leg and pulled. His lips curled back into a snarl and the growl turned into a full-blown roar, but he didn't quit.

"AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!"

And, with one final wrench, it was out. For a minute he couldn't see anything except a red haze with black spots around the edges. His breath came in quick, short gasps as he dragged himself back from the dark edge of unconsciousness. GOD DAMN IT! He stared for a minute at the arrow in his hand. Then, he broke it in two and flung it to one side. He untied the bandanna around his neck and folded it into a pad and pressed it against his leg to try and stop the bleeding. Blood seeped through his fingers and ran down his leg. He pressed harder, grimacing at the pain, but not really caring all that much. The only thing on his mind in that moment was going after the people who had done this to him.

+ + + + + + +

Sullivan waited. While wrestling with the arrow, Buck had moved ever so slightly back into Sullivan's view. 'I could kill him now,' he thought. And he picked up the bow and nocked another arrow and took aim. 'One shot,' he thought. And he could see it, so clear. The arrow winging through the hot summer air, the dull thwack! as it hit its mark, the body slumped to one side never to move again. Buck Wilmington dead, because Sullivan hated him. Because Sullivan decreed it. Because Sullivan was better on the worst day he ever had than Buck Wilmington would ever be. 'Oh yes, that would be fine,' he thought as he sighted along the arrow and drew the bow string a little tighter.

But he didn't fire.

He had his orders. 'Wound him,' Striker had said. 'Make him angry. But don't kill him.' So, as disappointing as it was, Sullivan eased up on the bow and replaced the arrow in the quiver and settled back down to watch.

+ + + + + + +

When the bleeding had slowed a little, Buck stood and found another bandanna in his saddle bags and tied it around the first one. He leaned back against the tree for a minute to catch his breath. He bent down to pick up his rifle and it seemed heavier than he'd remembered it. He made sure it was fully loaded then he slipped it back into its scabbard. He reloaded his pistol too. He hadn't been fired on for almost half an hour and he pretty much figured there was no one left in the rocks, but it wouldn't do to do anything stupid now. Keeping the trees between him and the rock outcropping he led his horse down the river bank, crouching low and moving as well as he could under the circumstances he edged upstream away from the ambush.

+ + + + + + +

Sullivan let him go. He was packed up and ready to leave on the instant. Except for one or two things he left purposefully, there was no sign he had been there. The arrows would tell their own story. As would the small beaded bag he'd half-buried under a rock. The bag was from his mother's tribe up north along the Rockies, but he figured no stupid white man would know the difference. And at least now it had a purpose. All it had ever done before was remind him of a past he'd never wanted to remember.

He crept across the rocks and down to his horse, knowing Wilmington would be along in a few minutes. He laid tracks toward the reservation, though at this point anything he did was just extra. The bait had already been taken. The path had already been set.

+ + + + + + +

Buck was still a hundred yards from the rock outcropping, approaching from the other side, and he could already see that there was no one there. They'd have had to tie their horses at the base and there were no horses. He reined in hard, feeling the pressure on his wounded leg and not caring. His horse danced back and forth, picking up its own tension through the way he held the reins and the pressure of his legs along its side.

Damn! Damn, damn, DAMN!!!

Buck was so furious it was as if something had snapped inside him. He'd gotten up in the morning and everything had been fine. He'd thought about maybe riding out later in the day to check on Casey. He'd figured he might be able to make time with that new saloon girl along about lunch time when she came in to work. He'd hoped the trail crews would have finally quieted down. But none of that had happened.

What had happened instead was Josiah had tried to kill him and when it mattered, Chris had backed Josiah. And now someone _else_ was trying to kill him. Well, God damn it! He wasn't going to just ride away this time. The men who'd attacked him were going to pay. Oh yeah, a small humorless smile flickered across his face, they were going to pay big. He turned his horse and kicked it into a gallop, heading straight for the reservation.

Part 15

Vin legged the black into a gallop the moment he cleared the edge of town, and he didn't ease up for about a mile. When he reined the gelding back to a jog and then left the road to stop under a live oak, the animal stretched against the bit and blew noisily. Vin patted its neck absently, his eyes wandering back towards town but unfocused. He was frowning, and when his gaze cleared he knit his brows into a deeper frown and turned to look towards the low ridge of hills that lay between town and the reservation. How had everything gotten so messed up lately? It just didn't seem possible.

The tracker shook his head slightly and urged the black into a steady walk as he started to scan the ground for sign. Buck had to have left the road someplace, and knowing Buck it'd happened about fifteen feet out of town. But there were too many tracks close in to pick the grey up there; a circuit a mile out should do it, though.

The black recognized and settled into the familiar routine of casting for a trail, easing into a ground-eating amble that left Vin's attention free to search the terrain for signs of Buck's grey. His mind began working at the knots in the whole puzzling mess as he rode. How in the hell things had gotten to such a pass as for him to be trailing his own friend for -- he broke off the line of thought in disgust. Buck couldn't and wouldn't have assaulted any woman. The fact that she was Josiah's love interest wouldn't even have had a chance to come up; Buck was the most woman-respecting man Vin had ever met. Why the others didn't believe the tall gunman when he said that women loved him because he respected them, Vin couldn't imagine. It simply couldn't be any clearer. All the women that hung off Buck's arms had come to him themselves, and he was just enjoying it -- enjoying it immensely, it was true, but so were they. Vin shook his head to himself and rubbed his face with one hand as he skirted an outcropping of rocks and rode up a low rise, his eyes still on the ground.

Then there was the trouble at the reservation. Vin glanced over his shoulder quickly towards the ridge that he'd planned to be riding over right now, if things had just gone like they were supposed to. Both Kojay and Chanu were going to be disappointed and disturbed when he didn't show up for the Green Corn festival. The trouble between the locals and the reservation folk hadn't been all that big so far, but Vin and Kojay both had enough experience to know how fast things like that could get out of hand. Hell, it was on reservation territory in the Nations that Custer had wiped out a whole damn village before the sun even came up. Vin knew his presence at the important ceremony would have reassured those people that things were going to be ok, that at least one of the white men was going to stand by them.

Now. . . Vin shook his head sadly. Well, maybe he could square all this mess away with Buck and Chris -- maybe even Josiah, and still get out to the reservation before the four days were done. The tracker reined in to uncap his canteen and drink from it as the sun climbed higher in the sky and it got hotter.

At least any of the trouble that might be due to someone on the reservation side of the fence would stop while Kojay's people were occupied with the festival. They sure as hell weren't going to steal and butcher any of the local ranchers' steers while they were having one of the biggest feasts of the year. Before it, maybe. During it, no. Vin smiled to himself at the thought, although he still didn't think any of the reservation people had been responsible for the here-and-there depredations of local steers that were angering the nearby ranchers. He'd have noticed strips of beef on their drying racks, if they had. Of course, he needed to spread that word around.

Vin frowned as he remembered Yosemite telling him just last night that two of the ranchers had gone out to the reservation the day before, to talk to Kojay about the cattle problem. They'd come back to town madder than when they'd left, because "the old man plumb stood 'em up and wouldn't even come out of 'is teepee." Yosemite had spat and then grinned slyly at Vin after he'd said it, knowing as well as the younger man did that the old shaman had undoubtedly been fasting and doing a sweat to prepare for the ceremony. That's why he'd told Vin, was so the tracker could do some smoothing-over with the ranchers and townsfolk. Of course, all hell had broken loose after that, so . . .Vin sighed.

The most ridiculous story so far had been an old sheepherder's claim that the Indians had eaten his good herd dog, and Vin hadn't been able to convince him otherwise. The flock had been right near the reservation land at the time, insisted the old sheepman, and not a sheep was missing. But no trace of the best damn sheepdog he'd ever trained. And you know, he'd said loudly again and again, that those people EAT dogs. Vin had finally left the saloon, figuring he was simply riling the man up more and that things would quiet down faster if he just let it go.

What wasn't so ridiculous was a stranger coming into town two days later, hatless and obviously terrified, with a story about having been chased through the reservation by several warriors who hadn't been playing games. That was only a few days ago, and it was one of the things Vin had quietly wanted to poke around in when he was out there. There was always the chance that the unfairness and suffering and indignities of reservation life had finally ignited the tempers of some of the younger men without Kojay even knowing about it. Not that Vin would blame them for it, if it was so, but it had to be stopped nonetheless. If the situation got much more volatile, they could get the whole village wiped out if they weren't careful.

Vin reined in suddenly, a smile of satisfaction breaking across his features and relaxing his face. There it was: the unmistakable drag mark at the right hind toe that was Buck's grey at a walk. Vin dismounted to touch long fingers to the mark, and then raised his head to look down the trail. South.

He mounted up again and headed south at an easy jog. He had about seven hours of daylight left this time of year. With any luck at all, he'd find Buck before dark.

Piece a' cake.

Part 16

Chris took the whiskey bottle and went to sit by himself at a table in the corner. He sat there, not even drinking, hunched over the table staring at the half-full glass in his hand. What the hell was going on? Josiah gone crazy. Vin losing his temper. Nathan...he hadn't even seen Nathan all morning. Or JD either come to that. Ezra...well, he knew right where Ezra was--he could hear the crowd around the poker table from here--and that, at least, was normal. He pushed the glass away from him and glared at it as if it were somehow to blame for this morning's events. What the hell had Buck been thinking? He'd been a fool before. He'd been irresponsible, reckless, and downright irritating, but Chris had never known him to hurt a woman. But then, if he hadn't raped Belle, why was Belle saying it? And why had Buck left? And who the hell was Vin to tell him about Buck?

He picked up the whiskey glass and drained the contents, pouring himself another from the bottle. He ought to just say to hell with it. It served them all right. All of them. Damn them, anyway. Maybe he was wrong about Buck. The thought kept tickling at the back of his brain like the whisper of a demon. He'd known Buck for more than ten years. They'd risked their lives for each other. But it took more faith than Chris had anymore to believe in anyone without doubt. So, it sat there and gnawed at his belly--the idea that all these years he was just plain wrong.

+ + + + + + +

Ezra had been playing cards since six o'clock the previous evening. They'd taken a short break around three am, but he'd been back at the table before seven. Most of the players had come and gone and come back again. Only three had remained the entire time: Ezra, a rancher from south of Four Corners, who was a fair player for a man who only played once or twice a year, and a new man who'd introduced himself as Vincent Hammersmith. It had been obvious to Ezra from the start that Hammersmith was the man to beat. He had quick hands and a terrific poker face and he was willing to flat out bluff when he had nothing in his hand. Ezra liked that kind of challenge particularly and he'd let Hammersmith win several hands just so he could watch him play. The man seemed to have limitless amounts of money and Ezra liked that as well. He'd played in some marathon poker games in his time and this was shaping up to be one of them.

He did wonder vaguely what was going on in the rest of the town, but he had a fair amount of faith that the others would handle it and that they'd come and get him if anything went wrong. He'd heard some kind of explosion last night from Josiah, but it'd blown up and gone so quickly that he hadn't worried much about it. And he'd just seen Chris and Vin over at the bar. It occurred to him that, although it was late morning, he had not yet seen any signs of Nathan, JD, or Buck.

"Gentlemen," Hammersmith laid his hands on the table. He didn't dress like a gambler. In fact, he looked more like a trail hand with his faded shirt and vest, a well-worn holster at his hips, and his long thin duster. But he had the smooth voice of an educated man and long dextrous fingers that shuffled quickly and expertly and Ezra was sure he knew where every card in the deck was at all times. "It's been a pleasure playing cards with you," he said now. "And," he added, looking directly at Ezra. "I don't want this to end, but I simply must take a break and find a decent meal. Please, play on without me." He settled his hat on his head, gathered up his winnings, and strolled from the room.

Ezra looked at the other men around the table. They all looked tired and hungry and a little dazed at the poker play that had been going on over the last several hours. "I believe we should all take a short break, gentlemen," Ezra said. He pulled his watch from his vest pocket. "Shall we reconvene in, say, an hour?" The other men looked at him for a minute, except the rancher, who nodded sharply and gathered up his own money. Though he was undoubtedly aware that both Hammersmith and Ezra were better poker players than he was, he had managed to leave the table ahead and that was pretty much all he asked.

Ezra waited until the other men had left, then he gathered up the cards, shuffled them and stuck them in an inside jacket pocket. He picked up his winnings and began counting them as he walked over to the bar, though he already knew to the last bill exactly how much money he had in his hands.

At the bar, he stashed the money in another pocket and looked around. He knew Chris was sitting alone at a corner table, but he was surprised when he didn't see any of the others. Buck was usually here around lunch to make time with the girls before the saloon got busy. Nathan and Josiah both generally came in around lunch time too. Vin he might not expect. And JD...well, JD was unpredictable. But it seemed odd to see none of them. He tapped on the bar and after the bartender had refilled his glass, he picked it up and walked over to join Chris.

"Mr. Larabee," he said by way of greeting as he pulled out a chair and sat. Chris looked up at him with an unwelcoming expression. Ezra was unfazed. "I want to thank you, Mr. Larabee for releasing the prisoners yesterday. I assure you that their sojourn at the poker table was much more profitable than any additional time they might have spent in a jail cell. Not for them, you understand. But, at least for me."

Chris tilted his head and looked at him as if he were a specimen in a bug museum. Ezra sipped his drink and looked around the quiet saloon.

"Things certainly seem quiet here today," he commented. "Have the trail crews left town?"

"No." Chris reached for the whiskey bottle again.

Ezra frowned at him. "Did JD and Josiah find something out at the mine? Was it sabotage after all?"

Chris looked at him. "Where have you _been_?" he asked as if Ezra were posing particularly idiotic questions.

'What was going on here?' Ezra wondered. "You know where I've been," he said. "I was at the jail all day yesterday and since then I've been here, playing cards. Has there been a problem?"

Chris drew in a deep breath and sat up straight. "No problem," he said, in that same cool voice he'd said the words to Josiah less than twenty-four hours before. "Vin's gone, Buck's gone, Josiah's drunk and lost his head over some woman, and I don't know where JD and Nathan are." He drained the contents of his glass, stood up abruptly and left the saloon.

Ezra looked at the swinging doors that marked his passage. Was he saying there _was_ trouble or there wasn't? Vin, he knew, was heading out to the reservation for some festival they were having. But where had Buck gone? And Josiah _would_ get drunk over a woman so that didn't worry him too much. JD and Nathan? Hmmm...JD might be with Casey, but he'd generally tell someone where he was going. Of course, if he told Buck... And Nathan. From what Ezra had seen yesterday he hoped Nathan was holed up somewhere getting some sleep. The man sure could use it. Still, it might not hurt to take a short swing around town. Just to see what was going on. Ezra liked to know all the details. Who went where. Who did what. He figured knowing was the edge that kept him just a little bit ahead.

He'd just risen, swallowed the last of his drink and was headed to the door when Vincent Hammersmith came back in. "Mr. Standish," he said. "I hope you're not leaving. I thought perhaps we could play a more...intimate game. Just the two of us? Perhaps we could even raise the stakes."

Ezra looked at him, then he looked at the door. Chris had said there was no problem. And he certainly hadn't heard any gunfire or screams or other indications that things were going amiss. They were all adults after all,...surely they could look after themselves for a little while longer. He turned to Hammersmith and clapped him on the shoulder. "Mr. Hammersmith," he said, turning back toward the table he had so recently vacated. "I would be delighted to have the opportunity to take more of your money."

Part 17

The sun was up but the room was dark with thick curtains blocking all light. A gift from a grateful patient's family -- Nathan had been trying to sleep during the day but a knock on the door had disturbed his sleep. A small boy had broken his arm. His parents were so sorry to disturb the healer but they couldn't console the boy. Nathan had earned the boy's trust and successfully straightened the severe break. The curtains were payment for services rendered. Nathan considered them a gift and he was forever grateful every time he tried to sleep during the day.

Of course, Nathan wasn't thinking these thoughts right now. He was unconscious, so exhausted that he had slumped into a deep, dreamless sleep. No sound penetrated his sleep. He never heard Vin Tanner's knock on his door this morning when he looked for Buck. Nor Mary Travis who had stopped by with the paper and looking for an opportunity to talk about yesterday's editorial.

Nathan would have continued to sleep except for the agonizing, twisting pain in his stomach that suddenly broke his unconsciousness. He jumped out of bed and grabbed the bowl from his washstand knocking over the pitcher, shattering it, and throwing dirty water that he had been too tired to empty last night all over the floor. Nathan's stomach heaved and he vomited for several minutes. Once his stomach was empty, he continued to heave. Nathan put the bowl down but as he tried to walk, his stomach started heaving again and with some fluid escaping his mouth and falling to the floor. Nathan felt faint and staggered to the bed. He fell asleep but it wasn't the quiet, dreamless sleep of earlier.

+ + + + + + +

AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!! "Jackson, get over here." The young black man not even out of his teens surveyed the scene. A Confederate soldier in his grey was being held to the table, his leg so badly mangled that it was certain to be amputated. The terror-filled screams filled the air as Doctors took to the grim task of amputating limbs so unrecognizable to be unsalvageable. Nathan passed instruments to the doctor as he quickly worked. When the limb was removed, Nathan picked it up and carried it out of the tent to join the growing pile of flesh to be later buried. White bone, burnt flesh, congealed blood -- the stench haunted you. A young boy, maybe 12 was standing near the pile; Nathan shooed him off. Nothing to remember here, boy. But Nathan could never forget.

+ + + + + + +

Nathan was up again, his stomach heaving. The bowl was full and his vomit splashed over the side. In some small piece of Nathan's rational mind, he thought he needed to dump the stuff but he collapsed to the floor. At some point, he regained consciousness and made his way to his bed. Holding his stomach tightly, futilely trying to abate the twisting pain.

+ + + + + + +

AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!! "Mr. Roberts hold still," Nathan urged.

AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!

"You're hurting him!" Roberts' frantic wife tried to stop Nathan from touching her husband.

Nathan turned from the injured man. Nathan gently grasped the woman's forearms. "Ma'am, you're gonna have to let me tend to him." Nathan looked over to Josiah to lead the woman away.

Roberts' had been tilling a field, the till caught on a large boulder and he was trying to man-handle the boulder. He really should've gotten help but it was late in the afternoon and he didn't want to take the time. The boulder was dislodged, with the till free it moved forward slicing into the next thing it hit - Roberts' leg.

It had taken several men to free Robert's from the till. He was brought to his house and Nathan worked on him for several hours, carefully cleaning then stitching the long gash in his leg. Fortunately, the blade had been sharp and the edges of the wound clean. If Nathan was successful, there was a good chance he wouldn't lose the leg. Time would tell.

+ + + + + + +

When the diarrhea started, Nathan couldn't control his bowels.

Then, the vomiting started again.

Occasionally, Nathan lapsed into unconsciousness. Only to be dragged back with pain, vomiting, and diarrhea. Nathan would complain but it was beyond anything he was capable of. He was very clear on only one point -- he was going to kill JD for putting him in this fix.

Nathan lapsed into unconsciousness again.

There was a hard rap at the door that didn't disturb Nathan.

Chris Larabee was at Nathan's door. Damn. It wasn't unlike Nathan to run off to tend some emergency without telling one of the seven. They had gotten so used to it that if he was around - great; if he wasn't, he was tendin' someone and wouldn't be available anyway. There was no note so Chris figured he'd been called to another emergency. It had been that kind of week.

With Vin gone. With Buck gone. With Josiah gone. Chris had thought he could maybe talk things out with Nathan. He had a common sense, an ingrained sense of justice, and the analytical mind to maybe give Chris the clue that would prove or disprove the allegations against Buck. And he didn't set his teeth on edge like Ezra and JD could. Maybe Nathan could calm him down. Maybe provide an insight that would help Chris make sense of it all.

Damn him. Damn him. Damn him. If he had told Nathan once, he told him a hundred times -- take a minute, leave a note. Chris left furious and frustrated. A deadly combination.

Part 18

There was just something in the way the red-tail was circling, its distant cry a piercing whistle of rage, that made Vin stop the black so he could watch it a minute. The afternoon sun backlit the bird as it rose higher into the sky and then it dove steeply as though after prey, only to veer off with another cry before flapping its wings heavily to disappear behind a low ridge. Vin's brows drew together. Odd.

He shook his head to himself and legged the black on. But he glanced back in that direction several times, the feeling growing that something was wrong. He'd been trailed too many times, and trailed too many others himself, not to know the signs. The hawk had been threatening an intruder into its territory: an intruder that was powerful enough to make the hawk give up without doing anything more than simply threaten. That meant bear, wolf, mountain cat -- or man. Vin took a deep breath and reined in a second time, his eyes running along the river course several miles away that marked the boundary between the rocky, higher desert and the broad, sandy basin beyond. He'd half-expected to see Buck out there toiling his way across once he got this far, but the bare sand shimmered in the sun with not so much as a jackrabbit moving on it.

The tracker half-turned in his saddle to look back at the long ridge that had paralleled his trail the last 5 miles -- well, paralleled Buck's trail at least. The gunman had held a steady course, Vin had to give him that. He'd borne south right through the low hills and oak groves that surrounded Four Corners, and then into the ridged and rocky desert beyond it. Now it looked like he was heading across the sand flats, and then into the mountains beyond it that were Mexico. Damn. Vin looked back again, at the ridge where the hawk had complained so loudly. Hell of a time to pick up a bounty hunter on his trail.

The river was still pretty far away, and the intervening distance was thick with mounds of broken rock and towering, rounded granite dells that would hide him from anyone on that ridge with a scope. He could duck out right here and double back to find out whether or not he was being followed without alerting his pursuer to his suspicions. The man would just figure Vin was working his way unseen through the rough country between there and the river. And since he'd expect Vin to stay at the river long enough to water his horse well before crossing the sand flats, he wouldn't suspect anything different for hours.

Thirty minutes later, Vin had slipped away from anyone who might be watching and was working his way through arroyos and other hidden places back towards the ridge where the hawk had given warning. It wasn't hard to find the right spot, as the ridge top was so rough that there were only a few places where a man could even travel on horseback. Still, Vin felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end when he saw the unmistakable sign: one rider, moving steadily, the tracks less than an hour old. He narrowed his eyes, drew his mare's leg to rest it across the pommel of his saddle, and legged the black on. Somewhere down this trail was a man who was following him, and he intended to find out why.

It wasn't long before he found the place where his pursuer had dismounted to lay on an outcropping ledge, probably to use a spyglass or binoculars. Vin knelt on the little spot of packed-down earth and ran light eyes out and down to where the man would've been training his attention: the spot where Vin had first stopped and looked back several times as he seriously considered whether or not he was being followed. Something about that made the tracker's blood chill, and he stood up quickly to remount and follow on more quickly than he had before. It wasn't right. The man wasn't acting like he was supposed to, like the men who followed other men for a living usually acted. He was acting like Vin would.

He knew when he saw the tracks veer off the ridge top and head down towards the granite dells that he really wasn't going to like seeing where the man's trail went, but he kept going. And when the trail led into the rocks where Vin himself had ridden not long before, he urged the black on faster. Although he knew he should slow down and watch for an ambush from the man, back-tracked and hidden in the rocks, he didn't. It wasn't what he would have done, and he knew now that he was dealing with someone who thought like he did, who tracked like he did.

And sure enough, there was the place where the man had dismounted. To lay his hands upon Vin's own earlier trail, to figure out just how long ago his quarry had figured out he was being followed and had turned around to find out. Vin's heart skipped a beat and he pressed his lips together. He only had to ride his own back trail half a mile to see what he'd already known he would see: his pursuer had figured out what he'd done and tracked him. He'd followed the trail Vin had left as he'd circled back to head up the ridge, and undoubtedly followed it far enough to see where Vin had picked up his own original trail. He looked up at the ridge and narrowed his eyes. No doubt his counterpart was up there even now, maybe even sitting on that same ledge, knowing Vin had found him out just the same as he'd found out Vin.

You're good, thought Vin, but I ain't got time for you right now. Sorry to disappoint you, but we'll be partin' company right soon.

He touched his hat brim to the man he could not see, and turned his horse to ride down to the river.

+ + + + + + +

The first thing to do, thought Vin, was to get down to the river and find out which way Buck had headed. The second thing to do was to shake this damned bounty hunter off his tail, and pronto. And the third thing was to find Buck and drag him back to town before anything else could go wrong.

Forty minutes later, Vin realized it was too late; something else had already gone wrong. Very wrong.

A cold stone of certainty lodged in his gut when he saw the blood, and it just got heavier and heavier as he walked slowly around the site, reading the sign. Damn. Leave it to Buck to get so mad he'd yank an arrow right out of himself, thought Vin. Had to have hurt like hell. And then he'd stayed so mad he'd taken off at a gallop to get even with the ones who'd shot it. Vin eyed the broken ground where the grey's hooves had gouged out clumps of sod as it raced off to the northwest -- straight as a beeline towards the reservation of Kojay's people. Vin sighed and looked at the arrow butt he held in his hand. Only problem with that was, the fletching wasn't right to be theirs. Looked like maybe Blackfoot, possibly Crow.

Vin's expression tightened as he rubbed a thumb against the feathers and studied the lay of the shafts embedded in the trees and earth around the place Buck had taken cover. He looked towards the rocks they'd been fired from, then circled up there with his eyes still on the ground. He found more arrows left behind up there, and felt gooseflesh suddenly cascade down both arms and his neck. Ten at least altogether, here and in the ground by the river -- ten arrows that had taken a lot of effort to make, left behind for no possible reason but one: evidence. A sudden sparkle of red caught his eye and he bent to pull out a beaded bag half-buried beneath a stone. The dull silver cones that dangled from it shook in Vin's hand as understanding flooded in and hit him so hard he staggered.

It was a set-up! And Buck-- Vin whirled to look again in the direction his friend had ridden maybe six hours earlier. If the furious man succeeded in beating Vin to the reservation, he was just liable to shoot first and ask questions later. And that would mean--

Vin started to run for his horse, but jerked as he remembered: he still had that God-damned bounty hunter on his tail! Shit! He licked his lips quickly, his breathing fast and shallow with a sense of urgency that was licking at his heels like a hot flame. He swallowed, closed his eyes, and forced himself to calm down. How was he going to make this work?

It was nearly sundown. It would be dark in just a couple of hours, and there wouldn't be a moon until about 2 in the morning. The man on the ridge wouldn't be at all surprised for Vin to make camp at the river, and he certainly wouldn't expect him to ride out in the dark, either. Vin's breathing steadied as he thought. One thing in his favor was that the bounty hunter didn't know or care who Vin was following, or why. For all he knew, Vin would even break it off now that he knew he was, himself, being hunted. The tracker nodded to himself as he took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. Yes, this would work. This would work just fine.

He'd make a camp, build a fire big enough to make a good show of it, and head out before sunup across the sand flats, leaving a trail that would lead the man following him away from Buck and the reservation, both. Except that Vin would have made the trail as soon as it was full dark, and then circled back around to head for the reservation as fast as he could go after the moon rose to light the way a little bit. There was no way the bounty hunter on Vin's tail could know where Buck was headed, or why it was so important. By the time he'd found where Vin had turned back and then followed him all that way . . . well, hell. Vin would have Buck back to town getting him stitched up. Of course, he'd have to ride like a bat out of hell to beat the gunslinger to Kojay's village, but the loss of blood had to be slowing his friend down some. Vin frowned, looking again at the arrow in his hand.

Damn, Buck, he thought. Just don't let it stop you dead in your tracks, Pard. Let me find you first.

Part 19

The sun was only two-thirds of the way to the western horizon when it became clear to Buck that no matter what _he_ wanted, he was going to have to stop and rest his horse. Though the grey had made a gallant effort, the horse was stumbling every third or fourth step as it picked its way across the broken ground. The wound in Buck's leg throbbed constantly, a steady, unrelenting pain that was getting harder and harder to shove aside. It was bleeding again, too, or maybe it had never really stopped. Not that he was worried about that. He had one goal, one focus--to find the men who had attacked him and stop them. He reined in his horse near a cluster of small trees. He wiped his hand wearily across his brow. Damn! He was tired. Like he'd wrangled cattle for three straight days without a rest. He untied his canteen and drank thirstily, wiping a shaky hand across his mouth. It'd be good for him to rest too, he reluctantly admitted. He dismounted and had to steady himself for a minute by grabbing at the stirrup. He closed his eyes and opened them again, wanting nothing so much as to just sink into quiet darkness and not emerge for days. Gotta take care of the horse, he thought, and as if in a dream, he unbuckled the cinch and lifted off the saddle, staggering under the unexpected weight of it. He felt as if he were seeing the world from a long way away, as if everything were filtered through a shifting, hazy screen.

A few hours, he thought. I'll just rest here and then go on...then, he slid to the ground and thought nothing at all for a long time.

+ + + + + + +

Sullivan sat on the ridge and watched his quarry. He was a little disappointed that he hadn't gotten farther, but you can't run forever, something Sullivan had learned a long time ago. He watched Wilmington dismount and almost fall, unsaddle his horse, stumble, barely recover, pull off his jacket and hat, and finally collapse on the ground. 'I hope the son of a bitch isn't dead,' Sullivan thought. Then, because he didn't much worry about things like that, he stripped the saddle off his own horse, unrolled his bed roll, and made camp. All the while he kept watch on the man and horse below him. Whatever happened, Sullivan would be ready.

+ + + + + + +

Casey poured some water into the bowl. She removed her shirt and unbuttoned her shimmy. She wrung out the washcloth and started to scrub her face. She looked at her eyes and they were red-rimmed with dark circles. Casey washed her upper torso and was struck by the bruises on her arm and chest. There were five distinct black-blue marks over her left breast -- finger-marks. She remembered the man cruelly squeezing and saying . . ."how he was gonna show her a real good time" . . . and that laugh of salacious malice. Casey shuddered with fear. She quickly removed the rest of her clothes and put on a cotton nightgown.

How was she gonna sleep? She crept to the bedroom door and surreptitiously opened it a crack. She was overwhelmed with relief when she saw JD sittin' in the rocking chair by the fireplace. She quietly closed the door.

+ + + + + + +

JD smiled when he saw the bedroom door open a crack. JD had done everything he could to distract Casey. He didn't even try to get her to talk about what had been upsetting her. Asked and shut off. JD supposed he should be upset about that but he wasn't. Conversation had never been smooth between them. JD seemed to always manage to get the words out wrong. Instead, his strategy had been to exhaust Casey so she could get some sleep. She had cleaned the cabin earlier, so they spent the day outside weeding the vegetable garden, repairing fence, chopping wood . . .

After his busy week, JD was glad nobody had come to get him. Must be quiet in town - thank God. But JD had been gone from town for almost 2 days, and he was thinking he needed to go in tomorrow and check in. If Miss Nettie weren't back, he would take Casey with him. Maybe she could stay with Mrs. Travis. JD settled back in the rocking chair and relaxed back eventually falling asleep.

+ + + + + + +

Belle poured some water into the bowl and scented it with a little lavender. She removed her blouse and unbuttoned her chemise. She wrung out the flannel and gently washed her face. She looked at her eyes and admired their periwinkle blue color. Belle washed her upper torso and was struck by the porcelain perfection of her skin. She could imagine his hand gently cupping her left breast and his fingers with their swirling touch. She remembered the man gently squeezing and saying . . ."how he was gonna show her a real good time" . . . and that laugh of salacious pleasure. Belle shuddered with longing. She quickly removed the rest of her clothes and put on a silk and lace nightgown.

How was she going to sleep? She crept to the bedroom door and surreptitiously opened it a crack. She was overwhelmed with irritation when she saw Josiah sitting by the fireplace on the settee, his head thrown back, snoring so loudly that the crystal rattled in the china cupboard. She quietly closed the door.

+ + + + + + +

Josiah stirred and grimaced when he saw the bedroom door opened a crack. Don't worry, Belle. I ain't goin' nowhere. Josiah had done everything he could to distract himself. He didn't even try to get Belle to talk about what had been upsetting her. Asked and shut off. Josiah supposed he shouldn't be upset about that but he was. Conversation had always been smooth between them. Josiah seemed to always manage to impress Belle with his eloquence. Instead, his strategy had been to exhaust himself so he could get some sleep. So he had drank whiskey, and more whiskey, and more whiskey . . .

After their busy week, Josiah was exhausted. Must be real interestin' in town. But Josiah had been gone from town for only a day, and he was thinking there was no rush to go back and check in. He would definitely need go in to town at some point to make sure that things were handled right with Buck. Maybe he could have Nathan stay here with Miss Belle and provide protection. Josiah settled back in the settee and relaxed back quickly falling asleep.

+ + + + + + +

Nathan had been awake for some time. It was dark now. Nathan struggle to lift his head, but waves of nausea overwhelmed him so he relaxed back. Just not quick enough. His stomach started heaving again.

Minutes or was it hours later, Nathan relaxed back again. How long had he been like this? The room had a damp, fetid odor - enough to roil your stomach if it wasn't so inclined. Slow, deep breaths.

I need help. Got to get help. Nathan started to lift his head but he was overcome with dry heaves. Slow, deep breaths.

Nathan relaxed back again. Just can't get up. Damn JD, I'm gonna kill him for putting me in this fix. It had to be the food.

Nathan curled into a fetal position hoping to alleviate the stabbing pain in his stomach.

Please, please, please.

Please make it stop hurting. Please stop the vomiting. Please stop the diarrhea.

His pleas were not heard.

+ + + + + + +

Mary looked in on her son. Oh, to sleep so peacefully. She gently drew the door closed.

Restless, Mary walked to the Clarion's office at front of the building. If she wasn't going to sleep the least she could do was get some work done. Mary looked out the window at the streets. Mmm, unusually quiet for once.

Mary glanced over the last few days' papers. Her eyes lit on the editorial calling for a doctor for Four Corners. Chris had been right. There had been talk in town. And it was replace Nathan talk from men like Bland. Mary briefly wondered about Bland's agenda - he's new, no health problems -- was it black men, healers, or something else?

It was gratifying to hear so many defend Nathan. She owed Nathan an explanation and an apology. For that matter, she owed Chris an apology as well.

+ + + + + + +

Bland paced the floor agitated. That editor was messing with his plans -- calls for a doctor, then rallies folks around the healer. Well, we'll see about that.

Bland surveyed the street from his hotel room. Seemed unusually quiet to him. Very few people on the boardwalk.

It's starting. They're getting sick that's why it's so quiet. Soon food poisoning victims would be seeking help. And you can't help them healer. You can't help them.

A smug smile crossed Bland's face. It was a masterstroke setting up the healer this way. He was going to fall, be disgraced, and never be a healer again. You'll be like every other darkie. Unwanted. Unknown. Unworthy.

+ + + + + + +

Thompson rolled out his blankets and laid down to rest while he waited for the moon to rise. He smoked a cigarette, looking at the stars with one arm behind his head, and thought about what would happen next.

Sullivan had to have done it at the river; it was the perfect place. That meant Tanner had to have found out about it by now. And if he was anything like Thompson -- an assessment Thompson was grudgingly beginning to accord the other man -- he'd light out for the reservation the minute the moon was up. The redhead exhaled a cloud of tobacco smoke and watched it rise into the night sky, then stubbed out what was left of the cigarette and closed his eyes with a satisfied smile. He'd be able to grab several hours of sleep, he thought, and that would give him just the edge he needed.

+ + + + + + +

Vin moved up to the stones above the river, away from the campfire he'd built to mislead the man on his trail. He could see the stars better away from the light, the mountains and ridges sharp silhouettes of black that lay like sleeping beasts at every horizon. He leaned back against the slab of stone behind him and thought about his friends.

Somewhere out there -- Vin turned to gaze away towards the reservation -- Buck was in trouble. A lot more trouble than he even realized yet. Vin sighed, and looked north. Chris was probably still in the saloon at this hour, maybe Josiah with him. A flash of pain raced across the tracker's features at the thought. Good men, both of them, but . . . he closed his eyes and let it go. Maybe Chris was right, and drinking it away wasn't any less honorable, in the end, then taking off for Mexico. Or Brazil.

Vin sighed as his mind trailed across the others and he realized suddenly that JD and Nathan didn't even know what was going on yet. Well, they probably knew by now, though. And Ezra? Vin stood up and stretched his legs and his back one last time, and started down to where he'd left the gelding, a wry smile playing across his features. He tightened the cinches and put away the little grain bag, then swung into the saddle again.

Ezra was probably about $400 ahead.

+ + + + + + +

$500 ahead, thank-you very much. Ezra surveyed the winnings that he had on the table.

After an hour of private play with Hammersmith, the rancher and several others returned and the previous night's poker game resumed. The players changed but Ezra was enjoying an excellent combination of skilled play and the cards falling his way. And no one had come to call him away from the table, hallelujah. In fact, he hadn't seen much of the seven, but it was so much more fun beating strangers than colleagues.

In this hand, the last player mucked his cards without calling. Ezra raked in the pot. Ezra didn't normally show his cards unless somebody had paid to see them but he was sending a message. He deliberately flipped his hand over showing the pair of kings and the otherwise empty hand. It was a brief flash of dismayed anger that no one else at the table, or the saloon for that matter, caught. Earlier in the hand, Hammersmith had mucked with 3 queens that would've easily beaten Ezra. Ezra had bluffed and won again.

Hammersmith was a tough one to read. Just when Ezra got a handle on him, he would do something unexpected. Hammersmith showing his mucked cards was a mistake. The whole table now knew of his bad beat in the last hand. Maybe this was just the edge that Ezra could take advantage of. The challenge exhilarated Ezra.

He could play all night.

+ + + + + + +

Doesn't this guy ever quit?

Hammersmith disgustedly mucked his cards, flipping them over showing his three hookers to Standish's cowboys. Damn. Hammersmith schooled his features. He was good at that. Wouldn't do to give Standish the edge. The conversation swirled around him. He shrugged his shoulders to ease the stiffness. He leaned forward to collect the cards. It was his deal. He shuffled, the cards were cut, and he quickly dealt six hands.

Hammersmith looked at his hand. Three kings and an ace. One more king and his hand was unbeatable.

The banker bet $20, Standish immediately raised $20, the rancher checked, the next two players mucked. It was $40 to Hammersmith. He raised $100.

The three players checked and cards were called for.

The banker folded. Standish bet $100. The rancher folded.

Hammersmith looked hard over at the gambler. Which was it? Good hand or bluff. Standish's features were so placid. Hammersmith had looked for some tell all evening that Standish would inadvertently reveal when he was bluffing. Hammersmith smiled. Not this time - you don't. No way you bluff me to muck a good hand. Hammersmith raised $100.

Standish paused a long time before betting. "See your $100, and raise $100." The surrounding crowd shuffled and there were low murmurs at how quick the pot was escalating.

Hammersmith paused. Again, he looked hard at Standish. He detected Standish's eyes looking hard at the pot. He's bluffing. "Call."

Hammersmith flipped his cards over. Three kings, one ace, and one queen.

Ezra looked at the cards for a long pause, almost puzzled, then slowly flipped his cards over. Queen, King, Ace, Ace, Ace.

Hammersmith saw red. In fact, the only black card in Standish's hand was the Ace of Spades. Touch�, Mr. Standish.

Hammersmith smiled mockingly. Game to you, Standish, though somehow I think that surprised you.

Hammersmith's orders were to keep the gambler distracted by keeping him in a poker game. He'd been given a $500 stake and the boss ordered: make him play. Not that it was a difficult - that's all Standish seemed interested in. He was evenly matched with Standish, which made it that much more fun. He easily won his share of pots and was in fact, ahead a tidy sum. But he wanted to beat Standish. Beat him bad.

Make him play. Make him play. Make him play.

+ + + + + + +

Striker sat at a table outside the saloon, partially hidden by the shadows cast against the wall. He sipped at a beer and he studied the quiet, late night street and he waited. Striker was better at waiting than almost anything else. Unlike most of the men who worked for him who always seemed to want action or women or cheap loud entertainment, Striker liked this--sitting in a quiet spot, smoking a cheroot, watching people wind themselves into knots and figuring how he could make them do whatever he wanted. It was the one thing he liked about Sullivan, that the man could sit and hold and let things come to him. But he wasted too much time on hate, Striker thought. Striker didn't much hate anyone. He didn't care enough to hate. And that was what made him so deadly.

Across the street he could make out the dark outline of Chris Larabee. All alone. Looking at nothing. 'It only gets worse after this, Mr. Larabee,' he thought. 'It only gets worse.'

+ + + + + + +

Chris Larabee leaned against a post and surveyed the town. It was late and it was quiet. For some reason even the trail crews had stayed away from town tonight and at this hour only a few men, staggering from either tiredness or drink, were on the streets. The quiet seemed to mock him. Sooner or later it all falls apart, he thought. He could hear the sounds of a poker game across the street in the saloon and he wondered if Ezra was still winning. Sooner or later, no matter how much you try or how good you think you are, it all collapses and he wondered for a minute if Ezra understood that or if he thought he could win at the poker table forever. And then, he wondered if maybe his own entire sojourn in Four Corners had merely been a futile attempt to convince himself otherwise.

He pushed himself away from the post and walked quietly into the darkness, heading for a room at the hotel for the night. And he tried not to think that tomorrow he would ride out in pursuit of men he had called friends.

Part 20

Moonrise.

Thompson stood just south of the river and laid cold eyes upon the clear trail that emerged from the deep shade of the tamarisk and palo verde to head out across the basin. How the hell had Tanner gotten ahead of him?

He felt a pulse of fury race across the muscles under his jaw and clenched his teeth to stop the unpleasant sensation. It didn't matter in the slightest, he thought, what Tanner did or didn't do. Or even tried to do. The man was obviously going to circle back to the reservation after he laid the false trail, still looking to stop his friend. He just didn't know that Thompson knew that, or that he knew where the reservation was, for that matter. Nice try, he thought, but you still lose.

Thompson stalked to his dun and mounted angrily, then rode back across the river. Once on the north side he dismounted to slide a well-made wooden box from his saddlebag. Kneeling on the sand, he unsnapped the latches and raised the lid, letting the moonlight flood in to run like quicksilver along the gleaming metal tube inside. Lifting it from its cradle of wood and felt, Thompson reclosed the box and stowed it away again, then pulled a long heavy rifle from the boot on his saddle.

Sullivan should still be hanging close enough to Wilmington to spot Tanner before he could do anything, he thought. He slid the telescopic site into place on the rifle and began to carefully tighten the fastenings that secured it. A few well-placed arrows to kill the tracker, followed by making sure Wilmington found the body -- well, it had been the original plan anyway. It should be fine, if Sullivan was on his toes. Thompson snapped opened the breech of the rifle and began to load it. He thought disdainfully of Sullivan's barbarity, the man's ridiculous arrows, as he rolled one of the enormous brass shells between his thumb and forefinger before he slid it into the chamber. Thompson loaded his own cartridges, and they were huge. It took a lot of powder to deliver a load a half a mile. And a damn heavy slug to have a good punch left when it got there. The red-haired man slid several more of the heavy shells into the rifle and then closed it with a sound that echoed in the stillness.

If Sullivan missed, he'd be there as backup. And Thompson didn't miss.

+ + + + + + +

Wilmington was ridiculously easy to track when he was mad. The man had made a beeline for the reservation that didn't flinch a fraction, even to go around stands of heavy brush. He'd just crashed right through them, leaving little spent hailstorms of broken branches and leaves littering the trail in his wake. It was like trailing a rampaging bull through the proverbial china shop, Thompson thought. And there, of course, was the bull now -- flat on his back sleeping away what was left of the night under a stand of hackberry trees. The bearded man sighed with disgust, and ran his eyes quickly along the nearest ridge to see where Sullivan was most likely to be, then legged the dun mare towards a ravine that would get him up there.

"I hate to interrupt your practicing your woodcraft on me, but we need to talk," he said when he got where he knew the other man should be. He sat the mare silently, waiting. After several moments, the black-haired man materialized out of the shadows to stand looking at Thompson with an indefinable expression on his dark face.

"Lose Tanner?" he taunted in a low voice.

Thompson snorted as he dismounted and walked up to the other man. "I never lose my mark," he said. "Where are you camped?"

Sullivan turned on his heel without a word and led the way to a dark campsite with no fire, his bedroll laid out simply on a cleared area at the very edge of the ridge. Thompson walked to the precipice and looked out and down to see that Wilmington's campsite was something over a quarter of a mile away, and in clear view. It would do very well, he thought. Very well indeed. He turned to look at Sullivan.

"Tanner is on his way here," he said without preamble. "He followed Wilmington after you left town, to bring him back. He found the attack site and saw that he's headed to the reservation."

Sullivan nodded silently, his smooth skin reflecting the moonlight. Thompson frowned.

"He means to stop him," added Thompson.

"We figured that was a possibility," said Sullivan. "We've got plans in case of it."

Thompson took off his hat and slapped it idly against his thigh as he turned to examine the eastern sky, estimating how far off morning might be. Not long, he thought. He looked back at Sullivan. "Yes, but the best thing would be to fall back on the plan we were going to use to begin with, if Tanner had gone to the reservation like he was supposed to. Can you even do that now?"

"Kill him?" Sullivan's face glowed with eagerness. "Of course."

"It would have to be with the arrows," reminded Thompson, "and you'd have to make sure his body was where Wilmington would find it for the plan to work."

"I'll be back later," sneered Sullivan. And he was gone, as if he had never been there.

Thompson sat down on Sullivan's bedroll and looked again at the eastern sky. It was noticeably paler now than it had been only a short time earlier. Forty minutes later Sullivan was back, as silently as he had left.

"I'm not sure Wilmington's going to live long enough to get to the reservation," he said. "I walked almost right up to him and he's not sleeping; he's out."

"Lovely." Thompson resisted the urge to light a cigarette, knowing it was still just dark enough that the glowing tip would be visible far enough to warn Tanner of his presence. "I thought you weren't supposed to kill him."

Sullivan's face darkened. "I can't control how much blood he loses."

Thompson looked back at the darker man with a mild expression and was silent for several long moments. "I suppose not," he said finally. He shifted his gaze back out to the rolling terrain below, growing slowly lighter and more visible. "So what do you suggest?"

"Wait for Tanner to show up," said Sullivan, sitting down cross-legged. "See if Wilmington even makes it. See if Tanner takes him to town or talks him into going back. See if Wilmington kills Tanner instead."

"See if Wilmington kills Tanner?" Thompson felt his mouth quirking into a smile.

Sullivan scowled. "You never know what will happen when a man's back is against the wall." He narrowed his eyes, piercing Thompson with a gaze like black obsidian. "A man like that is unpredictable."

Thompson just looked away from the ferocious stare and waved a hand dismissively. "So you're saying wait. Decide which plan to follow when we see how it plays out." He looked again at Sullivan, who nodded shortly. "All right. But that seems to rule out killing Tanner. If Wilmington dies, he can't find the body. If he lives, Tanner would already have found him, so we could hardly have Wilmington find his arrow-riddled corpse."

"If Wilmington goes on to the reservation, we just keep playing it like it is," said Sullivan coldly. "If he doesn't . . ."

"We take them in."

"And let Striker know there's been a change of plan. YOU let him know, that is. I ain't going back to that town."

Thompson looked at the brightening sky a last time. "We'll have to make sure, in that case, to knock Tanner down enough that we can take them quickly, without a fuss." He looked at Sullivan and couldn't help but smile pleasantly. "Do your arrows have the range we need?"

Sullivan's face grew darker and he rose without a word to vanish into the brush. Thompson smiled and settled down to wait.

Part 21

Vin had been careful, had even dismounted to walk as often as he could, but his horse was tiring and he could feel it. No wonder. The tracker stood up in the stirrups to see a little farther as the early sun spilled more light across the rocky hills, and thought he must be getting pretty close to Buck by now. The reservation boundary was just over the next rise, and the village couldn't be more than another 6 or 8 miles past that. He reined in the tired gelding and turned to run his eyes across the undulating landscape to the east, searching for the grey and its rider. He had done his damnedest to get ahead of Buck so he could work his way back towards the gunman and not miss him, and he was about to the turn-around point, now.

Vin dismounted to climb a low knoll while he let the black rest a moment, and drew out his glass to carefully search the broken hills and low ridges that stretched out to the south and east. He was about to slap it shut when a motion caught the edge of the field of view, and he swung it back and refocused with a sudden surge of hope.

It was the grey, head down and obviously worn out, but unsaddled. Vin smiled in relief. At least Buck had been alive when he'd stopped. He searched the area carefully only to spot the gunman himself, one leg bloody as all hell and his face draped in misery, but alive and moving around. Vin palmed the scope shut, ran down the knoll so fast that he rolled gravel under his boots, and mounted up. The black snorted at his rider's enthusiasm and rolled his eyes, then broke into the slow lope that Vin asked him for. It took only a few moments for Vin to be able to see the light spot that was Buck's horse with an unaided eye, and not much longer after that before he whistled and saw Buck's head come up in surprise when he recognized the sound.

"Bucklin!" Vin slowed the tired gelding and jumped off to extend his hand to the older man. Buck grinned and then sat down suddenly, and winced.

"Damn," he said. "That hurt."

"I'll bet it did." Vin squatted down next to his friend and looked at him closely. "You're kinda pale there, Pard." He grinned at the way Buck looked up at him.

"I guess that's why you're the tracker in this outfit: you're just so damned observant."

Vin chuckled and pulled back the edge of Buck's pants where they had been cut by the arrowhead, but his eyes were serious. "Reckon so," he drawled. "Lucky for you I am, too." He stood up. "I got some stuff in my saddlebags I can bind that up with. We'll getcha' back t' Nathan's--"

"No dice." Buck literally folded his arms across his chest and his face darkened with anger. Vin sighed as he pulled out part of one of the blankets he'd brought and cut a strip off it with his knife. He grabbed the canteen off his saddle and came back to stand looking down at Buck thoughtfully.

"I s'pose you think Kojay's braves are responsible for this."

"It was an arrow, Vin." Buck looked up crossly. "You got any food with you?"

"Yeah." Vin sat down and poured water over the wound in Buck's leg without warning him, and the gunman sucked in his breath.

"Well shit! You coulda'--"

"Got slugged for my trouble?" Vin looked up at his friend, grinning. "Lemme wrap it an' I'll give you some jerky I've got." He pulled the bloodied fabric away from the jagged rent so the skin could dry, and then wrapped the blanket strip around it as a rough bandage. He sat back on his heels. "How's that feel?"

"Better." Buck frowned. "It needs jerky, though."

Vin laughed and went back to his horse, and dug out a parcel wrapped in paper that he tossed to his friend. Buck caught it with the first real smile Vin had seen so far, and unwrapped it eagerly. Vin leaned against the little hackberry tree Buck had camped under and watched his friend's face. Pretty weak, he thought. A lot weaker than he's letting on. He sighed.

"That arrow was Crow," he said softly.

Buck looked up, still chewing. "Crows?" He looked confused.

"Crow. Absaroka." Vin strolled over and sat down on the ground in front of Buck. "Tribe from up north. Nearly to Canada."

"What the hell would they be doin' here?"

"They ain't here, Buck."

"But . . ." Buck's voice trailed off as he studied Vin's face. "What are you tryin' to say?"

"I'm sayin' someone knows you too damn well."

Buck's face got a shade darker. "Meanin'?"

"Meanin' they figured if you thought you'd been attacked by Indians, you'd fly off the handle--"

It was, Vin thought later, exactly the wrong word to have chosen. Buck threw the packet of jerky at Vin so hard that it bounced off the tracker's chest and landed in the dirt.

"If that's what you think a' me, too, then just take your God-damned jerky an' get outta' here. I don't need you."

Vin's heart fell. "I can't do that, Buck."

"Why the hell not?" The gunman's voice was starting to rise, and he was rapidly passing from annoyed to seriously angry. "What is it: piss on Buck week?"

"'Fraid so." Vin's voice was so soft that Buck didn't catch his words at first. When he realized what he'd heard, he felt his anger chill into sudden fear.

"Why?" He wanted to hear it and he didn't want to hear it and oh God how could it possibly get any worse. But it did. When Vin looked up at him with all that sorrow in his eyes, Buck knew. He knew before the tracker said another word. "Chris is dead," whispered Buck.

"No." Vin reached out a quick hand to lay on Buck's knee. "God no," he repeated. "Chris is fine."

"Then . . . then what's so bad?"

"Belle says you raped her, while Josiah was out to the Delano Mine. She's filed charges."

Buck stared at Vin, speechless. It was as if the tracker had spoken some other language. The words didn't make sense. Vin waited a moment, then looked down at the ground and went on.

"Chris gave me 24 hours to find you and bring you back."

"Chris gave --" Buck choked on the words as they rose up like vomit in his throat. Vin looked away. He could hear Buck struggling to regain some measure of control. When he spoke, his voice was soft, and it cracked mid-sentence. "Chris _believed_ her?"

"I don't think so." Vin looked into Buck's eyes then, steadying him. "You know Chris."

"Yeah, I know Chris." Buck's face shifted suddenly from grief and confusion and fear into pure fury. He clambered to his feet. "I know that little son of bitch weasel. He didn't even back me up against Josiah when--"

"Take it easy, Buck. You'll reopen that wound." Vin was trying to get Buck to sit down again.

"Oh no," hissed Buck, "I'm gonna' open a new one. Right up the side a' that man's head. And then Josiah's." He grabbed his saddle and threw it onto the grey with a thump that made the animal grunt, then slapped the cinch into place and buckled it with two quick moves. Vin started to approach him, afraid that Buck's anger would give him enough energy to make him overdo it, and then drop him in a heap that would be darned hard to get back to town. Buck turned, though, to wave a shaking finger in Vin's face. "How--" he choked, "How could he _possibly_ "

But he didn't finish the sentence, because suddenly Vin leaped backwards and spun to one side and flung himself onto the dirt. Buck gaped at his friend in astonishment for two long seconds. And _then_ he heard the rifle's report echo off the surrounding hills. Even as he did, he saw Vin writhe onto his right side, his hand going to his shoulder there and suddenly covered in blood, his face corded with pain as he arched his neck backwards and clenched his teeth against the cry that was trying to force its way out of his throat.

Part 22

"There he is."

Thompson sat up and took his hat off his face when he heard Sullivan's satisfied words. He looked in the direction the other man was pointing to see that, indeed, Tanner had found his friend Wilmington. Even from this distance, it was clear Wilmington was listening to the younger man, as well as talking to him. He looked at Sullivan and raised one eyebrow.

"So do you want to try your bow-and-arrow trick? Or may I take care of this?"

Sullivan's eyes grew hard as glass, and he pointedly set down his weapons and folded his arms. "Be my guest," he said.

Thompson had laid down with the high-powered rifle across his lap, and now he picked it up and raised it to his eye, then adjusted the cross-hairs with a steady hand. He watched the tracker and the gunman as they talked and Tanner bandaged Wilmington's leg. It was clear things weren't going smoothly; Wilmington might still go on to the reservation, regardless of his friend.

"Sure takes you long enough," hissed Sullivan.

"Finesse always takes a bit longer," said Thompson mildly. He glanced up from the scope to look Sullivan up and down with distaste. "Watch and learn."

"You're not to kill him, remember." Sullivan was smiling triumphantly.

"Good luck picking your shot from here."

"Shows how much you know." Thompson looked again at the man in the slouch hat through the site and felt his breath catch when he saw Wilmington suddenly leap up to throw his saddle on his horse's back. So. Tanner had talked him into going back to town after all. The redhead turned cold eyes on Sullivan and spoke as though explaining to a child. "It so happens I am going to shoot him in the right shoulder so he can't use his rifle against us when we go collect the two of them."

Sullivan laughed derisively. "Go on!" He snorted. "Fifty bucks says you can't do that!"

"Consider yourself poorer," said Thompson softly.

Sullivan leaned forward in a posture of intent observation as Thompson felt himself focus in and tighten up, then go into that relaxed last moment before his finger moved on the trigger. He held his breath and squeezed.

The rifle roared and Sullivan jerked around to look at Thompson almost in outrage, then leaped to his feet.

"That was a lucky shot!" he yelled.

Thompson stood up, too, and rammed the rifle into the boot on his saddle as he mounted up. Below the two men, Wilmington was trying to get Tanner to his feet. "The sooner we get down there, the more likely we can get them in hand before they can fight us," he said. He reined the dun mare to the edge of the slope and looked at Sullivan, who was leaping to his own horse with a look of joyous rage on his face. "And you owe me fifty dollars."

Thompson pushed the dun mare over the edge into a steep, sliding charge down the slope towards the two wounded men, Sullivan on his heels.

+ + + + + + +

Vin thought somehow Buck's grey had kicked him. Just for one split second, even though he wasn't anywhere near it; it was the only explanation he could think of for why he was suddenly flying off his feet, to slam into the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him. But then the explosion had gone off in his shoulder in a white flash of blinding pain, and he knew better. He never even heard the distant crack of the high-powered rifle as he struggled to climb out of the hole the pain was trying to drag him into. A second shot was too damned likely, and Vin rolled to his side trying to get his feet under him, trying to get up.

He realized suddenly that Buck's hands were under his good arm, around his waist, helping him up. He heard his friend's voice but couldn't tell what he was saying. He felt his legs moving, stumbled, and gasped as another blinding flash of pain ripped his breath away. He knew he was sinking to the ground again, and try as he might he couldn't stop it. But again he was pulled up, and then he was somehow on horseback, and OH GOD! Vin reeled in the saddle as everything spun sickeningly and he heard gunshots from nearby and his horse started running and he clutched for the saddle horn and couldn't find it. More gunfire, Buck yelling again, some blue sky starting to show in the field of fiery sparks that had been all he could see since he'd been hit. He shook his head trying to clear it, and found the gelding's rough mane under his hands suddenly, and grabbed onto it. Then he saw a blurring, in-and-out form that was Buck riding to his right and a little in front of him, reining the grey to its haunches as Buck turned back to fire his pistol again and then leaped to the ground and grabbed Vin around the waist with both hands to pull him from the saddle.

The tracker thought sure he would pass out then; everything broke into shards and started to fall to the ground, leaving only black behind it. He couldn't. He _couldn't_. Vin bit the inside of his lips and tried to breathe more deeply. He could hear Buck right next to him, still firing, and then it quieted down. He realized he could smell the burnt powder from his friend's gun. Could feel the stones under his back. No, behind his back. His vision started to clear again, and he turned his head cautiously to one side to look at Buck, next to him. The gunman's face was pale and beaded with sweat, and he was breathing so heavily that for a moment Vin was afraid he would pass out, too. Just then Buck glanced over, and did a double-take when he saw Vin looking at him. He nodded.

"We've got some cover here," he panted.

"Where?" Vin's voice was thready, but he could feel it coming back as he pulled himself more under control.

"Buncha' rocks, far enough away from that damned ridge."

Vin nodded, closing his eyes. "But they're--" He broke off as another flash of white swept the words out of his head, and Buck laid a hand on his good shoulder.

"Yeah," he said softly, "they're not up there any more. Looks like they're about a hundred yards out that way," he gestured with the barrel of his pistol, "in that stand a' live oak."

Vin opened his eyes again and looked up at the sky overhead, trying to think. He realized Buck was talking again, his voice bitter.

"And you call those people your friends." He was scowling, and Vin felt confused.

"What?"

"Crows, my ass. Nobody from Canada could know this place like--"

"No. No." Vin shook his head and tried to sit up a little higher, grabbed Buck's sleeve with a bloodied hand and wrapped his fingers in the fabric. Buck looked at Vin's hand, then into his friend's face.

"Who else would it be?" he said softly, sadly.

"Bounty . . . hunter." It seemed like it took forever to get the words out, and Vin let go of Buck's sleeve exhausted when he'd said them.

"WHAT?!" Buck looked like he was about to jump to his feet. "Are you tellin' me you brought BOUNTY HUNTERS with you, on top a' everything else . . ."

"Sorry." Vin started to rub his face with the hand covered in blood, unaware, but Buck caught his arm and lowered it.

"It's ok," he said in a low voice. "Just lay still."

The two men were silent for a while, the only sound that of Buck's panting and Vin's labored, uneven breathing. The tracker felt more of his strength seep back as he rested, and finally reached up to undo his bandanna so he could press it to his shoulder. Buck leaned across Vin when he saw what he was trying to do, and pulled back the coat to help out. He blanched when he saw the size of the hole in Vin's shoulder, but was silent. Vin, however, looking closely at Buck's face, saw that he'd guessed right about the caliber of the bullet that had hit him. He closed his eyes as Buck pulled opened the top of Vin's shirt and slid the folded bandanna beneath it to cover the wound.

"Is there an exit wound?" The tracker's voice was getting steadier, but it was still weak. Buck shook his head, then realized Vin wasn't looking at him.

"No," he said soberly.

Vin nodded. He'd been right about that, too. It just hurt too damned bad to not have a slug in there.

"At least it ain't bleedin' too bad," Buck pointed out.

Vin opened his eyes and smiled wryly at his friend. "Don't believe I've seen you this cheerful so early," he said softly.

Buck laughed. "Must be the company."

He sat there for a while, watching Vin try to rest and get his wits back about him, watching for whoever was in those trees to try to sneak out and get the drop on them, watching for maybe Chris or JD or even Ezra to ride over the ridge.

But the thing his eye fell on the most frequently was the canteen that lay near his feet, in the shade. It was about half-full. It was all the water they had.

And it was August.

Part 23

Buck looked down at his leg, which was bleeding heavily. 'You wouldn't think one lousy wound could bleed so much,' he thought wearily. Damn. Damn! DAMN! When had the world gone to hell anyway? Indians and bounty hunters and Chris Larabee. He leaned his head against a rock and smiled without humor. They were all welcome to each other. Every one of them.

Last night when he'd stopped he'd only meant to rest his horse for an hour or two and then go on. The next thing he knew it was morning. Just like that. Like no time had passed between blackness and light. It had disoriented him, waking up to the rising sun. And now...

He looked over at Vin, whose eyes were still closed, though he seemed to be breathing a bit more easily and Buck was relieved to see that his wound at least had pretty much stopped bleeding. When he'd seen Vin riding into his makeshift camp this morning, Buck had to admit he'd been damned glad. He'd been hungry and still tired, his leg aching in a savage and unrelenting way. The only thing that had been keeping him going at that moment was his ferocious and abiding anger with the world in general and a bunch of renegade Indians in particular.

But then--he looked at the tracker slumped against a rock. What the hell had Vin been talking about? Buck shifted and a wave of dizziness passed over him. Black spots danced in front of his eyes. Damn! Rape. Rape! He'd heard the word before, all right. Knew what it meant long before that. Though to the women he'd grown up with it was just something that happened, just something you lived with. And then, they had taught him other things and other ways and he couldn't imagine ever..._ever_. And he had nothing but contempt in his heart for those who would.

He didn't really care what people thought about him, though. Or what words they tossed around. He could take care of that. Because maybe a woman had never said it before, but there had always been others--jealous husbands and angry fathers and disappointed suitors. And he had weathered them. Figured he could weather this, too. And without betraying Casey's confidence. But then, there was Chris. Damn him anyway! He should know. After all this time he should at least know that.

"Hey, pard."

Buck could hear the soft murmur of Vin's voice and a small measure of relief ran through his tired limbs. "You awake?" he asked.

"I'm fine," Vin said and his voice was barely above a whisper, as if that were all the strength he had to spare from just holding himself together. "Long as I don't move. Or breathe much."

"You just hang on there, pard," Buck said, trying to invest more strength in his voice than he actually had. "I'll take care of everything."

"Yeah," Vin's mouth turned up in a faint smile. Otherwise he didn't move at all, not even to turn his head and look at Buck. "You're in such good shape yourself."

"I ain't so bad," Buck said, as if he actually expected Vin to believe it.

Vin didn't reply, just lay there and breathed and Buck went back to studying the distant patch of live oak and thinking about what they had to work with. A canteen half-full of water, Buck's pistol, and two wounded men. He laid his head back against the rock again and tried to think. Why was that so damned hard? His leg was still bleeding and Buck figured he'd really better do something about that. He was thirsty, too. So thirsty that he couldn't hardly figure it. But then, everything seemed hard to figure at the moment. He lifted his head and scanned the area again. He had a reasonably good view of the live oak trees from where he was and he figured as long as he could keep watch on them he'd be able to tell if the men who'd shot Vin started to move. Once they left the cover of the trees it was trickier and he'd need to find a way to get higher if he was going to protect himself and Vin. He reached across for the canteen and a wave of blackness threatened to envelope him and draw him all the way down into nothingness. For a minute it was all he could do to just sit there.

After awhile he picked up the canteen. Damn! It was heavy. And the blackness wasn't receding. Keep still, he thought. Just wait. But it didn't help like he thought it would. He took a short drink of water, but it only made him more thirsty. He couldn't drink anymore though...he couldn't..Vin would need...

His eyes opened. They didn't snap open because he didn't have any snap left in him, but they opened at least. He had to stay awake. Had to. He looked through the rocks, trying to catch a glimpse of the bounty hunters. He couldn't see anything. They could be anywhere. He looked up at the sky. 'How long was I out?' he wondered. He looked at Vin. Still lying there with his eyes closed. Still breathing okay.

'Need a better location,' he thought. And he pushed himself up and started to drag himself a little higher up the rocks. So tired, he thought. So...

And this time when the blackness came he couldn't fight it anymore and the huge dark wave of it crested and crashed over him and dragged him all the way to the bottom.

+ + + + + + +

Chris had awakened shortly after dawn in spite of the fact that the night had been more than half gone before he'd sought his bed, in spite of the fact that there was nothing about this day that he was looking forward to. It was remotely possible, of course, that Vin would be back before his twenty-four hours was up. But the likelihood of that was not something Chris particularly believed in. But then, he couldn't figure why Buck had left town in the first place. It wasn't like him to walk away from friends or a fight either one. Not like him at all. And it was that as much as anything that ate at Chris.

Wrong.

Sometimes he was just flat wrong. And he really hated the idea that this was one of those times.

He dressed and packed his saddlebags. He didn't know how long he'd be gone, but he figured it might take awhile. He didn't expect Buck to hide from him. But then, he didn't figure Buck would expect Belle to press charges or Chris to come after him. If he expected anyone, he'd expect Josiah. Buck'd been dealing with outraged suitors since long before Chris had ever met him. And that was another thing that didn't sit right, Chris thought. Women _didn't_ complain about Buck. Oh, some thought he was too forward or too crude or too wild or just not their style, but he'd greet those women with a friendly smile and just move on. Chris never remembered a one that Buck had spent time with ever complaining about him. Even when _he_ moved on, he managed, in a way Chris couldn't quite figure, to leave them happier than when he'd found them. It made him wonder about Belle. But it made him wonder, too, if there were things over the years that he just hadn't seen or hadn't wanted to see. And that was the thought he didn't want to think and couldn't push away.

He buckled his saddlebags, grabbed the black duster from a peg by the door, and left the hotel room. It was still early, only a couple of hours past sunrise and Vin still had several hours to bring Buck back. Chris would give him the full measure of time, too. It just wouldn't make any difference, he figured.

The street was quiet and Chris stood blinking for a moment in the morning light. Other times when he stayed in town, he'd see Vin at a table in front of the saloon in the early morning. The tracker would look down the street at him and raise his coffee mug in a gesture of greeting and Chris would feel something unwind inside him, as if, for a little while longer, the world would not collapse. It was the same feeling he'd get when he'd look at Buck right as all hell was about to break loose and Buck would look up and give him a sharp, unsmiling nod, as if to say, 'I know everything you're thinking and it don't matter 'cuz we're both in this together.'

But this morning, there was no Vin by the saloon and there would be no Buck anywhere. The muscles in Chris's face tightened down even further. 'Damn both of them, anyway,' he thought as he stepped off the boardwalk into the street.

Sometime later, as he was finishing his breakfast, Mary Travis found him. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" she said.

Chris gestured for her to sit, hoping she didn't have questions about Buck and Belle and Josiah. Just what we don't need, he thought, all this in the paper.

But Mary's mind was on other things. "You were right," she said. Chris blinked at her. 'About what,' he thought. "About my editorial," she continued, as if he'd actually asked the question out loud. "About Nathan. People _are_ talking. And just the way you said they would. Oh not everyone. But it will get back to Nathan eventually, if it hasn't already. And he'll think that I meant something I didn't. I had the best intentions," she finished.

"Things don't always turn out the way you want," Chris said, and the words came out harshly, meaning more than he'd intended.

This time it was Mary's turn to look at him and blink, but if she expected him to elaborate, she was destined to disappointment. After a minute, she went on. "I want to talk to Nathan. To explain. But I can't find him. Do you know where he is?"

Chris remembered knocking on his door last night to no avail and a thread of anger worked its way back up out of the dark place he usually kept it. How could they all have disappeared so quickly, he thought. Didn't they know this town needed them? "I ain't seem him," he told Mary. "Figure he's out on another call."

"But you don't know where?"

"Nope." Chris pushed his half-finished breakfast away from him and rose. He looked down at Mary. "Anything else?"

Mary rose, too. "No, Mr. Larabee," she said formally, responding to his own cool demeanor. "There's nothing else right now."

A few hours later when she happened to glance out the window, she saw him, a tall dark figure riding south out of town.

+ + + + + + +

What Mary didn't see, because she'd already turned back to her task at the printing press, was another man, dressed in a grey duster instead of a black one, jogging down the street in Chris's wake.

Striker was relaxed as he rode, not too worried about keeping up with Chris. He wouldn't move fast Striker figured, off on a mission he didn't want to do. Striker could follow him at a distance and make sure he didn't go where he wasn't wanted until he was wanted there. He smiled just a bit at the thought of what was already happening. And how it was going to affect the man that he was following. It was a complicated plan. And it required good men to carry it out. But whether Striker liked them or not, Thompson and Sullivan were very good at what they did. The next time Chris Larabee saw his friends, at least one of them would be dead and the other would have started a war. That thought was enough to satisfy Striker for a good long time.

He directed his horse off the main road so that he could parallel Larabee but stay out of his way. Hammersmith and Bland could take care of things in town. In fact, and this thought caused him to smile again, there was very little left in town to 'take care of.' All plans were in motion. All traps were set. And Striker intended to enjoy watching the traps swing shut.

+ + + + + + +

Chris reined in hard as if it were his horse's fault that he was having a lousy day. He'd chosen his direction out of town at random, but now that he _was_ out of town he'd have to admit what he was doing and settle on a plan. Where would Buck go? Well, it would help if he knew why he'd left town in the first place. To escape rape charges? To run from Josiah? Neither of those seemed like Buck and, of course, that very thing kept eating at him. But if Buck had never been the man he thought he knew then he'd never find him anyway. So, say he was pissed. He wasn't Vin; he wouldn't head for the wilderness or an Indian reservation. Buck would head for town. And if he was really pissed he'd head for some low border town where there were gunfights and fistfights and women who could be charmed for the price of a glass of whiskey.

Chris turned off the main road and headed straight for the closest one, Telem Flats.

Part 24

It was an hour before the marathon poker game was to resume as Vincent Hammersmith stepped out of the hotel. Hammersmith wanted to beat the competition, especially Ezra Standish, so despite his fatigue he was up early, a gambler considers mid-morning early, to survey the main street of Four Corners. He had to admit he was impressed. A person did not want for services in this town: hotels, restaurants, laundry, bathhouse, seamstress, general store, hardware, saloons, and newspaper. As several people walked by they would nod politely, avoiding eye contact. Hammersmith smirked. Intelligent folks, too.

The number of people on the street and the general mood bothered Hammersmith. It took him a minute to recognize what was wrong. There were people on the street. There was no fear. No panic. Damn. Something must have gone wrong.

He wheeled to return to the hotel but the sight of a man, all dressed in black, mounting his horse caught his eye. Larabee. Well, at least something was going right this morning. Larabee was riding out. Hammersmith noted another man mount and follow. The rider tipped his hat ever so slightly as he passed Hammersmith. Hammersmith schooled his features so not to let anyone note the exchange. Only a most observant man would have caught the exchange. And one man in Four Corners did.

"Good morning, Hammersmith. Ready to resume play," Hammersmith turned to see one of the cowboys from the trail crews approach.

Hammersmith nodded in greeting. "Certainly, let's see if we can round up a table."

"I'll meet you at the saloon."

Hammersmith nodded and noticed the banker across the way. Hammersmith crossed and went to talk to him. Smooth flattery convinced the banker that he belonged in the game. Hammersmith was anticipating the rich man in the game and the monetary reward when he caught sight of the gambler.

Hammersmith watched the man for a minute. Well turned out, in a scarlet coat and tailored black trousers. Hammersmith found himself envious. He grimaced as he considered his own wardrobe: grey duster, wool vest, cotton shirt, and jeans. Damn. What he wouldn't give to feel a fine linen shirt against his skin. Well, it wouldn't do. Can't risk that Standish would recognize him.

Damn. He noted Standish survey the street as he had done and the frown that crossed the gambler's face. It wouldn't do to have him look for his friends now. Hammersmith quickly crossed to intercept him.

"Mr. Standish." Hammersmith pasted a pleasant smile on his face, one that didn't reach his eyes. He felt his body tighten as Standish surveyed him.

Standish nodded, "Good morning, Mr. Hammersmith."

During the six-word exchange, Hammersmith already felt that Standish was getting the better of him and nobody got the better of him. "Good morning, sir. Are you ready to resume our match?"

Standish smiled obviously delighted. "Indeed, I am." He paused and looked across the street. "I just have one errand."

"The others are waiting already. You wouldn't want to miss any of the action."

Standish looked up at Hammersmith, "no, indeed, I wouldn't."

Hammersmith chuckled soundlessly; damn, got to love it, he is so predictable -- give him a game and nothing and no one mattered. Hammersmith clapped Standish on the back and urged him towards the saloon.

They had played several hands when all movement and sound in the saloon halted. Hammersmith's breath caught his own throat as he spied the stunning woman enter the saloon. No demimondaine, this was a lady. Shame that, though Hammersmith never paid, he'd make an exception in this case. Blonde hair, blue eyes, porcelain complexion, and a shapely figure in a stylish dress of superior fabric. She had the regal carriage of royalty as she entered, obviously looking for someone. Several of the locals knew and obviously respected her, and turned a blind eye to this breach of decorum. Hammersmith couldn't stop watching as she approached the poker table.

"Mr. Standish, may I have a word?"

Standish immediately folded and stood. "Certainly. Excuse me, gentlemen." He placed a proprietary hand on the lady's elbow as he escorted her from the saloon. Without a word, Standish had clearly announced that the men should respect the lady in their presence.

Hammersmith raked the cards and surreptitiously looked at the cards Standish had mucked. Damn. He looked at the stunning couple. Damn.

+ + + + + + +

"You really should refrain from entering the saloon, Mrs. Travis."

Mary looked up at him and frowned as he made the most stupid remark in the world. Ezra chuckled, almost reminded him of the look Chris Larabee gave him yesterday when he had thought Ezra said something idiotic. Ezra sighed; there was only one reason Mary would seek him out -- his mother. What shenanigans was she involved in now? And what would it require of him to extricate his mother from this latest fiasco?

"I couldn't find any of the others and that's where you were. I didn't have much choice."

Ezra frowned at her response. "This isn't about my mother, is it?" Ezra couldn't refrain from feeling relief. Maybe this wouldn't take long and he could get back in the game.

"Well no, I'm concerned about Nathan."

"Mr. Jackson hardly seeks my company."

"So, you haven't seen him?"

Ezra stopped walking and turned to watch the stage barreling through town. He stepped forward quickly and assisted an elderly woman to the safety of the boardwalk. Tipping his hat, he turned to Mary, "excuse me, one moment."

Ezra proceeded to the stage stop, mounted the stage, and pulled the driver down. After making it clear to the driver that he would suffer grievously if he didn't slow down in town, he walked back to Mary.

Ezra looked up and saw Mary eyeing him speculatively. Don't even think it, Mrs. Travis. I am not responsible for policing this town. Chris Larabee is in charge and it's his job.

"We were discussing Mr. Jackson," Ezra immediately reminded the editor before she started pursuing a discussion of what other law enforcement action he could be assigned since no one else seemed to be about.

"You haven't seen him?"

Ezra stopped walking. He shifted mental gears and pondered when he had actually last seen Mr. Jackson. "Not for two days. I saw him when JD fell off his horse." Ezra chuckled remembering the incident.

"Well, from what I can figure out, that's the last time anybody saw him?"

"Are you certain he isn't out of town attending to some unfortunate victim of some gruesome malady?"

Mary softly laughed. "No, I'm not certain. But his horse is at the livery, he hasn't rented a wagon or carriage, nobody has seen him ride out," Mary paused for effect, "and if there had been some unfortunate victim of some gruesome malady, I would have heard about it by now."

Ezra looked sideways and smiled at the smart way she parroted his words. Verbal repartee was always enjoyable. "Did you check his room?"

Mary straightened, feigning indignation, she briskly retorted, "Of course, I checked his room, yesterday and today. I knocked and there was no answer. I am a reporter and editor, I do know how to carry out an investigation." Mary's expression turned grave, "I'm worried."

For the first time, so was Ezra. It wasn't unheard of in the heat of an emergency, for Nathan to leave town without giving notice. But Mary was right, she would have heard of it by now. "Let's start at his room."

Ezra quickened his pace and Mary was almost jogging to keep up. When they reached the staircase by Nathan's room, Ezra released Mary's elbow and took the stairs two at a time. He hammered on the door. "Mr. Jackson. NATHAN." There was no response. He tried the door and it was locked. That in it self wasn't unusual for the healer, he stored several medicines, particularly narcotics, that were prone to be pilfered so he always kept his door locked if he wasn't in attendance. Mary had now joined him on the landing. Ezra removed a small case and removed a pick. With a quick practiced move, Ezra had the door unlocked. Mary prudently didn't say anything, and Ezra didn't even try to explain where he had acquired that skill.

Ezra opened the door and the stench of raw sewage and vomit overwhelmed him. Mary paled and turned her face away. Ezra drew her away from the door. He desperately tried to swallow the lump in his throat and looked up at her, his eyes without hope, "I'll check it out." Tears were welling in Mary's eyes.

Ezra sent up a prayer as he returned to the door. "Please, Lord." He couldn't express his heartfelt wish that somehow Nathan Jackson would be alive in that room.

Ezra pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his nose and mouth. The room was dark with only a small shaft of light from the door. Ezra noted the soiled but empty bed. He walked around it to open the thick curtain tripping over the body. Ezra flicked the curtain open and Nathan Jackson was on the floor, curled in a fetal position, dead.

Dead. Ezra couldn't fathom it. Nathan's face always so alive, he had that broad smile; now his face was an expressionless mask, the color of charcoal. His lips were almost white, dried and cracked. His drawers were soiled. Ezra gently turned Nathan over; his skin was cold. He thought he might have heard an extremely soft groan as he turned him. Ezra had tended the dead before and knew you heard sounds as they were moved. He placed his ear to Nathan's chest, not expecting to hear anything. Ezra's eyes widened when he heard the relatively strong but fast heartbeat.

"Mary, MARY." Ezra sprinted to the door, fumbling as he pulled money from his pocket. Panic was welling in him.

"I need hot water, sheets, and towels. Until I can figure out what's wrong with him, don't let anybody near here. I need something to scrub his room down. Don't have anybody come in." The words were spilling over each other as Ezra anxiously tried to think of everything that he would need to tend his friend. And it would be up to him. Nobody could afford to risk spreading some epidemic throughout the town. It was on his shoulders to save Nathan.

Mary held Ezra's money loosely in her hands. "Will he . ."

Ezra didn't know if there was much chance but he knew that for right now, "he's alive. Now, go!"

Part 25

Casey actually slept. She couldn't reconcile it with her previous sleepless nights. She stretched her arms over her head and for a brief instant, thought all was right in her world. But reality crashed with a vengeance. The sun was well up and she had chores. She quickly got out of bed, wincing when she used her left arm. How could she forget? How could she have slept so long?

It never occurred to Casey to blame oversleeping on the consequences of the terror of two mornings ago. She had responsibilities. She quickly dressed and went out into the main room of the cabin.

JD was sitting at the table. "Mornin', Casey," he greeted cheerfully.

"JD, you should've woke me up." Casey told JD, her voice still heavy from sleep.

JD smiled broadly. "You needed the sleep."

"I needed to do my chores," Casey countermanded, irritated with JD that he thought he knew best.

"I took care of 'em."

"You took care of 'em. That was my job, JD. You should've woke me."

JD's smile faded. "You're welcome," he said quietly.

Casey flushed at the softly spoken reprimand. She was in JD's debt and it had very little to do with morning chores. "Thank you, JD," Casey kept her head down but smiled shyly to let him know her gratitude.

JD smiled. "You are very welcome." Casey giggled. She turned to put the kettle on for tea, "have you had breakfast?"

"No, I was waiting on you."

Casey turned, "that was so nice of you, what are we having?"

"I don't cook," JD immediately retorted, making it clear he thought it woman's work.

"Mmm, must of misunderstood, I thought you did *ALL* the morning chores," Casey teased.

"Casey, you know I don't cook," JD sounded almost panicked.

Casey couldn't stop laughing. JD retaliated by grabbing her and started to tickle her. Casey wriggled against him. "JD," she gasped.

"Uncle."

"Never," Casey was doubled over from laughing and giggling. She shrieked as JD picked her up. "Uncle, uncle." JD immediately released her. Casey eyes sparkled, "what would you like?"

"Flapjacks."

"Sure." Casey turned to collect the ingredients thinking she felt quite good. She could ride and throw knives better than JD and she could cook. Dang, she was feeling downright superior.

In short order, breakfast was on the table. Casey looked over the spread she presented. Not bad, if she did say so herself. But JD was generous with praise and they had an enjoyable breakfast. The first time in days, Casey had any appreciable appetite.

"Casey, I got to go back to town today?"

Casey's face fell, "Why?"

"I've been here two days. I have responsibilities."

"But wouldn't Buck or one of the others come get you?" Casey was valiantly trying to tamp down her panic.

"Yes, they would," JD patiently explained. "But I have duties I must tend to, and I can't expect the others to do the job I'm paid for."

"Fine, that's just fine," Casey knew she sounded childish, "Do what you have to do."

"You're coming with me," JD stated matter-of-factly.

"I am certainly not."

"You can't stay here alone."

That caused Casey to pause. Before two days ago, she would never have thought twice about being here alone. Now, the thought filled her with dread. But she had promised herself she'd never go to town again. Tears pricked the corner of her eyes, she felt trapped between worse and worser.

JD reached across the table and took one of Casey's hands. "I would feel much better knowing you were in town with me."

"You would feel better."

"Yeah, I would."

Casey considered what to do. She pulled her hand away and ran it through her hair, obviously agitated. "JD, I just don't think I can." She ran out of the cabin to escape the pressure from JD.

Casey's breaths were coming in short gasps; she felt she was suffocating. What was she to do? Casey calmed herself and weighed her options. She could go to the Andrews' farm and stay there. But her aunt would surely ask her a lot of questions that Casey had no intention of answering.

She could stay here. Alone. Unprotected. That was worse than facing her aunt.

She could go to town. Why was it she wasn't doing that again? Because there were bad people there. Okay, girl, you can stay here alone or go to town where you have JD and Buck, or any of the seven for that matter. Casey was fast realizing just how much she owed Buck Wilmington. She had been so distraught that day he brought her home; she didn't ever probably thank him. That was it. She'd go to town and thank Buck, and that way she wouldn't be alone.

As Casey returned to the cabin, JD was standing on the front porch. He looked at her pensively but he didn't say anything more.

"I've decided it's best if I go to town with you." Casey felt better just saying it.

JD nodded and said solemnly, "I'll saddle the horses."

Casey was thinking JD Dunne was pretty smart. One wrong word from him, she would've stayed here alone. She went to the bedroom to collect the things she needed to take with her. Casey resolutely prepared herself to return to town. Boy, was she nervous. Come on, girl. How bad can it be? JD will be there. Buck will be there. And they'd make sure it would all be okay. She'd be protected. She'd be safe.

Part 26

Belle woke and stretched to work out the stiffness of her muscles. She really missed her feather bed and considered how soon she could return to it in California. By the amount of sunlight in the room, she estimated it was mid-morning. Down right early. There was really no hurry to get out of bed except there was no man to keep her company. It was a rare morning indeed that she didn't have company. It was far too lucrative not to.

Belle went to stand in front of the mirror. She was a blue-eyed brunette with a perfect alabaster complexion. She removed her silk gown and admired her petite figure. She was perfect. Patrons traveled hundreds of miles to admire the beauty and her acting ability whilst she was on the stage in San Francisco. And many a gentleman paid handsomely to keep her company. But it was never the money. It was the adoration.

Belle pursed her lips considering the man in her living room. In different circumstances, like if he was rich and lived in San Francisco, she would very much like to keep time with Josiah Sanchez. He was a stunning man. Maybe not in the classical sense, but he had a face of character and an eloquence unmatched by most of his contemporaries. And he adored her.

As it was, Josiah Sanchez was an erstwhile preacher in a territorial outpost. He wasn't even the most powerful man in town. He was part of a gang of seven regulators hired by some judge to maintain law and order in the region. And at the princely sum of $1 a day. But for all his bad features, he did adore her. Hell, she didn't have to work hard at it. One had to be flattered as he came to her defense, even if he would never do in the long run.

Belle walked over to consider her wardrobe. She really did need those new dresses she had commissioned upon arriving to town. Maybe Josiah Sanchez wasn't her future, but she could enjoy his attentions in the meantime. Maybe to help ease the pains of her sojourn in this backwater. To adore her. Belle pulled a periwinkle blue dress from the trunk, an appropriate dress for the territory and flattering to her coloring.

After she was dressed, Belle admired herself in the morning. She took several deep breaths and then allowed her eyes to tear slightly. She was ready.

Belle carefully opened the door. Josiah was awake and sitting on the settee. Belle scurried across the room to kneel at his feet. "Oh Josiah, did you stay here all night protecting me?" The smell of alcohol was heavy on his breath but Belle made every effort not to wrinkle her nose in disgust.

Josiah gently took her hand and urged Belle to stand. "Miss Belle, I am your servant."

"Oh Josiah, I am unworthy of your service."

Josiah bent and kissed the back of her hand. "No, Miss Belle, it is I who failed you."

Belle dropped her head and allowed a tear to escape her eye. "There was no way you could've known what . . .", Belle drew a ragged breath, "what type of man he was."

"No, Miss Belle, I did. It was my failure."

"Maybe I will have it in me to forgive."

Josiah's head bowed deeply. "I would be most unworthy but rest assured, you will never want for protection."

"You are so gallant, Josiah. Please let me make some coffee and a light repast for you."

"No, Miss Belle, you do not need to do this for me." The misery in Josiah's voice was unmistakable.

"I insist. You would not deny me anything I want?" Belle inquired hurt.

"I deny you nothing," Josiah quickly averred.

"Then, I insist." Belle turned and entered the kitchen, pleased with the start to the morning. She was really good, extremely good. Belle bowed to the stove, thank you my fans. Belle lightly laughed at her silliness. As she prepared the coffee and breakfast, she worryingly bit her lip, now, to figure out a way for Josiah to take her to town. She will just die of boredom if she didn't get out of this house.

Josiah came into the kitchen and sat at the table. He had made some effort to freshen up and was halfway sober.

"Here you are, my gallant protector." Josiah bowed and held a seat for Belle. Belle sat down and served Josiah. After a few minutes, she let her head bow and gave a half-sob. "Josiah, do others think badly of me?"

"I don't know how they could," Josiah responded puzzled.

"I am a fallen woman, shamed," Belle answered in a very small voice. She watched Josiah's reaction to that statement from hooded eyes.

Josiah leapt to Belle's defense. "I will assure you that not one bit of gossip will reach your ears."

"Oh Josiah, my gallant protector," Belle took one of Josiah's hands and looked adoringly into his eyes. "I just didn't know what I was going to do. I am in desperate need to pick up some dresses from the seamstress. I had thought to ask you but then I would . . ." Belle let out a ragged breath, "I would have to be here by myself."

"No, no. You can't not stay here alone," Josiah firmly stated.

"Thank you, Josiah," Belle bowed her head trying to hide her elation, "may we go immediately after breakfast?"

"I will hitch the carriage now."

Belle danced a little jig in the kitchen when Josiah went to the barn. She really did need to give some thought as to how she could further exploit the circumstances.

The ride in to town was without conversation. Josiah was morose and Belle's machinations prevented her from attempting conversation.

As they approached town, Belle stiffened and bowed her head. "Oh Josiah, how will I ever survive this?"

"Now, now, Miss Belle." Josiah drew the carriage up to the storefront of the seamstress.

"What will I do if that horrid man . . . Oh Josiah, will you check for me and guarantee he is behind bars and can't hurt me?"

"I will guarantee it. Do not leave the store until I return."

"I promise, Josiah."

Belle watched Josiah Sanchez storm down the boardwalk, patrons scattering to clear his path. A satisfied smile crossed Belle's face, fuse lit.

Now what else can I do? Belle spied the young couple down the street. She recognized the young man as another of the seven men hired to protect the town. Belle watched the young man, JD Dunne that was his name, animatedly talk to a young lady that he obviously cared for. Even from this distance, Belle recognized that the feelings were mutual. Dunne then walked off and the girl continued down the boardwalk in her direction.

Think I need to talk to that young lady about the company she's keeping and the company her boyfriend keeps. After all, Belle knew just what Buck Wilmington was capable of. Belle smiled in anticipation.

Part 27

The sun was nearly straight overhead now, erasing any lingering shade among the rocks and heating their surfaces. Soon they would be too hot to touch with bare skin, too hot for a wounded man to lay on without something under him. Vin looked over at Buck, laying on the rocks where Vin had tried to ease him down some after he'd collapsed earlier. Buck had gone down so hard and so fast -- apparently trying to scale the rocks for some reason -- that Vin had been worried he'd hit his head. But there didn't seem to be any bruises or knots, so he kept hoping it was the combination of blood loss and so much exertion that had done it. Vin shook his head, thinking about it. How on earth the weak man he'd seen at the campsite had gotten him on a horse and all the way over here -- it seemed impossible even to imagine. But Buck had done it, and now he was paying the price. Vin lay his hand on the rock nearest him and felt the heat radiating into his palm, then looked again at Buck.

The gunman must have taken his coat off the night before, probably to use under his head, because he didn't have it on now. Vin sighed and started pulling at his leather coat one-handed. He shrugged off the left sleeve fairly easily, but the right one -- Vin bit his lips as he tried to ease the coat back and down, off his bad arm, but he had to stop when his vision began to swim from the pain. He closed his eyes to let the worst of it subside, then started again. Gently, an inch at a time, he worked the worn coat loose, and then finally it dropped heavily to the sand and rocks beneath him, and Vin sagged, dizzy and exhausted, relieved it was over.

It was several long minutes before he was able to move again, and then it seemed like there was half a territory between himself and Buck instead of only ten or twelve feet. Vin squatted carefully, stiffly, trying to keep from moving any part of his chest or right arm, to pick up the coat with his left hand. He had to brace himself against the rock in front of him with his left shoulder to get up again. Damn! Beads of sweat broke from the effort, to run in thin rivulets down the sides of his face. He pushed himself off the rock, took a single step, staggered, then forced himself to take another step and a third before he dropped to his knees with a low cry in spite of clenching his teeth against it, his breath coming fast and things starting to spin again. At least, he thought, at least I'm here now. All I have to do now is get it under 'im so he don't burn up, so he don't . . .

Vin's thoughts trailed off into a dimness that he recognized as dangerous, and he shook his head to clear it. Buck. Buck was laying on the shining granite under that blistering sun and Vin had to get something under him or he'd die from the heat without any chance at all. The tracker looked at his friend's unconscious form and wondered how on earth he was possibly going to raise the man's head and back to slide the coat beneath him. He closed his eyes as a deep stab of pain caught him off-guard and dropped the coat to clutch at his own shoulder with a gasp. He curled his head to his chest, holding his breath against the pain as it shook him like it would throw him to the ground, until the spasm passed and he could see again. Do it right now, he thought. I gotta' do it right now or I might not make it.

He knew there was no way he could lift with even his good arm; the pain from the slug embedded in his shoulder was so overwhelming that the slightest movement threatened him with an unconsciousness that would spell Buck's death as well as his own. He hadn't forgotten for a moment that there was still a bounty hunter out there somewhere, and that he had a long-range rifle with a damned good scope. So he did the only thing he could think of to do. Very carefully, as gently as possible, Vin sat down and extended his legs in front of him, to slide one foot beneath Buck's neck and lift it from the stone. The man's head hung back off Vin's ankle as he raised it, and the younger man scooted forward a fraction, clenching his jaws and holding his arm and shoulder to keep them still as possible, as he shoved the coat towards Buck with his other foot. Slowly, inch by inch, he pushed the leather beneath Buck's neck and head, and then beneath his shoulders and the upper part of his back.

There was no way to get it any farther. Vin sighed, and let Buck's head and neck back down, onto leather now instead of bare stone, and hoped it would somehow be enough. He looked up at the sun again, and thought he really ought to try to get the last of the water into Buck somehow; he had lost so much blood. But he found his head dropping against his own chest, then realized with a start that he had nearly let himself slip away. Couldn't do that, he thought. Couldn't--

What was that? A movement had caught his eye, and he rolled to a sitting position, looking outward from the rocks. He saw it again, unmistakable: a man had run from the cover of the trees to a rock a little distance out from there, advancing. Earlier Vin had taken Buck's pistol and reloaded it awkwardly, then tucked it in the front of his own gunbelt. Now he slid the heavy weapon out with his left hand, and balanced the butt of it on the stone. He squinted to see through the sweat that kept running into his eyes, and thumbed back the hammer, waiting. Five long minutes went by, and Vin carefully slid farther down the outcrop, trying to see better. He was ready when the man jumped up suddenly to race to another place of cover that was nearer, and Vin did his best with Buck's pistol to at least make the bastard think twice about getting any closer. Then a sudden sound behind him made him whirl around so quickly that he caught his breath and slid down the stone to the ground as the pain slammed into him again. Even as he was trying to raise Buck's pistol in a shaking hand, he could see it was too late, though.

A black-haired man in buckskins was standing over Buck, a gun to the unconscious man's head. His eyes were on Vin, and there was something about the feral expression on his face that made the tracker freeze. It was, Vin realized with a sinking feeling, an expression of furious joy, even though there was no smile. The man was actually happy to be inches away from killing Buck in cold blood, and hoping for the opportunity to do so.

"Drop your weapon this moment," he said, "or this man is dead. Now."

Vin laid the pistol on the sand. "Leave 'im be," he gasped. "He ain't nothin' to you."

"Oh, I think he is," hissed the stranger. Vin heard rapid footsteps running up behind him, and knew it was the man he'd been watching and trying to stop.

"No." Vin felt like the air was growing thicker and harder to breathe as he fought to stay conscious. "He ain't wanted for nothin'. Only me. Leave 'im here."

The man who had come over the stones into the small cleared area chuckled, and Vin craned his head to see that this one, redhaired and bearded, was eyeing the man in buckskins with a smirk. "What do you say?" the redhead asked the other man, cocking his head "Shall we see if there's a bounty on Mr. Tanner's friend, too?" He looked down at Vin, then. "Or shall we just kill him and leave him for the buzzards, and take only Mr. Tanner with us?"

The black-haired man laughed coarsely. "Depends," he said, "on how much trouble they are."

Vin tried to push himself up higher on the rock behind him, and winced. The man in buckskin started towards him, his eyes suddenly going dead. He flipped his pistol around and raised the back of it towards Vin, but the other man stopped him.

"You are so uncouth," he said. He actually looked faintly disgusted. "It's a lot easier than that."

And raising one foot, he casually set the sole of his boot against the wound in Vin's shoulder and pressed firmly and heavily upon it. Vin jerked, and a spasm of anguish ran across his features that vanished as he slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Sullivan frowned. "What's all that shit about wanting a bounty outta' Wilmington?"

"No reason to let him know there's anything more to this than he thinks there is." Thompson grabbed Vin by his feet and dragged him unceremoniously over to the stone where Buck lay. "Get their horses. I'll start tying their hands."

"I'm gettin' tired of you always giving me orders." Sullivan stared into Thompson's eyes for a long moment, and then turned without another word and headed for Tanner's and Wilmington's horses as well as their own. Thompson looked after him for an even longer moment, then bent to his task.

Twenty minutes later, Vin and Buck were on horseback and tied to their saddles in ways that would make sure they got where they had to go. Sullivan had tied their feet to the stirrups, and then their bound hands to the saddle horns. He shook the ropes to make sure everything was secure, and then ran a long lead line from one horse to another and tied it off to the D ring on his own saddle. Thompson was stowing his gear and securing his own rig as Sullivan worked, and he mounted as the other man finished checking everything and looked up.

"I still think it would make more sense to pack them like gunnysacks," said Thompson.

"It'd kill 'em," said Sullivan, as if he didn't care. "They're supposed to get there alive, and it's too far for that kinda' travel." He lifted Vin's limp head by his hair and looked into the slack face, then dropped it again and laughed at the way the tracker lolled down over the gelding's whithers. "Besides, this is kinda' fun." He looked up at Thompson and his face grew hard. "I like it, you know. I like to think about men I hate, in this kind of fix."

Thompson returned the gaze evenly, knowing the threat when he heard it. He gathered the reins on the dun mare and backed her, to leave.

"Be careful you don't find yourself on the wrong end of it one of these days," he said softly. He whirled the mare, and rode away.

Part 28

"Well, everything looks quiet enough." JD's eyes were running quickly up and down the street as they rode into town. Casey looked at him and shrugged as casually as she knew how.

"Looks like always," she said. Like always, she told herself. Like all the times before. I've been here a hundred times and nothing ever happened and it's gonna' be like all those times today.

"Yeah, but lately those cowhands have been really causin' trouble. The herds can't be all that far away yet, so . . . Casey? You all right?"

"Yeah." Casey swallowed and pushed her face into a weak smile.

They had ridden up to the hitching rail near the hardware store, and Casey leaped lightly to the ground and tied her horse before JD could say anything more. He dismounted and came around to stand in front of her as she stepped up onto the boardwalk, and he wouldn't move until she looked up at him. When she did, he searched her face with dark eyes filled with concern.

"I'm all RIGHT, JD," said Casey, and she shoved past him and raised her chin to hide its trembling, and cocked her head back at him from the walkway. "I'm gonna' go see if Mrs. Potter's got in the bolt a' calico Aunt Nettie ordered. You go do whatever it is you gotta' do."

"Yeah, but Casey--" JD extended one hand to her, but Casey tossed her head and felt the devilment rise in her, and her eyes snapped.

"An' I gotta' look at her Godey's Ladies' Book and see what the new fashion is for the dress we're makin' out of it. I wanna' make the waist low like this, but Aunt Nettie--"

"Uhhh . . . that's ok, Casey. That stuff . . . it, uh . . ." JD shuffled nervously in a way that made the girl smile inside without letting him see it. He blanched suddenly as he realized what dangerous territory he was on. "That is," he said, starting to stammer, "That is, it really don't matter what the dress LOOKS like 'cause it's still on you an' . . . uh, I mean . . ." His face was starting to turn red, and Casey laughed but tried to look at him archly.

"Oh, JD," she said, "just go on an' find your friends."

JD smiled as relief flooded him. Well, at least this time he hadn't managed to wind up insulting her. "I'll see ya' in a little while, OK?"

"Yeah." The girl nodded, smiling, and JD turned and hurried off down the boardwalk, then crossed the street towards the hotel. Casey watched him go for a long moment, and then decided that maybe a little time visiting with Mrs. Potter wasn't such a bad idea after all.

+ + + + + + +

JD stood in the street near the boardwalk outside the hotel, and looked up and down the length of it one more time. He was just sure Vin had to be there somewhere, cocked back in a chair tipped against the wall in the shadows. Had to be. He always was, this time of day.

But he wasn't.

And neither was Josiah. Or Chris. One or both of them tended to join the tracker this time of day. They exchanged genial barbs and teased JD when he showed up, and . . . where _were_ they? JD's face pulled together in a puzzled scowl as he turned around to scan the other side of the street. Nothing.

Well. Buck would know. And he was usually in the jail this time of morning, yawning and scratching himself awake even though the others had already been up for hours. Why on earth his first footsteps in the morning tended to drag him to that old beat-up desk in the sheriff's office, JD couldn't imagine. But they did. The young man squared his shoulders and stepped up on the walkway. He hoped he looked a lot more nonchalant than he felt.

The door was standing open, just a fraction. JD stopped dead when he saw it, and something inside him shivered and it seemed he had to grab it in two hands to keep it from breaking into terrified bits. It's just come opened, he said to himself, probably from Buck banging it so hard it bounced. But it took him a moment to get enough courage to reach out and put his hand on the latch, and when he slowly pushed on it the hinges squeaked like the place hadn't been used in years. JD closed his eyes, for a moment half expecting to see cobwebs hanging off the beams when he went inside. He shook his head, mad at himself, and pushed his way in quickly and shut the door behind him with a snap.

The ring of keys was hanging on the nail. The stack of wanted posters was on the corner of the desk where it belonged. The jail cells were empty. The cots were bare of linens and the basins stood dry on their shelves.

JD walked slowly around the room, his boots thumping out hollow soft sounds on the floorboards. He felt the hair starting to stand up on the back of his neck. The sheriff's office was often empty, although it had recently been filled to overflowing with drunken trailherders and brawlers. It really shouldn't be a problem that no one was here. The young man slipped off his bowler and held it to his chest in an unconscious gesture of trepidation and looked around the room with widening eyes, his heart hammering. So why did this feel so bad? Even dangerous? Nathan. Mary. SOMEONE had to know what was going on. It was all ok, and when he found out he'd laugh and laugh and Buck would make fun of him.

JD was outside again, and this time he didn't think about who might see him hurry and think less of him for being such a kid. The Clarion office wasn't far. The door was unlocked. Mary wasn't there. Billy wasn't there. The press was still. JD stood in the dark room looking around with the feeling growing that something horrible was sitting just out of his line of sight, watching him. His eye fell on a tear sheet laying on the typesetting table, and the banner caught him like it had been smacked into his face with a hammer. He leaned towards it with a gasp, read the first few lines, and shook his head. No, no. Why would Mary say such a thing about Nathan? What was going on?

Part 29

Casey was nervous when JD left her to look for the rest of the seven, but she figured that this was broad daylight and therefore better than the last time she'd been to town. But the real reason she agreed to separate was that she hoped it would give her a chance to find Buck. She sure didn't want to talk to him with JD around. She knew she probably had to tell JD some time. People who cared about each other weren't supposed to have secrets, but she just wasn't ready. On the other hand, she really wanted to look into the face of someone who knew her terrible secret and still didn't think she was a bad person. Actually, she just wanted to look at someone who _knew_. She wanted to thank him too. Though she could never thank him enough. She knew he'd say it was nothing, that he hadn't even rescued her, that she'd done that herself. But he'd made her feel a little safer, a little stronger. Because he'd looked at her and his eyes had looked the same as always, she'd felt, at least while he was there, as if things would be okay.

"Excuse me."

Casey's heart startled and she almost jumped right out of her skin when she heard the voice behind her. Then she realized it was the soft voice of a woman speaking to her. Still, her hand was on her chest when she turned around. The woman was not someone she'd ever seen before. "Yes?" she said, making it a question and hoping she managed to cover the tremor in her voice.

"Are you...I thought I saw you with that young Mr. Dunne," the woman said. Though she was a small woman with delicate features, she had a rich dramatic voice.

"I..." Casey began. She cleared her throat and tried again. "I'm Casey Wells. Yes, ma'am."

The woman clasped her hand, which was holding a lace handkerchief, to her chest. "I know you don't know me." The woman's voice trembled. "I just thought...I thought you should know." And to Casey's amazement, the woman began to cry. Very softly, and somehow managing not to become all red and blotchy like Casey herself did when she cried, but almost delicately. Real womanly, Casey thought. She didn't quite know what to do. "I hope...," the woman said after a few minutes. "You see, my name is Belle Corydon." And she paused to look at Casey in an expectant way. When Casey didn't say anything she continued. "That Mr. Dunne, he...he...oh dear," the woman dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. "He is friends with a man named Wilmington is he not?"

"JD and Buck are real good friends," Casey said with pride.

"Oh dear," Belle said heavily. She sighed and buried her head in her handkerchief for a moment.

"Ma'am?" Casey looked around for someone else to help her, but there was no one she knew on the street. "Are you all right?"

"No!" Belle raised her head suddenly and Casey jumped back. 'No, I'm not all right." She grabbed Casey's arm. "I'm ruined. Do you understand what that means?"

Casey wasn't exactly sure she did, but she nodded anyway.

"I'm _ruined_," Belle repeated. "There is no future left for me. But I can't bear to see anyone else hurt. And I thought...well, it's my duty as a woman to warn you!"

"I'm not sure..." Casey began.

"He _raped_ me." Belle said emphatically. "He came out to my house and raped me. Buck Wilmington. You should know. A sweet girl like you isn't safe."

Casey's face had gone pale. What was this woman talking about? Buck couldn't. He _wouldn't_. He had been her savior. She _knew_. She took a step backward and thumped into the wall of the dry good's store. She backed up tight against it, hoping this woman would just shut up and go away. "You must--"

"Oh, I'm not saying anything about your young man, your Mr. Dunne," Belle was well and truly wound up now. "I'm sure he's a very nice young man. I'm sure he just doesn't know any better. But I'm telling you...and it's for your own good. You must stay away from Buck Wilmington. Keep Mr. Dunne away from him too. I mean a man who would attack a woman in her own home when the sun is barely up. What kind of a man is that? I ask you?"

"I..." Casey waved her hand feebly in front of her. Belle had moved right up in her face and, though she wanted to just get away, she had nowhere to go. "I don't think..."

"That's right," Belle said approvingly. "A nice sweet girl like you shouldn't even know about such things. And," she reached out and grasped Casey's hand. "I would never tell you, but it's so _dangerous_ in a town like this. Right in my own house. Just two days ago. What do you think of that?"

For a minute, Casey didn't say anything, she just looked dazedly ahead of her. When had everything gotten so mixed up? A week ago she'd been plain old Casey Wells who thought she could handle anything. Then, suddenly she'd been scared-to-death Casey who couldn't even stay at the house by herself. And now...who was she now? She looked at Belle, who was standing there next to her practically trembling. She _did_ look scared, Casey admitted. But then, she thought of Buck. And she knew. She just _knew_. It was only Belle's words overwhelming her. It was being in town like this. It was too much. She couldn't think. But she had to hold on to what she knew.

"NO!" Casey shouted it at her. "Get away from me!"

Belle jumped back, startled.

"You're just wrong!" Casey yelled. "You have to be!"

Belle studied her carefully. "I don't think so." She paused and hid her head in her handkerchief for a moment. Casey could see her hand trembling. "I could tell you details."

Suddenly, Casey couldn't breathe. She could feel that man again with his hands on her, grabbing at her. She didn't say anything to Belle. She just ran, thinking that the first thing she had to do was find Buck and let him know what this woman was saying about him.

Belle watched her run. And she smiled.

Part 30

JD didn't even remember going from Mary's to Nathan's. He just found himself running up the stairs three at a time, nearly colliding with Mary on her way down.

Mary!

Thank God. Someone. Anyone. "Mary!" gasped JD. She looked up like she'd been shot, even took half a step back and tripped on the stairs, nearly falling. Her hand flew out to the railing to catch herself, and JD put a hand beneath her other arm and tried to smile in his relief. He should feel relieved, right? Here was Mary. Mary was here.

"Excuse me, JD." She tried to go around him. He caught her elbow and wouldn't let it go.

"What's goin' on?" He was breathless from running all over town.

"Nathan." She looked back up the stairs, and a shadow ran across her face. She looked at JD and her gaze focused and she looked suddenly sad and scared at the same time. "Nathan's sick," she said in her soft voice. She started to turn to leave again, but JD wouldn't let her.

"What d'you mean 'Nathan's sick'? Mary, what's goin' on?"

"I don't know." She shook her head. "Ezra's taking care of him. Maybe dysentery or something, I don't know. He told me to go get water. It's --." She looked JD in the eye again. "I have to go." She tore her arm from his gentle grasp and hurried down the stairs. JD stood looking at her, then looked up the stairs again. He turned and climbed the rest of the way, then knocked lightly on the door to Nathan's room. There was a sound of brisk footsteps from inside, and then Ezra's voice speaking through the closed door.

"Mary?"

"No, it's JD."

"Go away, JD. Consider this place off-limits until we know whether or not Mr. Jackson has succumbed to a contagion."

"Ezra--"

"I cannot talk to you while Nathan suffers. If you see Mary, ask her to send up a washtub as well. Tell her to have the workmen leave everything on the landing."

"But Ezra--"

The footsteps left and JD heard scraping of furniture, a low groan, the sound of things being moved around. Several burly men arrived with full buckets of water sloshing from each hand, and JD put his hat back on sadly as they looked at him for the answer to the question they hadn't asked. "Set 'em on the landing, here," said JD. "Knock on the door to let 'in know you've brought 'em."

He left as the men knocked and Ezra spoke again through the door, his voice muffled as JD trailed down the stairs to the street, his heart indefinably heavy.

He never was able to figure out what it was that impelled him, finally, to the livery stable. But the closer he got to it, the more the sense of dread grew in him. By the time he saw that Buck's grey wasn't in its stall, he already knew it. And Vin's gelding: gone. He went on down the line, his eyes feeling like they had sand in them. Chris's black. He could be at his shack, of course, but . . . Not with the other two gone as well.

JD Dunne came out into the sunlight of what had been a pretty morning not too long ago, and realized there was only one person left who might be able to give him some answers, to tell him what was going on, and maybe why he hadn't screwed up worse than he'd ever screwed up in his life before by not being here when whatever it was had happened.

Josiah.

JD turned his steps for the church. No Josiah; the preacher wasn't there. They _couldn't_ be dead. The thought that had been trying to ambush him all along leaped out and JD blocked it even as it sprang. No. They just couldn't. Their horses would still be at the livery if they were dead, right? But they were gone. And Josiah was missing, too, but his horse was _there_. And Ezra or Mary would have _said_ something. They were just gone, was all. It was all right. It had to be all right. It had to be.

JD's steps dragged as he wandered to the saloon, thinking to maybe get out of the heat for a little while at least. He pushed open the doors with slumped shoulders and sagging step, and then felt almost an electric shock of joy when his eyes fell on Josiah's burly form in the back of the room. JD couldn't help the smile that he knew wreathed his face as he dragged out a chair and slammed his hat to the table. Josiah!! He waited expectantly, face beaming. The dust settled. Poker chips three tables over clicked on the table there as a man said softly "call." JD felt his face relax, then fall.

"Josiah?" His voice sounded like a kid's even to him. He cleared his throat and sat up straighter in his chair, brushing his hair back with one hand as he did so. "Josiah!"

The big preacher looked up slowly, and JD gasped at the sullen expression on the man's face. His eyes were bloodshot, small, banked with dull rage. "Lea' me 'lone," mumbled Josiah. He looked back down at the table, and at the beer mug in his fist.

"I can't -- I --" JD looked around the saloon furtively. Was anyone else seeing this? He looked back at Josiah and lowered his voice. "Josiah. What's goin' on?"

"Go 'way."

"Look, that's the second time today someone has said that to me." JD's voice rose a fraction, he looked around nervously again, and he leaned closer to the big man. "First Ezra an' now--"

"I said 'get lost'." Josiah's voice was not loud, but it carried a menace that made JD pause. He swallowed nervously.

"No," he said.

Josiah looked up again, and a flash of anger raced across his face. He remained silent, however, and JD leaned forward even farther. "Since when is Nathan sick? Where did Chris an' Vin an' Buck go? An'--"

Josiah's head snapped back and he sat up straighter in his chair. "Buck left?"

JD stopped and looked at Josiah, puzzled. "Yeah, with Chris an'--"

"I should've known it. The bastards." Josiah started to scrape back his chair, but JD laid a hand on the man's enormous arm and stopped him. He swallowed hard at the look Josiah planted him with.

"Tell me what happened," JD said.

"I'll tell you what happened." Josiah was standing up as he spoke, his words low and dark and roiling with alcohol and the heat of August and the dark, stale room, and the lost love of a good woman. "That son of a bitch, Buck, despoiled my Belle."

"What?" JD stepped back in front of Josiah as the man started to leave, his question not one of disbelief but only of complete confusion. "You're talkin' like Ezra, Josiah. What the hell do you mean?"

"I mean he _raped_ her, boy. When you an' I were at the Delano Mine." Josiah nodded grimly at the look of utter shock that dropped JD's jaw and made him blanch. "Yeah, suddenly his not comin' with us looks a little different, don't it?"

Josiah pushed past JD, and the younger man turned to run sideways at his heels as he left the saloon. "No," he was saying as he tried to get in front of the preacher, "Buck wouldn't do that, Josiah. Somethin' don't add up here. There's somethin' . . . Josiah? Josiah. . . " He trailed off as the preacher went on without even slowing, as if JD hadn't been there, hadn't said a thing.

Casey. He needed to find Casey.

Part 31

Ezra shuddered, as he briefly felt overwhelmed by all that he had to do to take care of Nathan. It was one thing to rely on yourself. It was another to be a member of a team, a gang, and together be strong. But the absolute situation that Ezra avoided was one person depending on him. Nathan Jackson was relying on Ezra Standish and Ezra was feeling wholly inadequate to the task.

Ezra's strategy if you want to call it that, was to clean Nathan and then, clean the bed. Then, diagnose Nathan's condition. Then, treat him if at all possible. You know, Ezra, praying couldn't hurt -- maybe that should be first on the list. Ezra laughed shortly, it was almost a sob -- it had been a long time. He closed his eyes, Dear Lord . . .

Ezra walked over to the small chest and rifled through Nathan's belongings to find a bandanna. Ezra tied the bandanna and covered his nose and mouth. Wouldn't be quite fitting to have to clean up after yourself as well as Nathan. He removed his red jacket, waistcoat, and tie, carefully folding them and placing over a chair back. He rolled his sleeves.

Ezra quickly stripped the bed and opened the door to pull in fresh linens. He covered the mattress with a sheet. He stripped Nathan and moved him to the bed to bathe him.

Ezra had ordered a quarantine and was pleased to see barriers established as he dumped the bed bath water.

With Nathan initially cleaned, Ezra urged and cajoled Nathan to walk over to the tub. Ezra bathed him again. His hand paused as he encountered the raised scars on Nathan's back. No man deserves . . . Ezra couldn't complete the thought.

Ezra assisted Nathan to sit in a chair and dried him. He stripped the bed again and placed fresh sheets. "Come on, Nathan," and he assisted him back to bed. But the movement had resumed the stomach heaves and Nathan started vomiting again. Ezra held the pot and when the vomiting stopped, wiped Nathan's face and offered some water so he could rinse his mouth. Nathan's breath and vomit had a strong, garlic odor. Ezra cataloged the symptom but didn't know what it meant. He had nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, but no fever. He had stomach pains but no other pain apparently. Ezra wished he knew what it all meant.

"I'm gonna kill JD," Nathan muttered but he was not lucid and Ezra could not question him on it. JD, what did JD have to do with this?

Ezra surveyed the room; it was filthy with vomit and diarrhea. Ezra emptied the pots and got down on his hands and knees to scrub the floor with chloride of lime. Several times Ezra had to stop to tend Nathan with his frequent episodes of vomiting and diarrhea.

Ezra pulled some carbolic acid from the shelf and diluted it and carefully washed his hands and forearm. He also wiped out the basins he had been using. He briefly considered opening the door and window for ventilation but rejected the idea until he could figure out what was going on.

Ezra pulled a frustrated hand through his hair and wished he had paid more attention when Nathan worked. But it truly was never his forte. How do you figure this out? Ezra's eyes swept the room and he noted two medical books and a leather journal on the shelf. Ezra had given Nathan the journal, though Nathan didn't know that, to record his observations, pearls of information that he gained as he took care for more and more patients. Nathan might not have formal schooling but someone had taught him to read and write, actually Ezra wouldn't be surprised if he taught himself, and Nathan had started to keep meticulous records of lessons learned from doctors, medicine men, and patients.

Ezra quickly leafed through the book, easily reading Nathan's neat script. He found several references to care for the vomiting and diarrhea. Ezra found a tin-labeled willow bark tea and put a kettle on to boil. He woke Nathan and urged him to drink. He also gave Nathan some paregoric for the pain and diarrhea; at least he seemed to be resting now. When Nathan had kept the first cup of a tea down awhile, Ezra woke him to drink more. He knew he desperately needed to give Nathan fluids.

Ezra used a page from the journal and wrote down Nathan's symptoms. Fever - no, vomiting/diarrhea - yes, abdominal pain - yes, delirium - yes, garlic odor to breath - yes (Ezra didn't have a clue whether any or all of that was important). Ezra pulled down the medical books and started looking at the symptoms to see if he could find a match or eliminate some contagious diseases, thereby safely lifting the quarantine.

"STANDISH," Ezra heard a man's yell, though muffled by the door. A knocking on the door quickly followed the yell.

Ezra opened the door, "Mary, you must refrain from visiting for both yours and Billy's sake."

"There is a crowd downstairs. You better talk to them before we have a riot on our hands."

"STANDISH!"

Ezra stepped onto the balcony, there was at least fifteen people below on the street.

"We want answers."

"What disease is the quarantine for?"

Ezra raised his hands to quiet the crowd. "Nathan Jackson is the patient. He is alive but obviously very ill and until we can diagnose his exact condition, the quarantine is a safety measure." There were murmurs of approval at his announcement. "Are there any other sick people?" There were several "no's" which Ezra found reassuring.

"I will keep you all informed of any changes." Ezra turned away from the rail as the crowd broke up.

"Mary, are you aware of any others similarly afflicted?"

"No, nothing. And I would have heard."

"I agree. You best leave now until we know what we're dealing with."

"How is Nathan?"

"He's resting now. I just wish I knew what was wrong with him."

"Would you like me to wire some doctors?"

Ezra almost leapt at the suggestion but realized he couldn't. "My inclination is to tell you to do that, but we could spread misinformation about a possible epidemic and cause panic. At this point, until we can figure out what we're dealing with, I think it's best we not send any wires."

Mary nodded her head in understanding. "What can I do to help?"

Ezra was thinking help_me to take care of Nathan but instead told Mary, "you can go home and care for your son." She really shouldn't be here and risk giving the disease to her son.

Ezra looked down at Mary and saw the obstinate angle to her chin. Ezra chuckled thinking he at least tried to do the right thing.

"Please remain outside, I'll be just a moment. I was using Nathan's books to see if I could figure this out."

Ezra returned to Nathan's room where Nathan still seemed to be resting. He grabbed the books and showed Mary what he started to do.

Ezra and Mary sat outside at the small round table set against the wall of the balcony.

"You wrote down Nathan's symptoms." Mary observed. "Garlic breath? Are you sure he hasn't been eating too many meals at Andreas's restaurant?"

Ezra chuckled then paused, "You know, I did see a plate from the restaurant in his room. But I don't think it's that. Okay, my thought was to look up the diseases we suspect and then see if we could eliminate them as a possibility. So let's start with diphtheria." Ezra handed Mary one book as he looked in the other.

"Here it is: a thick coating in the nose, throat, and airway; difficulty breathing, heart failure, paralysis, death."

"That's a definite no. Typhoid? No, he has no fever or chills. Which also rules out scarlet and yellow fever." Ezra ran down the list of possible causes. "Cholera?"

"Symptoms include a mild, watery diarrhea to an acute diarrhea, with characteristic rice water stools. Onset of the illness is generally sudden, with incubation periods varying from 6 hours to 5 days. Abdominal cramps, nausea, vomiting, dehydration, and shock; after severe fluid loss, death may occur." Mary read from her book.

"That could be it. But does it make sense that Nathan is the only patient?"

"I've never heard of that. Generally if it's one person, there are many victims."

"Maybe that's it. Maybe he didn't acquire it in town. He was at the Andrews' farm and Delano Mine?"

Mary was already shaking her head no. "I saw Seth Andrews late yesterday afternoon and he was telling us they were all fine. And Milton Delano is in town now. He's worried about sabotage at his mine, not any disease outbreak."

"What else could it be?"

"Food poisoning?"

Ezra scratched his head in frustration. "But it still comes back to why only Nathan?"

"I'll check around town and make sure no one else is sick. I'll also stop in and talk to Andreas. Anything else I can do?"

"No, thank you my dear." Ezra voice was resigned. He heard Nathan stirring and immediately got up to tend to him.

Mary quickly left and immediately went to the restaurant. The dinner crowd had yet to arrive and it was still quiet.

"Guten tag."

"Good afternoon, Andreas."

The burly chef smiled broadly at the widow. "Are you here for an early dinner?"

"No," Mary smiled at the amiable chef, "thank-you. Nathan Jackson has taken ill with vomiting and diarrhea and we are trying to figure out what is wrong."

"Herr Doctor is sick. That is a shame." Andreas was obviously sympathetic to Nathan's plight but a shadow suddenly crossed his face. "Wait, do you think I had something to do with it?" Andreas was clearly offended. "I take special care in all my food handling. Washing. Cooking. Storing. While just the other day I threw out a pot of food that was off."

Mary perked at that last comment. "Andreas, when was that?"

Andreas paused. "Day before yesterday. But I didn't serve anyone from that pot except myself."

"You ate the food."

"Well, I tasted it. It was my Swabian Liver Dumplings - just not up to my usual standards. I threw it out. But I have not been sick at all."

"And Nathan didn't eat any . . ."

A look of dismay crossed the cook's face. "Oh wait, Dunne was in to get the doctor dinner. He served him and left the money on the counter. He could have given him the food from that pot." Andreas was clearly disturbed that he may have caused Nathan to be sick.

"It's not your fault Andreas. Thank you for your help. I will make sure that everyone knows it was not your fault."

Mary hurried from the restaurant and headed to the telegraph office. Since it was clear this did not appear to be an epidemic but one patient, Mary felt it was appropriate to wire a family friend who was a physician in Denver. She described the circumstances of Nathan's illness, his symptoms, and asked for any recommendations in caring for him. While she was waiting for a reply, she visited in several shops but it was clear that there were no other cases of the sickness.

As Mary left the hardware, Wyatt, the telegraph operator, came running up. "Ma'am, the doctor is at the telegraph office in Denver and wishes to talk to you."

Denver: Mary ::Stop:: Your friend's condition is grave ::Stop:: Garlic breath plus other symptoms suggests acute arsenic poisoning ::Stop:: Do you have any idea when he could have ingested the poison ::Stop::

Four Corners: Two days ago ::Stop::

Denver: Need to flush poison from system ::Stop:: Have patient drink at least one liter of fluid every hour for the next eight hours ::Stop:: Wire at 0700 with status ::Stop::

Four Corners: Understood flush poison ::Stop:: 0700 hours ::Stop::

Denver: Poisoning appears acute but not immediately lethal ::Stop:: Imperative flush poison from system ::Stop:: His condition is life-threatening ::Stop:: Good luck ::Stop:: regards, Dr. Franklin ::Stop::

When she received the final reply, Mary collected the wires and hurried back to Nathan's room.

"Poisoned?" Ezra was shocked.

"I wired Dr. Francis in Denver. He said that the garlic odor to his breath is a classic sign of acute arsenic poisoning. He said to get as much fluids into Nathan as possible to flush out the poisoning. I think he got the poisoning from a dinner from Andreas's restaurant. Apparently Nathan was the only person to eat from that pot before Andreas threw it out. But why would anyone want to poison Nathan?"

"They didn't," Ezra stated flatly. "Nathan wasn't the specific target. The town was and anyone who ate at the restaurant."

"Can you imagine having to care for so many people with this?"

Ezra looked over at Mary, the realization of how big a catastrophe had been averted. "No, I can't."

"Who would do this?"

Ezra shook his head at a loss. He had no idea. Not who? Not why?

Heavy footsteps could be heard approaching. "Mr. Delano, this is a quarantine area." Although Ezra realized, it probably could be lifted now.

"Heard that you are in charge."

Ezra's eyebrows raised at that comment. Mary looked up at him and valiantly tried to hide her amusement.

Ezra smiled wryly, not hardly, he thought, but "what is the nature of the problem, Delano?"

"What are you're gonna do about the sabotage out at my place?"

"Mr. Sanchez and Mr. Dunne were already at your mine investigating these charges."

Delano spit out, "and found nothing. You don't understand. There have been accidents, unexplained explosions, cave-ins. It is not my imagination. Somebody's after me and they're doing a good job of it."

"Mr. Delano, do you have any evidence?"

"No, NO. Just my gut."

"All I can offer to do is to investigate if there are further incidents," Ezra tried to placate the owner of the Delano Mine.

"Hell, of a lot good that will do. Any further *incidents* puts me out of business." Delano turned and stomped off.

Ezra sighed deeply.

"You're doing a great job," she reassured him.

Ezra smiled wryly. "Not hardly. I am not the man for this job." Ezra wiped his eyes and asked Mary in frustration, "where is Mr. Larabee? This is his job."

Mary shook her head. "I saw him ride out mid-morning."

"Mary, do me a favor; look for the others and send them here."

Mary nodded and left to do his bidding.

*Shit.* How the hell did I wind up in charge? Never mind one man relying on me. Now there was a whole town. Let me dump this into someone else's lap. Someone who won't let all these people down.

Part 32

Buck woke reluctantly, awareness returning one slow step at a time.

First, there was the motion, a steady rocking, back and forth, back and forth. Then, there was the sun, the heat pounding down on his shoulders and back. Not much breeze, but after a minute he could hear sounds. And another minute after that he could even figure out what they were--the slow clop, clop, clop of horses hooves, the shift and sigh of leather saddles, a breeze ruffling cottonwood trees some way off along a river. A long time passed like that. Or, maybe it wasn't a long time. Maybe it just was...

Then, suddenly, there was pain, like a bright flash of white out of nowhere. Centered in his leg, but radiating out in a sharp, tight spiral. His breath came too quick and he couldn't control it, couldn't even figure out a point to focus on. Wake up, he thought. Wake up! And then, his head jerked as if he had been falling for a long time and he'd only just now been able to catch himself, and he was awake.

'Hell!' he thought. Every time he woke up it was like he'd stumbled on a completely different place, a place with no bearing to the last place he'd been. No way to make any sense of it at all. He was on his horse, and his hands and legs were tied. He pulled at the knots around his hands experimentally, but they'd been tied tight and expertly. There was a man he'd never seen before riding ahead of him and a lead going back from his horse to...he looked back and his body sagged in relief...Vin. The tracker looked terrible in Buck's opinion, sagged low in the saddle and swaying slightly with each step his horse took, but he was there and he was alive, which was all Buck asked at the moment.

He closed his eyes and started to drift again. He'd give anything for some water right now...and he was so tired...NO!...he snapped his eyes open. Pay attention, Buck, he told himself. Where are we? Where are we going?

They were headed northwest as far as he could tell, which sure wasn't Texas. Bounty hunters, Vin had said. But why both of them? And where the hell were they going? Buck turned his attention to the man on the horse in front of him. There was nothing particularly out of the ordinary about him. He wore buckskins and a slouch hat and he had a pistol strapped to his hips. The gun looked well-used to Buck, with a shiny spot on the butt where his hand had rested for minutes passing into hours. He held himself tightly as if he were waiting for something he could feel just around the next bend. Buck couldn't see his eyes, but he could imagine them--sharp, alert, scanning everywhere, missing nothing. Buck had never seen the man before in his life. He wondered if Vin had and he stole another glance back at the tracker. Vin was shaking his head slowly from side to side, sitting up a little straighter. Looked like maybe he was coming around.

"You're awake."

The man's voice was low but it carried across the desert air with a sharp clarity. Buck looked at him. His eyes were as he'd imagined them, though there was something deeper, some nameless black emptiness inside them that made Buck's stomach twist. He tried to strain at the ropes that bound him to the saddle without being obvious about it, but the man saw him. "Won't help," he said, and he never smiled.

Buck just looked at him, but he didn't say anything. Give them nothing, not what you feel, not what you think. Nothing. The man frowned when he didn't respond and his eyes narrowed. He looked away, searching the flat brushy area around them, for what, Buck had no idea. Then, he looked back at Buck and turned his head a little more to look back at Vin, bringing up the rear.

He was not a large man and Buck figured he could take him, all things being equal. Unfortunately, at that moment, all things weren't even close to equal. So, he waited. He tried to shift in the saddle so his leg was more comfortable and that sent a thin, sharp slice of pain shooting up his leg. He couldn't quite hide the tight grimace and he turned his head away from the man in front of him. He studied the landscape, looking for markers, trying to figure where the hell they were and some vague notion of where they were going.

"Can't begin to figure it, can you?" the man's low voice drifted back to him again.

Buck looked at him from under the brim of his hat.

"No," the man continued. "You've looked around and you've studied me and the sky and the tracks on the ground and you just can't see what any of it means." He pulled lightly on the lead rope and Buck's horse broke into a tired jog. Buck could hear Vin groan behind him as his horse sped up too, but he resisted the urge to look over his shoulder at him. When Buck's horse was up even with his own, the man pulled back and for a moment they were riding abreast. The man looked at him, Buck could feel those hooded eyes studying him as he continued to look out across the desert. The mountains were drawing closer and Buck figured if they kept on this line they'd reach them by nightfall. He tried to think about what that meant. And he tried not to think about everything else.

+ + + + + + +

Sullivan watched Buck and tried to figure what kind of man would just look away like that. I have the power, he thought. You have nothing. He looked down at Buck's leg. The bandage was bloody and blood had spread and dried down half his pants leg. Sullivan looked at his face. It was tight and closed and dangerous. And that, Sullivan liked. His horse stumbled and he reached out as if he were off balance and slammed his hand down on Buck's leg. He could feel the leg tighten, the muscles spasm and a sharp hiss escape Buck's lips. "Sorry," he said, settling back in the saddle and pulling his hand away. Buck said nothing. Sullivan glanced over at him. Who the hell are you, he thought. Don't you see that I hate you? I have the power. He saw blood leaking out from under Buck's bandage and he watched it and thought about what he would do when it finally came time to kill this man.

Buck's horse was drifting back along its lead and Sullivan grabbed it and pulled it back abreast with his own. "You want to know, don't you?"

"I reckon," Buck said quietly. He looked at Sullivan and Sullivan could see that his eyes had gone dark and flat, though there was pain at the edges that he couldn't quite conceal. It made him feel better. There had to be a way to get to this man, to make him understand fully what it meant to have Sullivan hate him.

"Maybe you could buy your way out of this," Sullivan suggested. "Maybe you could offer me enough money and I'd let you go."

Buck seemed to be turning that over in his mind. "You'd just turn us both loose right here?"

"Maybe."

"All right."

And his voice was so quiet that it made Sullivan angry and he had to suppress a flash of rage. 'Hate me, you son of a bitch,' he thought. Out loud, he said. "How much would you pay for something like that?"

"How much do you want?"

Sullivan looked at him. "More than you could ever pay," he said.

Buck smiled and if Sullivan hadn't been able to see his eyes he'd have almost thought they were having a friendly conversation. "Yeah," Buck said. "That'd be about what I'd figure."

"Would you pay with a life?" Sullivan asked suddenly. "I could just shoot your friend back there. You could just say the word."

"I get the impression," Buck said, turning and looking at him straight on. "That your problem, whatever the hell it is, is with me, not him."

'Aaahhh,' thought Sullivan. "What makes you think I have a problem."

Buck turned away again and Sullivan felt a rage pass through him that he hadn't felt in a long time. "You just seem like the kind of man who has a problem," he said.

"And you seem like the kind of man who can't wait to die," Sullivan said and he loosed up on the lead rope and let Buck's horse fall behind him again. 'Stew on that for awhile,' he thought, turning his horse a bit more sharply to the north.

+ + + + + + +

Vin felt as if he had been stomped on by a horse. A dozen horses, all stomping on one spot, his right shoulder. He'd been aware of his surroundings for several minutes, the scent on the hot breeze, the murmur of voices, the movement of his horse. Especially the movement of his horse because every step set up new agony in his shoulder and it was all he could do from one minute to the next to hang on. He tried to move his hand up to his shoulder, but it wouldn't move. That was odd, he thought, though he wasn't sure he was too concerned about it. He tried to think back to what had happened...

Buck.

He'd found Buck. And he'd told him about Belle and Chris and...nothing seemed clear to him. Everything was murky. Why couldn't he think straight? He forced himself to open his eyes. But when he did it didn't help. Everything looked exactly as he had pictured it when his eyes were closed. Buck was riding up in front of him, and the man who'd held a gun at Buck's head. Both of them were riding together and talking. What did that mean? Why was he back here on a lead rope behind them with his hands tied and his legs tied and they were up there chatting just as friendly as could be? Didn't make any sense. He closed his eyes again, trying to hide somehow from the pain that was his shoulder, but he jerked them open again almost immediately.

Something about the land didn't look right to him. Something about the sun. What was it? He thought on it for a minute and he realized that they were traveling toward the mountains. Not toward Texas. He looked around again, with more interest this time. There was low brush and the sign of desert animals and birds. Headed toward the mountains. That didn't make any sense. Nothing was making sense. Maybe he was just wrong about everything. About Buck and Belle and Chris and the bounty hunters and the Indians. Everything. Buck had been shot with an arrow. That was a fact. And he clung to it like it was the only thing he knew. And the arrow he'd been shot with had been Crow. And the bag. The beaded bag he'd picked up. That was real too. Wasn't it?

He closed his eyes and tried to find a way to make the rhythm of his horse's movement and the pain in his shoulder merge in some way that would make it easier to handle. And in spite of everything, and because he hadn't had any sleep in almost two days, as they walked slowly through the desert, one step at a time, he fell asleep.

Part 33

John Bland wasn't happy. Not in the slightest. So when the low rap sounded on his hotel door, he scowled and thought for a moment of ignoring it. The rap sounded again, more insistently, and the man sighed then and pulled the door opened. He wasn't at all surprised to see that it was Hammersmith, although the look of aggravation on the gambler's face was unexpected. Bland simply turned away as Hammersmith came on into the room, shutting the door behind him, and walked over to the window to look down at the street outside.

"Why the hell hasn't the 'epidemic' broken out?" Hammersmith took his hat off with an angry gesture and threw it on the bed.

"Nice to see you, too, Vincent." Bland spoke without turning from the window. There was a long moment of tense silence, then he shrugged, still looking at the street. "I can't figure it out," he said, "but it _should_ have happened by now. I did it right."

Hammersmith frowned. "Well, something's up with that newspaper woman."

Bland turned away from the window at that, his face flushing in anger. "Her again? That bitch just keeps causing one problem after another. What now?"

Hammersmith smiled slyly. "She's far too beautiful for that appellation, my friend." Bland shook his head disagreeably and Hammersmith continued. "She broke up my game with Standish a while ago and he hasn't returned."

"So?"

"So I fear she's found out something. She came into the saloon to get him, and she wouldn't do that over something trivial." Hammersmith walked over to the other side of the window where Bland was standing and made the other man look at him. "Things have gone well so far, but this part of the plan having to do with Jackson is--"

A light tap on the door to Bland's room made both men turn quickly. Hammersmith drew his sidearm as Bland went to the door and opened it just enough to look out. He gestured to Hammersmith then as he let in Belle. The petite woman slid into the room in a rustle of crinoline and silk on a cloud of lavender scent, and Hammersmith smiled at her.

"Hello, Belle."

"Hello, Vincent." She smiled at him as she sailed over to hold out her hand to be kissed, then turned in a graceful arabesque and made a pouting face at Bland. "John, dearest, aren't you going to offer me a seat?"

"Sit down," said Bland.

Belle smiled as if Bland had held out a small throne for her and eased herself daintily into the room's only chair. "Thank you, I'm sure," she said. She looked from one man to the other, and then leaned forward with a sharp gleam entering her eye. "I'm ready for one of you to arrange my carriage to go back," she said. "My part in things is done, and I can't take one more moment of this dreadful place. And besides, I'm out of money." She leaned back in her chair, produced a slender fan from somewhere and snapped it opened. She began to fan herself lightly and rapidly, her eyes running from one man to the other as she did so.

"Just a moment, Belle." Hammersmith nodded to the woman and smiled urbanely. "Let John and myself finish our conversation first, and then we'll see what we can do."

Bland snorted. "It's not like you can't hold your horses for ten more minutes," he added, shooting an angry look at the woman. She arched her eyebrows.

"Of course, Vincent. As for you, John, I wish to remind you that I have had to be here MUCH longer than anyone else. I've been two whole months seducing that ox of a preacher . . . " She paused and smiled to herself as she corrected what she'd said: "_handsome_ ox of a preacher, and I deserve to draw my pay and go back to San Francisco now." She fanned herself harder and looked up towards the ceiling in a theatrical way. Bland laughed shortly and turned back to Hammersmith.

"You were telling me about the Travis woman," he said.

"Yes." Hammersmith shook himself. "The main point, though, is why the 'epidemic' hasn't hit. I have heard of no one sick."

"What about the rest of the plan? Could they be onto us? Could they have stopped things somehow?" Bland stared hard at Hammersmith as the gambler's face darkened at Bland's words. Hammersmith chewed his lip thoughtfully.

"Wilmington, Tanner, and Larabee have all left town," he mused aloud.

Bland's face sharpened. "You're sure about Larabee?"

"Yes." Hammersmith made a sharp gesture of irritation and pulled off his jacket, then sat on the foot of the bed. "I saw him leave an hour or so ago, Striker not far behind him."

"What about the others?"

Belle chuckled. "I've written a note to my paramour that should keep him in his cups for days, if not weeks," simpered Belle. "I'll give it to a boy to take to the barkeeper in the saloon for delivery, as I leave town. You can forget Sanchez doing anything while it might still matter."

Hammersmith nodded. "I had Standish taken out of action until that Travis woman came to get him. I suspect it's too late for them to do anything at this point, even if she's somehow gotten suspicious, but--"

Another knock sounded on Bland's hotel room door, and Belle rolled her eyes. "John, if you're going to have us interrupted, arrange for some room service," she said. She snapped her fan shut suddenly when she saw the way the other two reacted, though, and watched with alert eyes as Hammersmith stood and faced the door with a drawn pistol as Bland cautiously opened it, then swung it wide with total exasperation. Thompson walked in, looking puzzled.

"What the hell," he said.

"If you'd told me it would be a party, I would have worn more appropriate attire," said Belle, laughing.

"Thompson!" Hammersmith holstered the weapon he'd drawn, as Belle snapped opened her fan and resumed fluttering it. "What the hell are you doing back?"

"Lookin' for Striker."

"He left about an hour ago," said Hammersmith, "after Larabee. Why? What's happened?"

"See!" Bland had shut the door and run the bolt home this time. "I TOLD you something went wrong!"

"No, no." Thompson turned to regard Bland with an icy gaze. "Everything is going very well. Merely a shift in which plan we're executing. I need to let him know."

"Explain." Hammersmith folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall.

"Tanner found where Sullivan ambushed Wilmington, and he figured it out in a heartbeat."

"Damn!" Bland sat down heavily on the side of his bed and scowled. Thompson merely looked at him, then turned back to Hammersmith and continued.

"Wilmington had lost enough blood that Sullivan wasn't sure he'd make it all the way to the reservation, so we couldn't just kill Tanner and count on Wilmington finding his body. We had to wait and see what happened."

"So what happened?" Hammersmith's eyes were dark and steady.

"Tanner found Wilmington before he got to the reservation and talked him into coming back to town."

"So you took them in, instead." It was a statement, not a question, and Thompson nodded.

"It was the backup we had planned on," he agreed.

"What if they get away? Or if they got away?" Bland was pointing a stabbing finger into the air. "For all you know, by now Sullivan--"

"I don't think so." Thompson smiled in a way that made Belle stop fanning herself as a chill ran all the way through her. "Neither Wilmington nor Tanner was in any condition to run off by the time we got them in hand."

"But they're still alive," said Hammersmith sharply.

"Yes." Thompson looked Hammersmith up and down appraisingly. "I do know how to follow orders, Hammersmith."

"Well." Hammersmith regarded each of the others and then lifted one well-manicured hand and began to tick off his fingers one by one. "Wilmington captured. Tanner captured. Both on their way to Michaels. Larabee out, and Striker behind him." He looked at Thompson. "You can go after them in a moment," he added. Then he continued. "Sanchez drunk for another week at least. That leaves Dunne, Standish, and Jackson. We need a status report on each of them."

"Jackson should be up to his damned eyeballs in a plague by now," groused Bland, "but he ain't, and I don't know why."

"Has anyone seen him lately?" Hammersmith looked around the room and no one replied. They looked at each other, suddenly realizing they had no idea where the healer was.

"Jackson was your business, Bland. Go out there and find out where he is, and why, and come report to us." Hammersmith stared at Bland a long moment, until he leaped to his feet angrily and left the room, slamming the door behind him. Hammersmith looked at Thompson and shook his head slightly. "It's too bad," he said, "that truly _good_ men are so hard to find." He looked at Belle. "Have you anything to add, my dear?"

Belle sat back in her chair and began to run her little fan again. She'd been relieved when Bland left the room; the man was a fool to treat Thompson and Hammersmith like underlings, or even equals, and for a moment she'd thought she might find herself party to a scene of violence. "First, I have a little question for Mr. Thompson." She said. She lowered her fan and eyed the tracker over the top of it. "How on _earth_ will you find Mr. Striker?" She managed to sound breathless with curiosity, and Thompson smiled indulgently but with a hard cast to his eyes.

"His horse has a special mark on one of its shoes," he replied simply.

"Oh?" Belle looked at Hammersmith and saw that he was as surprised to hear this as she was. "And are the shoes of all our horses likewise marked so you can find us when we are lost?"

"It makes it easier for me to fulfill my responsibility," said Thompson. "Seeing as how I don't get much time to learn new horses as people come and go."

"I see. You are most clever, Mr. Thompson." Belle eyed the tracker appraisingly, then began to flutter her fan rapidly again and looked at Hammersmith. "Well, my report is that I took a chance I saw to run a wedge between the youngest one and his ridiculous lady love. As well as between him and his galoot friend."

Hammersmith smiled. "Really?" He looked at Thompson and relaxed against the wall behind him again. "Do tell."

"Oh yes," said Belle. "I saw that little urchin by herself near the dry goods store, and gave her a tearful earful of my woes. Warned her to be wary of letting her young man hang around with such a bad influence."

"And no doubt made her wonder if any of it had already rubbed off on Dunne?"

"Mais oui," smiled Belle. "What else?"

The door opened and Bland came in, panting but looking triumphant. "I found out," he said. "It's all over town."

"What?" Thompson turned around to look at Bland.

"Jackson is sick with some 'unknown disease'," said Bland, "and Standish is takin' care of 'im 'cause there's no one else around to do it." He grinned hugely. "I didn't get the town, I got the damned 'doctor' himself instead!"

Hammersmith and Thompson burst out laughing, and Belle lifted her fan in front of her mouth.

"And tied up Standish in the process!" Hammersmith went to Bland and clapped him on the shoulder. "I don't know how you did it, but it doesn't matter." He turned to the others. "We've got them all out. All that's required is for Thompson to let Striker know of the change in plans, and we're ready."

Belle stood up. "So I _can_ have my carriage readied?"

"Yes." Hammersmith turned to Bland. "Get one of the others to hitch up her rig and drive her to Michaels'," he said.

"Why me?" Bland was suddenly petulant.

"Because _I_ have to go after Striker," said Thompson, heading for the door. He paused to look around the room. "See you all at Michaels'," he said, and then he left.

"And because _I_ have other things to check on before we all pull out of here," said Hammersmith.

Bland nodded and left, and Hammersmith turned to Belle and regarded her for a long moment. The woman stood up and walked close to him, laying one ring-fingered hand on his rough shirt. "These clothes really don't suit you, Vincent," she cooed.

"It won't be much longer." He lifted her hand from his chest. "I'd rather you didn't do anything that would get me killed later, Belle, if it's all the same to you. Michaels is a bit on the jealous side."

Belle pouted, then stepped back and smiled. "It was worth a try," she purred. She raised the folded fan to touch Hammersmith's chin lightly as she passed him on her way to the door. "I'll see you again soon," she said. "Any last words before I go?"

"Sure; remember to stay away from the stage line," chuckled Hammersmith.

"Oh yes." Belle's eyes crinkled in a smile. "Well, that should be entertaining at least. Will I get to see you in some stage of undress that approximates that of a savage?" Her eyes danced, and Hammersmith mock-bowed to her.

"I bid your leave, Madam," he said, "your carriage no doubt awaits you."

He picked up his hat from the bed as the woman slipped out into the hallway, and decided to head for the blacksmith's first. He didn't like the idea of Thompson being able to trail him.

Not in the slightest.

Part 34

By the time she'd run halfway down the street Casey realized that she had no idea where to find Buck. She stopped dead, causing a man walking out of the telegraph office to almost trip over her.

"Sorry," she said distractedly. She listed off on her fingers the places where he might be if he were in town and not out doing something: the jail, the saloon, the boarding house, and, well...her cheeks flushed bright pink, probably places she wasn't going to be able to look anyway.

She ran to the jail. No one there. She stood on the boardwalk a minute. His room or the saloon? She didn't really want to look for him in the saloon. There was too much chance that he was at a table with Chris or Josiah or Vin. She'd save that until last, she figured. But if she had to--she squared her chin--she'd go in there and drag him out and tell him. He really needed to know what Belle was saying about him. He needed to stop her. She had no business saying anything like that. Casey headed for the boarding house. She felt nervous--exposed somehow--walking up the stairs to the second floor, which was silly since no one could see her. She found his room--JD had pointed the window out to her once when they were walking around town--and knocked hesitantly on the door.

"Buck?" she called out in a small voice. "Buck? You in there?" There was no answer. She turned away. Then, she turned back and looked at the blank door. Acting quick enough that she wouldn't think too much about it, she twisted the knob and pushed open the door. She looked at the room and felt a chill run through her. It had been cleaned out. There was an empty dresser drawer sitting aslant in the middle of the bed. A few pieces of clothing still lay folded on a chair, but there was something about the room; Casey could tell. Buck wasn't planning to come back here.

Casey put her hand to her mouth. What was going on? Buck gone? That couldn't be right. He'd have said something to her the other day. Wouldn't he? She ran back down the stairs to the livery stable. His horse was gone. Vin's was gone too, she noticed. And Chris's. Maybe they'd just gone out after horse thieves or rustlers or something. But why would Buck take everything with him? That didn't make any sense at all.

She ran again, this time not knowing quite where she was running to. She rounded the corner just up the street from the Clarion and this time she ran smack into JD.

"Uummph!" JD said. He grabbed her elbow. "Casey! What are you doing runnin' like that?"

"Oh, JD! Where is everybody?"

JD's eyes widened to hear the question that had been running continuously in his head echoed on Casey's lips. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well," Casey stumbled as she tried to come up with a reason she might have been looking for Buck. "I mean, I was just at the stable and Vin and Buck and Chris's horses are all gone. That's all I meant."

JD took her by the elbow and led her to a small bench beside the Clarion news offices. He took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. "Somethin's goin' on, Casey. Nathan's sick. Josiah's over at the saloon drunk and he says...he says that...aw, hell, Casey, I can't--"

"Buck didn't rape that woman, JD!"

JD looked at her open-mouthed for a minute. Then, he realized his jaw was hanging open and snapped it shut. "Casey!" he exclaimed, shocked at her just saying it out like that. And how did she know anyway?

Casey stuck out her chin at him. "Well, he didn't!"

Suddenly, there was a voice behind them. "JD! Casey! Are you two all right?"

Both JD and Casey turned to see Mary on the boardwalk behind them. "Mary!" JD jumped to his feet. "What in blazes is going on around here? What's wrong with Nathan? What about--"

Mary touched his elbow and turned him toward the newspaper office. She gestured for Casey to follow. "Come on," she said. "Come inside. I need to tell you what's been happening."

Within a couple of minutes the three of them were sitting around Mrs. Travis's kitchen table. Everyone began talking at once.

"What's all this with Buck?" JD demanded.

"He didn't do it, JD," said Casey.

"And where is everyone?" JD talked right over the top of her. "Josiah says Chris and Vin and Buck all left. Because of some rape charge?"

"Well, not together," Mary said. "I saw Chris leave this morning."

"Buck cleaned out his room," Casey said, almost tripping over her tongue as she tried to get all the words out at once, "and Vin's wagon is still here so I don't think they were going to the same place at all."

JD looked at her. "How do you know?"

"I saw Vin's wagon."

"No, about the other. About Buck. How do you know he's cleaned out his room?"

Casey looked uncomfortable.

"_What_ rape charge?" Mary asked abruptly.

JD and Casey looked at her. JD spoke first. "Josiah says that Buck raped his woman friend, Miss Belle, two mornings ago when we were at the Delano mine."

"And I--" Casey stopped abruptly as a look of utter shock crept over her face. "No! That can't be right, JD. The time, I mean. Josiah couldn't have said--"

"What are you talking about, Casey? Buck didn't _do_ it!"

"No, I _know_ that. But--" she thought back on her conversation with Belle. 'Two days ago,' she'd said. 'Before the sun was even up,' she'd said. Buck had been with _her_! "Oh my God," Casey said, her hand going to her mouth.

"Casey!" JD said, suddenly concerned.

"Casey, honey, are you all right?" Mary asked.

Casey took a deep breath. "It's just...I...I _know_ he didn't do it. Buck wouldn't. I mean I know he's...but he's also sweet and kind and..."

"Casey!" Now, JD was jealous.

"Well, he just wouldn't." Casey finished firmly.

Mary had been studying the two of them, but clearly thinking on the conversation so far. "Casey, did you say that Buck had cleaned out his room?"

"Yes, ma'am. I mean everything wasn't gone, but you could tell. I don't think he's coming back."

"What were you doing in his room?"

"None of your business, JD," Casey said sharply. She _had_ to tell now, didn't she? But, oh, please let there be another way!

"And Vin's wagon is still here. And Chris left alone this morning." Mary rested her chin on her hand as she thought.

"Maybe one of them told Nathan or Ezra something," JD suggested.

Mary sighed. "We think Nathan may have been poisoned."

"What!" Both JD and Casey said it simultaneously.

"When?" JD demanded. "Is he going to be all right?"

"We don't know yet," Mary said softly, thinking sadly that she'd had no chance to make things right with him about the editorial.

"Who poisoned him?" Casey asked in a really quiet voice that caused Mary to reach out instinctively and grasp her hand. "Why would anyone do that?"

"I don't know, Casey. I just don't know." For a moment there was silence around the table as they each thought about the sad state of affairs.

"Well, Ezra _must_ know something," JD said with the certainty of youth. "I mean, _someone_ has to know something and he's the only one left."

"We'll ask him then, JD," Mary said, though she was not at all certain that he would have any additional information for them. She also knew, however, that the only way to find out a thing was to keep poking and looking and asking until things became clear. Maybe no one had all the pieces, but maybe someone could put them together if they tried.

The three of them left the newspaper office to head over to the clinic. Mary knew that Ezra was busy, but she hoped he could spare the time to talk to them for a few minutes. She was driven by a sense of urgency and foreboding, a feeling that too much time had been wasted already. She wished the others were here or able to help. They needed Vin's sharp mind, Nathan's quick analysis, Buck's deadly energy, Josiah's calm influence, and Chris's cool assessment of every piece of information. There was only her, though, and JD and Casey and Ezra. She hoped somehow Ezra had information they could use.

JD kept looking at Casey as they walked. She hadn't said yet how she knew about the rape and there was something about the way she looked sideways at him, about the way she'd hesitated back at Mary's that made him think there were things that she wasn't saying. And she's so sure, he thought, about Buck and all. Something wasn't right about it. He just couldn't figure out what.

Casey was practically jumping out of her skin in her hurry to get to the clinic. She had to tell now. She _had_ to. But she kept hoping this was a joke somehow. That Buck and Vin and Chris would come walking up any minute now and tell her it was just a bad dream or something.

"Hold on there. Hey! Hold on!"

JD, Mary and Casey stopped and turned to see Mr. Delano from the mine bearing down on them. Mary's heart sank. Didn't this man know when to quit?

"I want to know what you're going to do." He poked his finger at JD. "You were out to the mine. You saw what was going on. You can't just ignore things."

"Mr. Delano," JD protested. "We looked everywhere. Josiah and I didn't find anything--"

"Look!" Suddenly all his bluster was gone. "If the mine goes under, or I have to sell out...it's my life!"

Mary knew what it was like to be threatened with the loss of something you'd worked so hard to build. She had a great deal of sympathy for Mr. Delano, but the truth was, there just wasn't time right now. "Mr. Delano," she said, "We really have to be going."

"Wait a minute," JD said. "Maybe we--"

"You don't understand! We've just found a new vein. My geologist says it may be the apex! I've got to be able to mine it out. I've got to!"

"Apex?" JD asked. "What is that?"

"It's--"

"JD!" Mary's voice was sharper than she'd intended, but the more she thought about what they'd discussed in her kitchen the more worried she got. Urgency was beginning to eat away at her good sense. She wanted answers. "I'm sorry, Mr. Delano. We really need to go now." Then, she hurried JD and Casey away, though she could hear Mr. Delano behind her, still trying to talk.

At the clinic, Mary knocked on the door softly and after a few minutes a tired-looking Ezra came to the door. "Mrs. Travis," he said.

"How is Nathan doing?"

Ezra took a deep breath. "I don't know. He seems to be resting a little easier perhaps. I've been giving him as much water and tea as he'll drink."

"Could you come out and talk for a minute?"

Ezra looked past her and saw the worried faces of JD and Casey. Good lord, he thought, what's happened now? He came out onto the balcony, leaving the door slightly ajar so he could hear Nathan if he needed him. There was a small round table set against the wall and the four of them seated themselves around it.

"Now," Ezra said once they were all settled. "What is going on?"

Mary took a deep breath and told him what they knew: the rape charges against Buck--"But he didn't do it," Casey interjected--the departure of Buck, Vin, and Chris. As well, as what he already knew: Nathan's poisoning and Josiah's drunkenness. She even mentioned the Delano mine again, the two rowdy trail crews, the bank robbery earlier in the week and the reports of trouble from the Indian reservation, thinking it was important at this point to keep all peculiar happenings in mind. There were too many things going on and they knew too little to ignore anything.

"Do you know where _any_ of them might have gone?" Mary asked as she finished.

Ezra had been listening intently and watching each of the people sitting before him at the table, a habit so ingrained that he did it automatically. He noticed Mary's hesitation before she said Chris's name, Casey's flinch when the trail crews were mentioned, the way JD looked at Casey with a question in his eyes when she protested the charges against Buck.

Ezra rubbed his hand across his eyes. "Mr. Tanner was planning to go out to the reservation for a festival of some kind. I expect it would last several days." He felt a small twinge of relief that Vin, at least, could help him with the huge mess that everything was becoming.

"Maybe he knows where Chris or Buck went." JD offered.

Ezra looked at JD for a long minute, knowing that his next question would upset the young man, but also knowing from the looks on certain faces that there was information here that he did not yet have. "Can you be absolutely certain that Mr. Wilmington did _not_ leave town to avoid arrest?"

"He didn't rape that woman!" JD rose halfway to his feet.

Ezra held out his hands in front of him. "Easy. Easy. It's a question that needs to be laid out on the table with the rest of them. Otherwise it could prove our undoing down the road."

"Well," JD said grumpily. "He didn't do it. So, why would he run?"

"How do you know he didn't do it?"

"Because I know Buck. He wouldn't!"

"Yes," Ezra said, gently persistent. "But what evidence do you have?"

"He didn't _do_ it, Ezra!" Casey said sharply. "Isn't that enough?"

"Casey, my dear girl. While it's very sweet of you to defend Buck and no one ought to doubt your testimonial, I'm afraid it won't help Buck much in a court of law."

"But...I just want..why isn't it enough just to trust him?" There were two bright spots of color high on Casey's cheeks and Ezra could see desperation flare in her eyes as she looked back and forth from one to the other of them. Her breathing had sharpened too and he waited for a minute to see if she would continue.

When she didn't, he laid his hand over hers and said quietly, "My dear, is there something you want to tell us?"

To Mary and JD's surprise, Casey buried her head in her hands. She stayed like that, absolutely silent for almost a full minute, then her head jerked up and the words burst out of her. "Buck was with me!"

"WHAT!!"

The dead silence that followed this statement was broken by the simultaneous sounds of JD's shout and his chair falling over and slamming onto the floor. "I knew it!" JD started to pace. "I knew there was something. I figured just give her time. I figured you'd tell me eventually. But...You! And...and...him!" He stopped and looked at her, pulling his hand through his hair. "Casey, I don't get it."

"You don't understand! I--I came into town that night." She looked at Mary and Ezra and JD for some kind of understanding. This was coming out so much worse than she'd hoped. This wasn't at all how she'd wanted to tell it. "I know it was stupid, but I just wanted to see...I mean there's all sorts of action here..." She hung her head. "I was stupid for coming. But then, these men from one of the trail crews, grabbed me and threw me in the alley..." Her voice trailed off at the look on JD's face, but Mary put her hand on her arm and encouraged her to continue. "I got away from them and I hid for a really long time, until it got quiet, but then I was too afraid to go home. And I thought...well, I couldn't tell you, JD." Casey looked at him beseechingly. "And Buck...he helped me. He took me home and he made sure I was all right and..." she looked at each of them, encouraged that at least they could still look her in the face. "And that's how I know he didn't rape Belle because _that_ was why he didn't go to the mine. Because he was helping me!"

There was silence for a moment when she finished. JD walked to the end of the balcony and stood looking out over the town, one hand pulling his hair back from his face.

After a minute, Ezra said, "Thank you, Casey."

Casey buried her head in her hands again. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry."

Mary put one arm around Casey's shoulders and hugged her. "You were very brave to tell us, Casey. It will help."

"No," Casey said, not looking up. "It's all gone so wrong."

Ezra looked at her and then past her at the worried look on Mary's face. He thought about the way things were right then: Nathan sick, Josiah drunk and wanting to murder Buck, Buck gone, Chris gone. And for once he didn't have anything to say. Casey was right. It had all gone very wrong indeed.

Part 35

Chris was having trouble finding Buck.

The sun was well on its way toward the western horizon and he had already visited three small towns strung out along the border. He hated this. But it had to be done, if only to prove to himself that no one could ever be trusted. It wasn't that he had actually expected to find Buck. After all, Chris was more than twenty-four hours behind him. But he'd expected to find some sign of his passing. Vin, maybe, could drift into a town and drift out again with no one the wiser. But not Buck. Someone would remember. Some saloon girl or gunslinger or local troublemaker would remember him, with either fondness or hatred, depending. But there was no one.

Had he guessed wrong about where Buck would go? There was an easier path. He could turn around now and head back to Four Corners and send telegrams to all the local law enforcement with Buck's description and the charges. He could attach a reward. Someone would spot him. Someone would turn him in. But as angry as he was with Buck right then, as much as he couldn't banish the thin thread of doubt about who he was and what he might have done, he wasn't quite ready to take that last irrevocable step. And it would be irrevocable. Once he sent out Wanted posters on Buck Wilmington then it was over. It didn't matter then if the rape charges were false and Buck was cleared. There would be no friendship left between Chris Larabee and Buck Wilmington. If Chris knew anything, he knew that much. And despite everything, Chris wasn't yet ready for that.

He turned his horse to the east and headed for the next town.

+ + + + + + +

Striker sat his horse on a nearby hill and watched Chris Larabee wrestle with his conscience. Having trouble finding your friend, Mr. Larabee? Gee, I wonder why? And he laughed. And it was lucky that there was no one to hear such a soul-killing, cruel sound, the kind of laugh that destroyed faiths and emptied hearts. No one needed--ever--to hear a laugh like that.

Striker turned his horse and headed toward the next town in Chris's wake. On a whim, he legged his horse into a lope and cut down across the countryside. This was all very well and good, he thought, waiting for the word of a disaster already executed to reach Mr. Larabee, but Striker wanted to have a little fun.

+ + + + + + +

Chris rode into yet another small town--he wasn't even sure of the name of this one--just about dusk. He knew he wouldn't find anything here; he could already feel it. He was hot and dusty and tired and vaguely considering the possibility of never going back to Four Corners again. Let 'em all go to hell, he thought. He snarled at the man at the livery who only tried to offer him a price on extra grain for his horse and stalked off down the street.

This town was somewhat bigger than the others he'd been in, though not much more prepossessing. It reminded him of a somewhat smaller version of Purgatorio and Chris wondered briefly if Buck had perhaps headed to that notorious outlaw town. But, he quickly dismissed the idea. There were plenty of women in Purgatorio and men who would gladly fight over dreams of riches or imagined slights or sometimes nothing at all. But Buck didn't like Purgatorio. He'd told Chris once that a man ought never go back to a place he'd once died in. So, if he wasn't there and he wasn't here, then where the hell was he?

Chris gnawed on that problem as he got a room for the night, ate supper at the only place in town that looked like the food wouldn't kill him and walked to a nearby cantina. The place was fairly empty, but it was still early evening, barely dark outside. There were several men playing a desultory game of cards at a back table and a few others scattered around the room. Two of the working girls were sitting together at a table, their heads bent together talking about something quietly and seriously. Chris thought briefly about asking them if they'd seen Buck, but then he shook his head and walked to the makeshift bar. It could wait. He wasn't going anywhere until morning anyway.

He leaned both elbows on the bar and signalled to the bartender to bring him a bottle of whiskey. He poured himself a glass and drank it quick, liking the sharp harsh taste of it as it ran down his throat. He poured a second glass.

"You from around here, mister?"

Chris turned and looked at the man next to him. He was wearing a dusty grey duster, had short brown hair, dark eyes, and an open sort of face. There was something...not quite right about him, but Chris couldn't put his finger on it. He continued to look at him for a minute before he answered.

"Nope," he said and turned back to his drink.

The other man leaned on the bar as well. He was, Chris noticed, nursing a beer. "Me either," the man said. "I've been wandering around a bit the last couple of months. Been kind of looking for the right place to settle down. Where you from?" he asked.

Chris looked at him again. The man seemed unperturbed by Chris's closed expression. He continued to look at him curiously. "Four Corners," Chris finally said, turning away again and swallowing the rest of the whiskey in his glass. He poured another.

"Really." The other man nodded and looked at his own drink. "I've heard talk of that town."

Chris looked at him.

"Yeah," the man said pensively, looking at the cracked mirror above the bar. "Way I heard it, those seven regulators over there, the ones they think so highly of, are starting to self-destruct."

"What do you mean?"

The man shrugged. "Just what I heard. Gambling and women and whiskey. Only a matter of time, one fella told me, before one of 'em ends up in jail or gets himself killed by one of the others." The man studied Chris for a minute. "Seems like a town someone might want to stay out of." Chris picked up his glass, drained the contents and left, pushing the swinging saloon doors in such a way that the motion continued for several minutes after he was gone. Behind him, at the bar, Striker smiled.

Part 36

The sun had dropped behind the mountains to the west, leaving a shell-colored sky glowing softly over a darkening land. Buck craned himself around in his saddle to see if he could see Vin, riding behind him. The tracker had gotten quieter and quieter as the afternoon had worn on, and his posture had said volumes about why. He'd been putting every ounce of strength he had into trying to keep from jostling his shoulder any more than was necessary. Nearly two hours ago their captor had led the horses through a steep ravine as the terrain had grown rougher, and Buck had heard Vin cry out harshly as his gelding bounded up the far side when the lead line drew taut between the horses. He'd turned around then to see that the tracker was slumped over his own tied arms in a way that made it all too clear that he'd lost consciousness again. He hadn't regained it since.

The horses stopped walking all of a sudden, and Buck turned his attention back to the man who'd been leading them. He was dismounting to walk back to the grey and he laid a dark hand on the animal's withers. He looked up into Buck's face, his own face shadowed in the falling evening light.

"You're way too chipper," he said softly. Buck was silent. He pressed his lips together and lowered his eyes to the man's hand that was so close to his own tied ones. The man was silent a long moment, then he shrugged. "I was gonna' offer you some water, but if you're gonna' be surly . . ." He watched Buck closely, and a frown raced across his face when the gunman still ignored him. A knife flashed in his hands suddenly as he sliced through the knot that held Buck's bound hands to the saddle horn, and his eyes glittered dangerously. He stepped back to his own mount to jerk a canteen loose, then went to Buck and shoved it roughly into the man's tied hands.

"Drink," he said. Buck took the canteen silently, but he didn't begin to uncap it until the man had walked on back to where Vin was. Buck turned to watch as he opened the container, his own eyes growing sharper.

The man jerked Vin's head up to look at him, then dropped it with a snort of derision. He turned to look at Buck.

"I ain't got all night," he said. "Drink some a' that and pronto."

Buck lifted the metal canteen and let the tepid water run into his mouth. He thought he'd never tasted anything as good, ever, and closed his eyes in spite of himself. He kept expecting the man to come knock the water from his hands, but instead he let Buck drink for several moments. Then he advanced on him and took the open canteen back with a snarl. He raised it to Buck.

"Gotta' leave some for your friend, right? Don't want him dyin' on the trail, either." He walked back to Vin and then looked at Buck. "Alive or dead, it says. No matter to me, but my boss cares for some reason." He threw water suddenly into Vin's face, and the tracker coughed and gasped at the contact, then groaned. The black-haired man laughed unpleasantly and grabbed Vin by his left shoulder and sat him up straight in the saddle. The tracker groaned again, more loudly, but shook his head slowly as he regained his senses. A quick flash was their captor slicing Vin's bound hands loose from the saddle horn, too, and he shoved the canteen into his hands. "Drink," he growled. He turned on his heel and walked back past Buck to his own horse.

Buck looked at Vin, barely sitting up and sagging off-center, his head already starting to loll to one side. The opened canteen in his bound hands was tipping slowly, and Buck looked quickly at their captor again.

"You want him alive, you're gonna' have to help him drink," said Buck softly. The man in buckskins impaled Buck with dark eyes that let go only to run down to Vin. He reached around Buck to grab the lead rope that led from the grey to Vin's black gelding and pulled on it so that the tracker's horse came up closer to the grey, then pushed and shoved the black so that the two animals were side by side.

"I'm gonna' check the backtrail," he said. "You nursemaid him." He walked off about twenty yards, and then turned to call back. "I hope you ain't dumb enough to try to ride off all tied together like that." He slipped into the dark and was gone.

Buck wasn't that dumb at all. He looked at Vin, and gently pulled the canteen from the tracker's hands. Vin turned his face slowly to look at Buck when he felt the movement. His eyes were distant, and Buck raised the canteen awkwardly to his friend's mouth with a flash of worry twisting his gut. "Drink some a' this," he said in a low voice. "It'll help."

They spilled some of the water doing it, but somehow Buck got some into Vin's mouth, even with both his hands tied and the tracker unable to help at all. He did it three times, and each time it seemed to him that Vin visibly perked up a little more, and then drank a little more as a result. The tracker shook his head, then, and his voice was hoarse.

"You need some a' that," he whispered.

Buck smiled. "I've had some," he said. "What I want now is a beer chaser." He looked around the darkening hills and then looked back at Vin.

"You lost a lotta' blood," observed the tracker. "Won't do anyone any good, you keel over. Drink what's left."

Buck looked steadily at Vin, then nodded. "We'll split it," he said. He took another long swallow, then helped Vin get some more. A few more turns emptied the canteen, but Buck had to admit he was feeling better from it. Vin was looking a little better too.

"Where's our jailer?" Vin was looking at the cedar trees nearby and frowning.

"Went to check the backtrail."

Vin's eyes flashed as he looked at Buck. "Any reason?"

"No." Buck shook his head. "I think he's just bein' careful. No sign a' anyone back there. Anywhere."

Vin nodded slowly. "Gettin' kinda' into the mountains," he observed casually.

"At least it's cooler," sighed Buck. He looked upslope to where more distant mountains crested over the top of the foothills they'd been climbing. "Looks like we're goin' on up, too."

Vin sagged again slightly in the saddle, and Buck looked at him quickly. The younger man grinned faintly.

"Just restin'," he said.

"Yeah, well don't 'rest' yourself right outta' the saddle, ok?"

Vin sighed. "Ain't likely, trussed up like this." He lowered his face suddenly, and shuddered all over, and Buck saw him pale even as low as the light was getting. After the spasm passed, the tracker remained half-sagging in his saddle, his head down.

"Vin?" Buck's brows drew together and he bent to try to look into the tracker's face. Vin sighed, a long sigh that was almost a moan, and his breathing changed.

"Just wish it'd cool off," he murmured, "now the sun is down."

Buck felt fear steal into him. It had been getting cooler for several hours now. And when the sun had gone down, the evening breeze blowing down out of the mountains was almost too cool. He looked at Vin more closely, noticing for the first time that there was a slight flush high on the man's cheeks. The bullet wound in Vin's shoulder hadn't bled enough to clean it out, Buck knew, and the slug was still in there. But still . . .

"Tea time's over!" The black-haired man's voice cut into Buck's thoughts sharply, causing him to jerk in surprise. He looked quickly to see that the man knew it, had seen Buck's consternation and had enjoyed it immensely. He walked up to the two men and looked at Vin for several long moments as though weighing what he saw there. Then he lifted the cut end of the rope he'd taken the knot off, and pulled enough of the coil loose to refasten the tracker's hands to his saddle horn. Vin watched him numbly, it seemed to Buck, almost with disinterest. The man did the same for Buck, then went to his own horse, remounted, and flipped the lead rope to get Buck's grey moving again. Vin's black moved out with it at first, but then dropped back to follow in single file.

Buck craned around a final time, to see Vin's head sagging lower again, his head nodding in time to the gelding's footfalls.

Part 37

Why did you leave, Buck? Huh! Why did you leave?

JD was struggling to make sense of it all. Casey went to Buck and not him. What did that say? Good enough to spend time with but if she needed protecting or help -- what Casey? I'm not good enough. Just the kid. Don't know nothin'.

Why did you leave Buck? You know you didn't rape Miss Belle even if you didn't know Casey would provide you an alibi. Would you have told me? Did you even consider maybe telling me what happened to Casey so I could be there for her? No. Oh, no! Didn't do that--did you, Buck? Let me ride off to the Delano Mine. She's my girl! MY GIRL! Not yours. You didn't go after Josiah's girl--you went after mine. You could've told me -- I could've taken Casey home.

There was a sick, almost bitter taste in JD's mouth. He felt his best friend, his brother betrayed him. He was doing a walking patrol of town without any real purpose. Every step was the dagger being pounded further into his heart by his best friend.

JD finished one circuit of the town and started a second. Why did you leave? Is there more to the story that you're not saying?

JD slowed his pace -- more to the story, gotta make sense of it all. What all had happened . . .

The trail crews -- been in town a week, just lookin' for trouble and not thinking twice about directly challenging the authority of the Seven. Nothing came of it but it was almost unrelenting.

The bank robbery -- almost a week ago. JD remembered the eyes of one of the robbers, almost shocked dismay when he realized he was up against seven men. Cost him his life, as well as his partners. They were pretty well known in these parts now, so why rob the bank without making sure the seven were gone or at least have a plan. What was their plan -- didn't make sense. But JD was sure that at least one of those robbers wasn't expectin' all seven of them to be there.

Delano Mine cave-in -- was Delano paranoid or was someone really after him?

And who would want to kill Nathan?

Just didn't make sense. A lot had been happening. Were we looking for something where there is nothing? Just could be a bad week.

JD found himself much more alert on his second pass of the town. He stopped in the stores that weren't closed. Talked to other pedestrians. Stopped in the hotel and restaurants. Anybody sick? Any problems? Fortunately, time and time again, the answer was no. The town was actually reasonably quiet. But in the peaceful quiet of the evening JD's heart was in turmoil.

Buck accused of rape. A false charge but he ran. And where was Chris? Was he going after Buck? What would happen when Chris found Buck? Would Buck let Chris bring him back? Dread filled JD's heart. No, Buck wouldn't let Chris bring him in; he'd die first.

+ + + + + + +

Casey was dejected when JD walked off without even acknowledging her.

Mary wrapped an arm around Casey's shoulders. "Casey, you stay with me."

Casey just nodded her head, not lifting her eyes from the weathered boards. Her foolish decision to come to town and experience the excitements was costing so much more than she ever expected. JD hadn't tried to talk to her as they left Nathan's but she saw his eyes; he'd never look at her the same again. His eyes were old now, their innocence lost. You know my disgrace and you will never look at me the same way again.

Tears welled in Casey's eyes and she would have never made it to Mary's without her guiding hand. Mary gave Casey a squeeze, "I'll be right back, I need to get Billy from the Potter's."

Casey wasn't even sure she answered Mary. Her heart was so heavy. Her mistake cost JD. Her mistake cost Buck and Josiah. How many more would pay?

It was beyond Casey to realize the price she was paying.

Mary pondered how she could help Casey as she quickly walked down the boardwalk to retrieve Billy. None of this was her fault but Mary was certain Casey didn't view it that way. In fact, Casey could prove Buck's innocence and that was extremely important. Ezra had a good point; evidence would clear Buck, not our instincts about the quality of the man.

As the bell over the door rang, her son leapt up and ran across the room into his mother's arms. "Hi ma."

"Hi yourself." Mary gave her son a tight squeeze and looked up at her friend. "Thanks, Gloria."

"You're welcome, but you know he's no problem. Anytime, you need to leave him here. I heard Nathan is very ill." It was a grave statement as well as a question.

Mary nodded pensively. "I wired a physician and he gave us instructions on how to care for him. He isn't worse but unfortunately I don't think he's much better."

"I'll remember him in my prayers."

"I will too," Billy added soberly.

Mary gave her son a squeeze. "Come on, son, time to go home. Thanks again, Gloria."

"Mom, who's taking care of Nathan if Nathan can't take care of Nathan?"

"Mr. Standish is, honey."

"Where's Chris? He could help."

"Chris rode out this morning and hasn't returned."

"Oh." They walked quietly for a couple of minutes. "Ezra is Nathan's friend. I'm Nathan's friend. I could help," Billy volunteered demonstrating a lot more maturity than anyone should at six-years old.

"We'll see. Right now, Casey needs us. She is going to be staying with us and she is really upset. So if she starts to cry or is not herself. Don't' you worry. It's not your fault."

Billy nodded his head in understanding. Mary couldn't imagine herself being prouder.

They entered the Clarion offices and Mary carefully locked the door. She had seen that man Bland on the street. He gave her the creeps. Billy had walked through to the back but Mary stood by the door to watch the street. She didn't see anything untoward. Mary shook her head and laughed ruefully, you're seeing conspiracies around every corner, girl.

Mary walked back to the living quarters. Billy had been watching Casey.

"Hi Casey," Billy greeted her warily.

Casey lifted her chin, her face a study of desolation.

Billy broached the awkward quiet, "you gonna stay with us?"

Casey nodded her head and attempted a weak smile.

"I'm glad."

"Billy, time for bed."

"Good night, Casey."

"Night, Billy," Casey's voice was a very quiet, hoarse rasp. She valiantly tried to smile as the boy came over and gave her a hug.

Mary tucked her son into bed after he said his prayers. She smiled when Billy sent up an extra plea for Nathan and Casey. He settled right down and was quickly asleep. Mary left the door open a crack and returned to the kitchen.

"Casey, would you like to talk?" Mary asked tentatively.

Casey shook her head violently no.

"That's fine. I'm going to start pulling the papers for the last week and go through my files and see if I have any other information that can help."

Casey dashed the tears from her eyes. "I can help," she offered quietly.

Mary smiled, "I'd sure appreciate it."

Mary quickly pulled the papers for the past week. "Casey start with last Monday and read each paper. Write down any unusual event, no matter how farfetched and we will see if it's important later."

They each sat down and started to write down events. The bank robbery. The Delano Mine cave-in and Delano's insistence that someone was after him. The trail crews - Casey's attack, several episodes of drunkenness, disorderly conduct, and gunplay. The talk of needing a real doctor. Nathan's poisoning. Indian troubles - reports of butchered steers, old Sam's claim they killed his sheepdog, and the report from one scared drummer that he was chased by braves through the reservation. The accident at the Robert's ranch. The rape charge against Buck.

Mary raked a hand through her hair frustrated. There just didn't seem to be any pattern except that the events of the past week had kept the seven regulators very busy. "Casey, I don't see a pattern here. Let's get some rest, maybe it will be clearer in the morning."

Mary lay awake for a long time after settling down. Mary was wishing Chris Larabee were here to quell the inner anxiety that she couldn't seem to tamp down. If he were here, Mary wouldn't have a doubt that some way, some how; it would all be all right. Chris, Mary silently pleaded, where are you?

+ + + + + + +

Bland crushed the cheroot under his foot. He stood observing the women who had entered the office of the newspaper. He was infuriated that at every turn this woman interfered with his plans to disgrace the healer. All in all, his part had been a failure. He couldn't even find solace in the fact the healer would most likely die.

Hammersmith eased up beside Bland, "John."

"Fucking bitch," Bland spit out.

"Yes, I'm sure that it would be most pleasurable." Hammersmith felt himself tighten at the thought. "What is the problem?"

"She wired Denver. Doctor there told her about the arsenic poisoning. Even suggested ways to treat it."

"Might the healer survive."

"Not likely."

Hammersmith smiled at the answer. "Well then, your work is done here. I suggest you return to The Compound while I handle things here."

"Handle things or handle her."

"She is not the target. Best you remember that."

"I think Michaels underestimated this woman."

Hammersmith looked across the street appraisingly. "You just might be right," he responded softly. "I'll make arrangements concerning the stage coach operation and keep an eye on the gambler."

"Well, I think I'll move out now. Rather pass through the reservation at night."

"John," Hammersmith responded disgusted, "we're creating the Indian troubles."

"You just never know."

Stupid idiot. He's probably at higher risk having his horse trip in the night than any Indian threat.

Well, the plan to create panic through poisoning people failed. Hammersmith surveyed the quiet street. Gonna have to do something to shake this town's complacency.

+ + + + + + +

"Come on, Nathan, gotta drink." Ezra put his arm under Nathan's shoulders and helped lift Nathan so he would drink some more liquid. He kept pouring the liquid into Nathan's mouth and in the last hour, as much as went in, he seemed to be voiding out. Ezra had to think this was a good sign.

"Drink up."

Nathan pushed the cup away. "Wanna sleep," he mumbled.

"No sleep, drink." Ezra used a very firm voice.

Nathan's head lolled back and Ezra let him lay back down. He'd try again in a bit.

Ezra had been at it for over five hours, trying to force fluids into Nathan. Nathan was fighting him now and Ezra was getting frustrated. He was also a little jealous. He wanted to be the one lying in bed instead of trying to force himself to stay awake. He knew it was stupid, Nathan was fighting for his life, but damn, what I wouldn't do for a little sleep.

It was no surprise Ezra was desperate for sleep. In the past three days, he had maybe 10 hours of sleep. He was tired, short-tempered, and wanted to be anywhere but here.

Nathan stirred. "Come on, Nathan, gotta drink." As he pleaded and cajoled, he managed to get Nathan to drink another quart of water.

"Gonna kill, JD."

Ezra sighed. Nathan seemed fixated on JD, which Ezra couldn't quite understand. He delivered his crafted comeback to the proclamation. "Why do you want to eliminate our young associate?"

"Hey, Ezra, that you?"

Ezra eyes widened in shock. Nathan's eyes were closed but it was the first words Nathan had spoke that weren't associated with killing JD or wanting to sleep. "How you'd know?"

Nathan chuckled deeply.

After a minute, he commented, "Man, I feel bad."

"That is not surprising. We suspect you've been poisoned."

"That's nice." Nathan's eyes fell shut and he settled back into a deep sleep.

Ezra was almost ecstatic over the brief conversation with Nathan. It was a conversation, not random incoherent thoughts. Come on, Nathan. Come back.

Come back. Ezra wished they'd all come back. Nathan from the hell of this poisoning. Vin from the reservation. Buck from wherever he'd run to. Chris from wherever he'd gone. Josiah from the deep bottomless pit of despair and liquor. And JD from . . .

There was a rap on the door interrupting Ezra's morose thoughts.

"Hey, how's Nathan?" JD whispered.

Ezra sighed deeply. "We talked briefly."

JD's eyes lit up, "that's gotta be good, don't ya think?"

"I certainly hope so. Any problems on rounds?"

"Nah," JD waved his hand dismissively. "Ezra, can we talk?"

Ezra glanced over at Nathan who seemed to be resting quietly. He inclined his head to the table and chairs outside on the balcony. Taking a moment to collect himself, Ezra pulled the covers over Nathan. Ezra felt bile rise in his throat, the kid was looking for advice from him. Aw hell. And he thought medicine wasn't his forte.

Ezra settled into a seat and nodded at JD.

JD nervously rubbed his tongue over his lips. "I'm . . .I'm mad at Buck."

Ezra nodded his head. "That he ran or that he assisted Casey in her distress."

"Both." JD lolled his head, "neither."

"You need to be able to articulate the problem."

"Huh?"

"Buck is your best friend." Ezra patiently explained and JD nodded. "Casey is your paramour." JD smirked and then, nodded. "Your best friend came to the able assistance of your best lady." JD nodded solemnly. "When she requested his assistance." JD nodded. "Would you have him do less?"

"But . . ." JD started to protest.

Ezra stopped JD with his hand. "Would you have him do less?" Ezra firmly repeated.

"No."

Ezra continued. "Buck left town." JD nodded his head. "But not to run from rape charges." JD nodded his head.

"How did you know . . ." JD started to protest.

"He wouldn't rape a woman." Ezra stated it as a fact and JD nodded his head again. "And he has an alibi." JD smiled. "So he didn't run from the charges."

"But why did he pack up and leave?"

Ezra swallowed hard, loathe to answer but he owed JD his own solution to the puzzle. "I suspect it has everything to do with a certain Mr. Larabee."

"But why?" JD exclaimed, obviously hurt.

Ezra bit his lip. "Chris and Buck have been friends for over twelve years. But it is a relationship based on you cover my back, I'll cover yours." JD smiled at Ezra's description. "What would happen if Chris wasn't there to cover Buck's back?"

"He wouldn't do that!"

"I don't mean in a gun battle, but . . ." Ezra was searching for the right words, "what if Belle accused Buck and Chris didn't immediately defend him?"

JD's eyes darkened when understanding dawned. "He'd be real upset."

"Yes, indeed."

JD started to stand and extended his hand, "Thanks, Ezra."

Ezra looked at the hand but didn't grasp it with his own. "Sit, JD," Ezra said solemnly. "So you agree, a friend is there for a friend."

"Oh, yeah. I forgot that the other day."

Ezra frowned at JD's answer.

"When I fell off the horse and Buck started making fun, Nathan was by my side but I accepted the hand of a stranger and ignored him. I had to make it right. I brought him a hot dinner and apologized," JD explained.

"No wonder he wants to kill you," Ezra said under his breath.

"Kill me?" JD squeaked.

"We suspect that Nathan was poisoned with arsenic put into a pot of food at Andreas's restaurant."

"I poisoned Nathan."

"No, JD. Some person wanted to poison many people. It was an unfortunate set of circumstances that Nathan was poisoned."

"Does Nathan think that?"

"Yes," Ezra lied. Ezra justified it by thinking he'd have plenty of time to explain it to Nathan.

JD started to rise again. "JD, sit. There's one more thing. A friend is there for a friend."

"I understand that, Ezra," JD responded, irritated.

Ezra continued gently, treading softly as not to raise the young man's dander. "You need to be there for Casey. Casey is feeling shamed, violated, and unworthy."

"I don't think that."

"The only," Ezra stared hard at JD, "the only person who can convince Casey of that is you."

"A friend is there for a friend."

"Yes, indeed."

"Thanks, friend." JD started to stand and extended his hand again.

Ezra shook it firmly, "you're welcome, friend."

JD impulsively hugged Ezra.

Ezra slowly put his arm around him and squeezed. JD pulled back and looked down sheepishly.

"Want me to take a spell with Nathan?"

"No, I think it's best I press on." Besides Nathan might kill the kid, Ezra thought mordantly. "He is quite obstinate as a patient but I have successfully forced fluids into him. It's probably best I continue with this."

JD nodded. "I'll make a final pass of town and then get some sleep. I'll be at the jail if you need me. Good night, Ezra and thanks again."

"Good night, JD."

Ezra solemnly watched JD walk away. His hand shook. He wearily stood and re-entered Nathan's room. His distress hadn't eased but he was satisfied that he may have successfully assisted the young man.

Eara entered the room and shook Nathan's shoulders. "Come on, Nathan, gotta drink." Ezra put his arm under Nathan's shoulders and helped lift Nathan so he would drink some more liquid.

"Drink up."

Nathan pushed the cup away. "Wanna sleep," he mumbled.

"No sleep, drink." Ezra used a very firm voice.

Ezra was able to get Nathan to drink another quart of fluid. He assisted him to urinate and then assisted him to lie down. "Wanna sleep."

"Yes, I think we all do. Good night, Nathan."

"Good night, Ezra."

Part 38

He slept uneasily, dreaming of death and pain, and waking to find the pain, at least, was real. One moment he would be running or firing a gun at an enemy that was everywhere all at once, and the next he would be hearing the wind high in the pines and looking at the night sky and trying to remember which night it was, and whether or not he'd found Buck yet. Then the horse would stumble or it would break its gait as it navigated the steep slope and it would all flash bright as an explosion and turn him inside-out, and he'd slide into the dark again and then later wake up and not know for sure if he'd been dreaming or just sick from the pain not ever letting up and never stopping and getting worse with every step.

At some point, the moon was there, white and distant, the pines playing ball with it in their dark branches, and Vin stared at it and tried to remember why it was an important thing. Something about going faster, and now he could see the trail and head for the reservation. He sighed. The festival he was missing, and Chanu and Kojay were looking for him and the man with the high-powered rifle was siting in on them and he had to get there. Then the wind blew cold against his back and rattled the lead rope where it ran through the bridle hardware and made it jingle, and Vin woke up enough to know he'd been dreaming again, and he shivered.

He wished he still had his coat, although he couldn't figure out how he'd be able to get it on with his hands tied if he had it. He found himself turning it over in his mind for a long time, putting it on and wrapping it around somehow and feeling its warmth and then waking up to that cold wind again, over and over. He began to dread falling asleep, because it was so disorienting when he woke up halfway and then fell asleep again and then snapped into painful awareness when the horse jarred him. It made him start to feel sick, and he ached all over, and his head ached, and the fire inside his shoulder and his chest and his arm grew until his nightmares were of wildfires and the trees on fire and lanterns that had broken in barns and set all the hay on fire. And again, he woke up. And looked at the moon in dull surprise as he found out again that he was in the mountains, tied to his horse, being led somewhere and not even caring where it was any more.

And somewhere towards morning, when he opened his eyes and saw that the sky was growing paler and the stars were fading, he began to ask them to stop. He didn't know if he said it aloud or in his head, and it didn't matter if only they would. Just for a minute, just so the pain would stop for a moment, just one blessed moment so he wouldn't go out of his head with it, and it began to match the beat of his horse's hooves on the soft pine needles and the throbbing that went all the way down into his gut and he clenched his teeth and thought stop please stop please stop please. Stop. He heard his own voice, distant and in the tops of the pines, then, touching long fingers to the moon to see how long ago it had passed this way: stop please stop. And he heard Buck saying something somewhere and he wondered what it was and the moon was saying it now, too: stop please stop.

And Vin slept, and woke, and morning was so slow coming. The night, he thought dully, would never ever end. It was stuck. And as long as it was night, he was stuck, riding and hurting and cold and dreaming and waking.

Stop, he thought. Please.

Stop.

Part 39

It was just after dawn when Sullivan finally stopped again, near a shallow mountain stream. Buck had been awake almost the whole time and he was hungry and cold and so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. He was worried about Vin and once he'd tried to talk Sullivan into stopping, but the man had just kept on riding as if he couldn't even hear him. His leg ached, too, but next to everything else, it didn't seem that important.

He bent his head and watched Sullivan from under his hat. Who was this guy? And where was he taking them? Buck almost didn't care anymore. But then, he glanced at Vin, who was slumped over in the saddle again, mostly out of it, but obviously really hurting from the wound in his shoulder. Somehow, Buck thought, he had to figure a way to get Vin out of this. Somehow he at least had to get him home.

Sullivan dismounted and looked at the two men he'd been hauling into the mountains all night. Tanner was still out of it. He wasn't going to die yet, that was all Sullivan cared about. He had his orders. He looked at Wilmington who was studying the rising sun as if it were the most interesting thing he'd ever seen. 'Damn you,' Sullivan thought. 'I'll get to you somehow.'

He pulled the lead rope that led from his horse to Buck's loose and tied it to a sturdy tree branch. Then, he unsaddled his own horse and led it down to the stream. Once it had drunk its fill, he led it back to a small grassy area and hobbled it so it could graze for a bit. They were still a good day's ride from their destination and they'd started out with tired horses. Much as he hated it, if they wanted to make it the rest of the way through the mountains, he'd have to let them rest and eat.

He looked back at his two captives on horseback and let the purifying hate run through him again. It was what kept him strong, the reason he'd survived all the years he had and he knew it. Hate was more important than anything and anyone who didn't admit it was a fool.

Buck watched Sullivan unsaddle and water his horse, though his eyes kept drifting shut and he was shivering, whether from the cold mountain air or from all the blood he'd lost he didn't know. He licked his dry lips and drew in a deep breath. 'Gotta stay awake,' he thought. 'Gotta be ready.' Sullivan came toward him with his knife out again. There was a dark gleam in his eye and for a moment, Buck thought that this was it; Sullivan was going to stab him to death while he was tied helpless to a horse. Sullivan stood by his left stirrup and looked at him for a minute. Buck looked back, knowing that nothing showed in his face. With a tight grimace that Buck couldn't quite read, Sullivan reached out and cut the ropes tying Buck's leg to the stirrup. Then he walked around and cut the ropes on the other side. He reached up and cut the knot that tied his hands to the saddle horn, but left the one tying Buck's hands.

"Gotta rest the horses," he said. "Don't try anything." Then, as if to prove that he had nothing to fear from the wounded man, he turned his back on Buck and walked back to Vin's horse.

Buck tried to stretch his stiff fingers. He could barely move his wrists and he could feel where the rope had rubbed the skin through the long night. He grabbed the saddle horn, shifted his weight to his good leg and swung out of the saddle. If he hadn't been hanging on, he'd have collapsed on the ground right there. He hung onto the saddle while black spots danced in front of his eyes and gasped for breath as if he'd run a mile in heavy boots. Damn! He'd been pretty fine sitting in the saddle compared to how he felt right now. Like a stampede of cattle had run right over him. Damn it! He didn't have time for this. He shifted more of his weight to his good leg and tried to stand straight. The blackness rushed right over him and then faded a bit, leaving a loud roaring in his ears as a reminder of what would come if he moved too quickly. Just then, Sullivan yanked the saddle out of his hands and Buck fell to his knees, sending a sharp black pain through his injured leg clear up to his chest.

"Sorry," Sullivan said, and Buck heard it as if through a long narrow tunnel as Sullivan led his horse away.

For a long time, Buck just stayed there, his head bent as he tried to will strength back into his limbs. He hated being weak. Hated it more than anything. But right now there was nothing left in him. He could breathe. He could breathe. He could breathe. He could breathe....

Sullivan looked at him in disgust. 'You're nothing,' he thought. 'Nothing. Why can't I get to you?' And that failure blazed in his mind like lightning across a stormy sky.

He looked over at Tanner. He'd cut his ropes five minutes before, but the man hadn't even moved. Hell! Why had he gotten stuck playing nursemaid anyway? He reached up, grabbed Vin by the front of his shirt and yanked him forward and off his horse, barely breaking his fall as he pitched onto the ground. A loud groan escaped Vin's lips, The horse danced nervously sideways. Sullivan pulled Vin over to a nearby tree and released him. He collapsed with a sharp cry and Sullivan looked at him and laughed.

"Feeling poorly?" he said. "Hell, don't blame me." Vin tried to raise his left arm to his right shoulder and, because his hands were tied he moved both arms before he was aware of it and another loud low groan escaped him. Sullivan laughed again. He reached out to grab the man's shirt collar and set him upright again.

"LEAVE HIM ALONE!"

Sullivan was completely unprepared for Buck when he slammed into him and he fell, tumbling away and scrambling to regain his feet. Wilmington was just standing there in front of Tanner, looking down at him. Sullivan launched himself at Buck, knocking him flat and punching him, hard, twice in the stomach. Then he jumped to his feet with a feeling fairly close to satisfaction and looked down at the man lying on the ground.

Buck turned onto his side, retching, as the sharp blows to his stomach re-ignited the ache from where Josiah had bruised him two days ago. He drew in great gouts of air and it still wasn't enough. Breathe, damn it! Breathe! He struggled to his knees, his heart racing so fast he thought sure it would give out on him and he wanted nothing so much as to just lie down and be done with it. But he didn't. He pushed himself up on his left leg, struggled for a moment to get his balance, and climbed shakily to his feet. Only then did he look at Sullivan.

"Leave him alone," he said again, looking the man directly in the eye. And then, he just stood there and tried to keep breathing, hoping Sullivan didn't know just how damned hard that was.

Sullivan, with his fist clenched, took a step toward him, then he stopped. He looked from Buck to Vin, who lay slumped against the tree, not seeing much of anything. Then he looked at Buck again and his fist uncoiled and he almost smiled. 'I have you now,' he thought. 'I have you now.'

Instead of attacking Buck, he turned away with a light footstep to lead Vin's horse down to the creek and then hobble it in the grass with the others. Buck watched him and wondered exactly what it was about the look in his eye that suddenly seemed to promise no compromise or quarter.

Part 40

A shudder wracked his body. Damn, he was cold. But sometimes it took just too much effort to move. Guess he would forgo sleep now, he was wide-awake. He surveyed his surroundings. A funny light danced off the walls gently providing soft illumination to the room. You think it would be a warm light, but it wasn't. The light of the moon never is. At least he assumed that was the light source.

He tested his movement. He lifted his head and was pleased. He rotated his shoulders and moved his legs. They felt odd, unused even. He felt like he was emerging from a black hole. A dark hole where he was alone, in desperate need, and no one was there for him.

Recollections flooded Nathan's memory. Intense pain. The unending retching and vomiting. The stench of the diarrhea. The nightmares. And he'd been alone, in desperate need, and no one was there for him.

A shudder wracked his body. Damn, he was cold. But sometimes it took just too much effort to move. Guess he would forgo sleep now, he was wide-awake. He felt a heavy blanket being laid over him. Better, that was so much better.

Nathan's eyes looked up to his savior. It took him a moment to place him. Maybe because he was the last person he expected to be there.

"Ezra."

"Mr. Jackson."

"You get stuck with the night tour," Nathan was shocked at the quality of his voice: dry, raspy, unused.

"Mmm, something like that."

"How long have I been out?"

"Two to three days," was Ezra's quiet reply.

Two days . . . Nathan mulled over that bit of information . . . Three days! Nathan was suddenly wide-awake and panicked.

What about his responsibilities? What about his patients? He had to check on Roberts' leg - he could still lose it to gangrene - better that than his life. What about the Andrews' baby? Was the baby feeding? Moving normally? What of the mother - had there been any complications? Who had needed him and he wasn't available - like that lady on the wagon train. Who had needed him - the healer?

Nathan tried to get out of bed but firm hands at his shoulders pressed him down into the bed.

"Lay back down, Mr. Jackson," Ezra's voice brooked no protest but Nathan still tried to get out of bed.

"Mr. Jackson, lay down. That is an order."

"You wouldn't understand. I have duties, responsibilities that I must tend to," Nathan protested and struggled against Ezra's hold.

Ezra suddenly released Nathan and slowly backed away from the bed. His hands were forward; almost as if they were trying to clutch hold of the most valuable prize and it wasn't within reach. His eyes had a look of almost intense pain and shame. When he spoke his voice had a quality of forlornness, "You are so very right," he bowed his head, "I wouldn't understand."

Ezra brusquely shook his head and seemed to recollect himself.

"You are absolutely in no uncertain terms, not getting out of this bed," Ezra firmly stated, "you've been poisoned . . ."

"Poisoned?" Nathan gasped.

"Poisoned," Ezra confirmed matter-of-factly. "We have pushed fluids attempting to flush the poison from your system. It appears, I dare say, that you are making every appearance of recovering. We have been consulting with a physician in Denver and we are to wire with your status in approximately an hour."

"How poisoned?" Nathan was shocked at the implications of that statement. What had he done to deserve that?

"We believe it was arsenic poisoning put into some food that Andreas prepared."

"How can you know that?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"How_can_you_know_that?" Nathan enunciated each word slowly and clearly.

Ezra seemed surprised by the question, so Nathan explained. "Arsenic is colorless and tasteless. How did you even suspect poisoning?"

"It was Mary Travis. She spoke with Andreas and then wired a physician friend in Denver. Through discussions with the physician, they figured out you were poisoned."

"I'm forever in Mary's debt."

Ezra didn't answer for a moment. "Yes, indeed," he confirmed.

There was a light rap at the door. Ezra walked around the bed to answer it.

"Hey, Ezra."

"JD."

JD tried to peer around Ezra to the bed. "How's Nathan?"

Ezra opened the door wider and flourished his arm to draw JD into the room.

"Nathan," JD exclaimed as he saw the clear, alert eyes of the healer.

A broad smile crossed Nathan's face. "That bad, huh?"

"Yeah," JD's glee turned quickly. "I was sure we were going to lose you," JD stated somberly.

JD looked back at Ezra indicating the door with his eyes; Ezra took the hint and stepped outside of the room.

JD walked over to the foot of the bed. He was clearly agitated and he pulled his bowler hat off his head and clutched it in front of his chest. "Nathan, it was my fault."

"JD, it's all right," Nathan reassured the young man.

"It's my fault. I poisoned you," JD looked directly at Nathan's eyes.

"No, you didn't JD. You didn't poison me." Nathan spoke with the assurance that this was indeed a friend who would never hurt him.

"I brought you the food," JD started pacing in the small confines of the room. "If I hadn't forgotten what a true friend you were, I . . I . . .I would have never pushed you away." JD had paced to the wall pivoted and started across the room again. "And if'n I never pushed you away, I wouldn't have had to make it up to you. And if . . and if . . . I didn't have to make it up to you, I wouldn't have brought you dinner." JD had paced to the other wall pivoted and started across the room again. "And if you hadn't eaten the dinner, you wouldn't have eaten the poison." The words were tumbling out of JD and as he became more agitated his pacing got faster.

Nathan wasn't quite sure he was following JD's logic and he was getting tired just watching JD pace the room.

"JD, it was an accident. It was an accident. There was no way you could have known."

"I'm so sorry, Nathan. I'm so sorry, Nathan. I'm so sorry, Nathan," JD was repeating it as a mantra as he paced across the room.

Nathan was getting a tad irritated. "JD, stop." JD halted mid-stride. "IT WAS NOT YOUR FAULT."

Nathan looked directly into JD's eye, "absolutely, positively, not your fault."

A tentative smile crossed JD's face. "You truly believe that."

"I truly believe that, friend."

JD laughed with relief and Nathan smiled broadly.

"Though gotta tell you, JD, might be a long time before I let you deliver a meal to me again."

JD gasped and his eyes flashed at the door, "gosh, do you think Ezra thinks that? I brought him breakfast."

Nathan started chortling. He inclined his head to the door, whispered conspiratorially, "go see."

Part 41

Ezra gently closed the door so Nathan and JD could have an opportunity to talk. The cool, fresh desert air was refreshing. Ezra strolled over to the railing of the balcony to admire the first light of day. The sky at the horizon was a delicate pink and the sky a clear, translucent blue unmarred by clouds. Ezra only saw mornings like this if one of his card games ended around dawn. Ezra laughed at himself. He half-thought he should make an effort to see more sunrises - nah! He'd stick to sunsets.

Ezra turned to sit at the table against the wall when he saw the tray of food. He pulled back the napkin and saw a hearty breakfast laid out - eggs, sausage, fried tomatoes, bread, and a pot of coffee. Ezra quickly poured himself a cup of coffee. He considered the food -- the_food_JD_brought. What did Nathan say -- arsenic is colorless and odorless. Well, I'm famished. I'll take my chances and Ezra started to eat the breakfast. He savored the first bites, absolutely delicious.

Ezra heard light footfalls on the stairs and knew it was Mary Travis. He stood as she reached the landing.

"Good morning, Mary."

"Good morning, Ezra. Please sit, finish your breakfast. How is Nathan?" Ezra thought Mary looked as fatigued as he felt. Not that she wasn't lovely. But there was a paleness to her face, a droop to her shoulder, and a weariness to her posture that conveyed the stress and its toll over the past few days.

Mary sat across from Ezra at the table and poured herself a cup of coffee.

"He's alert, lucid, no vomiting or diarrhea in the past six hours," Ezra summarized Nathan's status with almost no emotion. Maybe if he didn't believe too strongly in the good signs, then nothing untoward would happen.

"That's marvelous." Mary obviously thought it was good news. There was a joy, almost elation fully conveyed in just two words. "We'll need to wire Dr. Francis in about a half hour."

"I'll do that. JD is with Nathan right now. It will give me an opportunity to do a tour of the town and make sure no other calamities have befallen us." Ezra wiped his mouth with a napkin and carefully folded it.

Mary reached into her pocket. "Here's your money back. I wrote out a detailed list of expenses."

"Thank you," Ezra folded the money and placed it his pocket not even glancing at it. He didn't look at the expense list but folded it a couple more times and placed it on the tray.

At that moment the door opened a crack, "Mr. Dunne, thank you for the breakfast. It was excellent."

JD opened the door wide and was smiling broadly, "you're welcome, Ezra."

"I'm going to wire, Denver and make a patrol of town. I should be about an hour. Stand by here, please," Ezra ordered.

"Sure, no problem." One thing about working with JD, he was always eager to be of assistance without complaint. Ezra was fast appreciating that quality in the young man.

Ezra entered the room to retrieve his jacket and hat. He looked over at Nathan. "Took your chances with JD's food?" Nathan inquired.

Ezra smiled broadly flashing his gold tooth. "Somehow I don't think they'll make the same play twice." Ezra nodded at the glass on the nightstand, "still need to drink plenty of fluids." Nathan nodded. "I'll be back soon."

As Ezra reached the boardwalk, he surveyed the street. No one was about except Yosemite who waved as he went to open the livery. It was very quiet - not noiseless, there were voices in conversation that could be heard through open windows, the smell of bacon being prepared for breakfast, and the thwack of an axe as wood was chopped. Maybe that's why Mr. Tanner loved to sit in a chair on the boardwalk in the early morning - before the bustle, before the noise, and enjoy the quiet. A little peace. Maybe, just maybe, there was something to be said about sunrises -- nah! Give me the night, give me the action.

Ezra decided he had enjoyed too much action these past few days and was facing another very long day. He would take advantage of the quiet and clean up and attire himself in fresh clothes. He went to the hotel and went up the backstairs to his room for the clothes. He wasn't particularly interested in going through the lobby and having to answer questions about Nathan or about Vin, Buck, Chris, or Josiah for that matter. Wouldn't be quiet then. Ezra wasn't certain he could contain his discontent with at least three names from that list and give a full discourse on his frustration. Much better to enjoy the quiet.

Ezra returned to the bathhouse and arranged a bath. He removed his clothes. His skin was clammy and sticky and his nose wrinkled at the smell of the carbolic acid that he had washed down with in Nathan's room. He shaved and then slipped into the bath and let the hot water relieve the tightness of his muscles. He scrubbed down with soap, only to do it a second time. He noticed he lost weight and that his stomach was slightly concave. Breakfast this morning had been his first decent meal in four days. Not that he couldn't eat but there was just other things to do -- like play poker. He hadn't taken time to eat during that marathon session. The lucre of money was far more satisfying than an excellent meal. Ezra could honestly say he didn't miss those meals.

When Ezra was satisfied at his cleanliness, he relaxed back promising himself 5 minutes before he needed to get dressed and go to the telegraph office. He closed his eyes and reflected on the past few days. It had not only been meals that Ezra had missed but other matters as well, which he were quickly regretting. What was the exact status of his comrades-in-arms?

Chris Larabee had rode out of town yesterday, apparently without conversing to anyone about his intentions. You're the responsible one, Mr. Larabee, it hardly speaks well of you.

Buck Wilmington left two days ago, avoiding answering to a rape charge, which he was fully cognizant that he was innocent of. So why did he leave? Ezra's surmised that he had some type of disagreement with one Chris Larabee.

Vin Tanner was at a festival at the reservation. Hey, someone had to be having a good time though Ezra couldn't prevent the slightest twinge of envy.

Josiah Sanchez's lady friend accused Buck Wilmington of rape. Josiah was now drinking himself into a dark hole where no light was apparent. Ezra's predicament was that he needed the older man's counsel. How do you wrench him back from a personal hell to aid his friends and community?

Nathan Jackson was poisoned but wasn't apparently individually targeted. The plan had been to intentionally inflict many townspeople with a dreadful malady. Why? Why Four Corners? There was no possible way that Nathan could have handled it. Ezra was so relieved that catastrophe had been averted.

JD Dunne was uninjured and available for duty. As was Ezra Standish. Were they adequate to the task? What else could happen that hadn't already?

The problems of the past week had been numerous: the bank robbery, the trail crews, the Delano Mine Cave-in, the rape charge, and the poisoning. What did it all mean? Could it really just be a very bad week? The only problem was that Ezra had a lot more ominous feeling about this all. Almost a paranoia. He felt like there was a bulls-eye on his chest and the shooter was sighting the target. The problem with all this was Ezra hated the unexplained. On their face, except for the rape charge and poisoning, the other events weren't out of the ordinary, so was he afraid of his own shadow for no reason? Ezra chuckled self-deprecatorily, what evidence was there that Ezra had any reason to think he was a target? Rather conceited, don't you think?

Ezra sighed deeply, although he hated to do it, Ezra forced himself out of the bathtub. He had to wire Dr. Francis. As he dressed, Ezra cataloged Nathan's status. He had forced 10 liters of fluid into Nathan. He was in no pain, the vomiting and diarrhea had ended six hours ago, he was alert and lucid. Good signs. Ezra tried to tamp down his hope. Wait to talk to the doctor. Just wait.

Ezra entered the telegraph office. "Mornin', Mr. Standish," Wyatt, the operator and stagecoach manager greeted him. "Little early yet."

"Yes but could you please let Denver know we are standing by."

"Will do."

As Wyatt tapped out the message, Ezra prepared the first message on Nathan's status.

"Mr. Standish, can I ask you something?" Wyatt looked up from the telegraph at the gambler. The man hardly looked threatening.

"Certainly," the southerner drawled.

"What did you say to Old Pete yesterday?"

"Whom?" Of all the questions to be asked, Ezra didn't even know what this one was about.

"Stagecoach driver. It was all I could do to get him to leave yesterday. Said you needed to supervise his driving. What did you say to him?"

Understanding dawned and the gambler chuckled quietly. "Told him if he didn't ride through town at a sedate pace that I would personally ensure he understood the pace I required."

"How were you going to do that?" Wyatt asked, puzzled.

"Why I was going to ride the stage through town at the appropriate pace while Pete ran along side tied to the stage," was Ezra's elaborately casual response.

"So, you want the horses to be walked. That wouldn't be so hard. I mean Old Pete, he was really scared," Wyatt seemed oblivious to the full import of what Ezra's threat.

"Then, I was going to run the stage through town at the pace Pete drives while Pete ran along side," Ezra dead-panned.

Wyatt jerked his head up to look at the gambler and saw that he was serious. Wyatt slowly nodded his head, "yup," he drawled, "guess don't need to worry about the stage runnin' folk over no more." Both men smiled broadly.

Wyatt was pulled away by the clacking of the telegraph. "Denver's on-line."

Four Corners: Patient status ::Stop:: Alert and lucid ::Stop:: No pain, vomiting, diarrhea ::Stop::

Denver: Can the patient urinate ::Stop::

Four Corners: Yes, in copious amounts ::Stop::

Denver: Any other victims ::Stop::

Four Corners: Negative ::Stop::

Denver: Recommendation, continue to push fluids ::Stop:: Clear fluids today ::Stop:: May start solid food tomorrow ::Stop:: Rest till stronger ::Stop::

Four Corners: Thank you for your assistance ::Stop::

Denver: It is gratifying to hear of patient's recovery ::Stop:: Do not hesitate to wire if further questions ::Stop:: regards, Dr. Francis ::Stop::

"That mean Nathan going to be all right?" Wyatt asked.

Relief flooded Ezra, "indeed, it appears so." Ezra let himself believe it, truly believe it.

Ezra flipped some coins onto the counter. "Thank you, Wyatt."

As Wyatt noticed the amount left, he called out, "yes sir, anytime sir."

Ezra returned to the boardwalk. There were more people about now. Ah, so much for quiet. He began a leisurely circuit of the town. He kept his ears open, hoping to hear any gossip of concern. He looked assessingly at patrons on the street. Nothing untoward was apparent.

Almost done with his circuit, Ezra paused in front of The Clarion's office. He slowly surveyed the street. Ezra kept expecting to see some kind of problem, some event, some happening that would confirm that all was not all right in Four Corners. Unfortunately, it was not readily apparent. So what was . . .

Ezra felt a tugging on his pant's leg, at about the level of his knee.

Ezra spotted Billy in his peripheral vision, "Yes, Mr. Travis."

"Hi Ezra," was the eager reply.

Ezra smiled graciously and looked down at the boy. "And what can I do for you?"

"Ma said you were taken care of Nathan. Is he better?"

"Yes, yes, he is. Much better," Ezra reported thankfully.

Billy nodded his head, more like an adult than a six-year old. He apparently had some request but it didn't appear to be forthcoming so Ezra pressed the issue. "Was there something else?"

"Yes, please." Billy eagerly responded. Ezra chuckled, he hadn't lost his insight of others. "In the morning, Chris or Vin walk me to Potter's. But they're gone," Billy started to explain.

"And why do you go to Potter's in the morning with them?"

"They walk me to work," Billy stated matter-of-factly.

"Work," Ezra half-choked on the word.

"Yeah, I sweep and help for a penny a day." Billy looked up and down the street, apparently satisfied his mother wasn't about, he yanked on Ezra's leg to bring him closer, "though gotta tell you, I mostly take it in trade," Billy whispered conspiratorially.

"I see now. Mmm, peppermint sticks." Ezra restrained himself from laughing at the young boy's antics.

Billy carefully surveyed the street again, "Licorice," he whispered.

"Well, our secret and I certainly can escort you to work."

Ezra turned and started towards Potter's. Billy fell into step beside him. Ezra felt a small hand worm its way into his. Ezra smiled and they walked hand-in-hand the rest of the way.

"Good morning, Mrs. Potter."

"Good morning, Mr. Standish and Billy," Gloria Potter smiled at her two visitors.

"Billy, your mother was in and you are going to spend the day with me."

"That's fine," he piped up, already starting to swing a broom.

"Mr. Standish, how is Nathan?" Gloria Potter inquired, obviously concerned.

"He is recovering and will probably be up in a few days," Ezra was pleased to report.

Gloria Potter beamed at the excellent news. "Our prayers are answered."

"Indeed." Ezra smiled at the shop woman's reaction. "Mrs. Potter, if you could communicate this news about town, I would be indebted."

"It will be my pleasure."

"Good day." Ezra turned to exit the store, satisfied that word of Nathan's recovery would be adequately communicated and that Billy was in good hands, "bye, Billy."

"Bye, Ezra."

Ezra stepped again onto the boardwalk. He was surprised when he spotted Hammersmith approaching him. Thought he would have moved on when the action died.

"Mr. Standish." Hammersmith looked Ezra over speculatively.

"Good morning, Mr. Hammersmith," Ezra was looking the man over as well. Hammersmith played like a professional. Sought games like a professional. But yet here he was unshaven in cowboy dress. That was what always bothered Ezra about Hammersmith. He always expected to see him in a tailored jacket, a fine linen shirt, tie, brocade vest, and gabardine trousers. And yet he was a dusty cowboy.

"Ready to resume our game? I'm sure I can convince the banker and several others to join us," Hammersmith commented with suave assurance.

"No."

Hammersmith looked at Ezra incredulously, "No?"

"I have duties and responsibilities that I must tend to. I'm afraid I won't be available for the foreseeable future."

Hammersmith bit the inside of his lip to prevent himself from gasping for air like a beached fish.

"If you'll excuse me."

"Certainly," Hammersmith managed to respond.

Ezra tipped his hat with two fingers and Hammersmith unconsciously found himself returning the salutation.

Hell. He had been so sure. He had Standish pegged. The game. Always the game. That's what was important in life. Not duties, and certainly not responsibilities.

Yet there he was, returning to the healer's clinic. Standish was not behaving as expected. How could he have miscalculated so grievously? And just what could he do about it?

Yes, Hammersmith had his responsibilities to his boss. Most assuredly Hammersmith would complete them. But Standish would be his. Hammersmith would best him. There was no doubt. Absolutely no doubt.

Hammersmith wondered about the boy he had seen with Standish. Hammersmith recognized him as the editor's son. The lovely widow who had brought the saloon to a complete quiet when she entered.

He could exploit that. Shame to draw the lovely woman into the game. My dear, you really should keep better company.

Hammersmith savored the possibility. Indeed, Standish would be his and the lovely blonde would be the key.

Part 42

Thompson had found Striker's track about an hour after he'd left Four Corners the day before. He'd followed it easily and steadily south to the small town of Telem Flats. It had taken him an hour to determine that Chris Larabee had been there, but was now gone. Damn! He'd smiled to himself, though, when he left the small town. This'd be simple, he thought. It wasn't easy to forget a glowering man in black stalking from saloon to saloon looking like he'd kill the next man that looked at him. People seemed glad to tell him; probably hoped he'd shoot Larabee in the back or something. 'You have no idea,' Thompson had thought as he'd mounted up and ridden on. By the time he hit the second town, the pattern was clear to him. Larabee had no idea where Wilmington was; he was running on instinct. Searching all the small border towns it looked like, trying to spot the man. 'Well, damn!' Thompson thought, 'you're going to have to do a hell of a lot of looking to catch up with him.'

Thompson stopped trying to follow Striker's track and struck back to the road. But by the time he'd reached the third town it was full dark and he'd figured he wouldn't get much farther without resting his horse. Larabee probably hadn't got much farther himself, he thought, not much worried about getting outfaced by a scowling gunslinger in black. After verifying that neither Striker or Larabee were actually in town, Thompson treated himself to a big steak and a couple of glasses of beer before retiring for the night.

He was up before dawn and on the road again, figuring if he was lucky he could catch Striker in the next town about four miles up the road. It was just after sun-up when he rode into town, a solitary figure on a dun colored horse, his hat pulled low against the wind. The stable owner was just pulling open the big barn doors when he rode up. He'd just dismounted and was leading his horse to the nearby water trough when Chris Larabee walked by him. Thompson was startled for a moment. He'd been prepared for most anything, he thought, but not for Larabee to walk right by him at quarter after six in the morning. He recovered quickly, though. 'Hell!' he thought, 'I certainly guessed right on that. One town after another right down the border.' And he allowed himself a slight smile at how easy it had been.

He watched Larabee out of the corner of his eye as he pulled his horse out of a stall and started saddling up. Figuring Striker would be along shortly, Thompson tied his own horse to a nearby rail, loosened the cinch and sauntered back behind the livery stable to wait.

He'd just finished rolling a cigarette when he heard it, the soft, almost imperceptible sound of Striker's footstep. He grinned, inside, where no one could see. "Morning, Striker," he said in a cool voice.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

And that was Striker too. No, how did you find me? No, everything all right in town? Just, 'what the hell are you doing here.' Thompson slipped into the same brusque mode. "Change in plans," he said, striking a match and lighting his cigarette.

Striker's flat eyes narrowed. He didn't say anything though, just waited for Thompson to continue. "Sullivan shot Wilmington. That part went right according to plan as far as I can tell." Thompson took a long draw on his cigarette and let the smoke out slowly. He knew just how far he could play Striker without getting in trouble. Sometimes it paid just to let the man lie, but other times, like now, he just couldn't resist.

"Did Tanner catch up to him? We knew that might be a possibility. It was your job to take care of things."

A frown flickered across Thompson's face. 'Take care of things,' he thought. 'You're damn lucky to have me is what.'

"Problem was," Thompson said with a drawl. "Wilmington damn near bled to death."

"That shouldn't have happened," Striker snapped. "Didn't Sullivan shoot him in the leg like we discussed?"

Thompson shrugged. It wasn't his job to defend Sullivan. Let the arrow-shooting son-of-a-bitch do it himself. "Wilmington pulled it out."

"Hmmm," said Striker, thinking that they should have anticipated that. They'd counted on his hot-headedness after all. But then, that was why they had so many contingency plans. "Tell me more," he demanded.

Thompson shrugged again, covering his irritation at being reduced to a messenger boy for Striker. "Tanner caught up with him. They looked like they were heading back to town. I shot Tanner and Sullivan and I took them. Sullivan's taking them in."

Striker looked at Thompson so long that Thompson finally had to give in and turn away. He tried to make it casual, as if he chose to turn away, but he figured Striker knew the truth. Striker always knew everything.

"We may as well take Larabee," Thompson finally offered. "There's no sense waiting."

Striker turned away and looked across the flat empty space beyond the edge of town. Thompson tried not to fidget and was annoyed with himself that he even had to make the effort. Finally, Striker looked back, his eyes narrow and mean-looking in a way they hadn't been a moment before. "You're right," he said. "There's no sense waiting at all."

Part 43

At first Vin couldn't figure out what had changed. It wasn't the presence of anything so much as its absence: like the sudden emptiness when cannon stopped firing all at once in a battle and you nearly fell over without all that noise to hold you up, the thundering having become something you'd been leaning against so long you'd gotten used to it. And what was missing now, Vin slowly realized, was motion. He was sitting still.

Thank God, he thought several times, thank God. He felt his mind pulling back all the scattered bits of himself, drawing together again into a single thinking person, and he tried to swallow but couldn't because his mouth was too dry. He realized his eyes were opened and looking at a mountain meadow rimmed with steep rocky ledges with pinion pines along the crests. The sky behind the trees was pale but full morning, and a cold breeze ruffled through the meadow swirling the long grass and then dashing out of sight as he watched, unmoving.

Unmoving. He closed his eyes and sighed. Not moving, sitting perfectly still, he could handle it. It burned and throbbed like hell, but he could handle it. Vin opened his eyes again and turned his head very slowly and carefully just far enough to see that Buck was to his left, leaning against the same tree Vin was apparently against, his hat off and his hair rumpled. His normally ruddy face was almost porcelain-pale, his mustache like coal against it. Vin caught his breath suddenly, afraid that Buck had died, reached out a hand to touch him --

Mistake. Big mistake. He heard himself gasp as the damn thing exploded again, though he couldn't for the life of him figure out why. He felt his face hit the ground, tried to keep his own body from jerking uncontrollably against the pain so it would calm down and get better instead of worse, and then felt strong, steady hands on his good shoulder and on his back, helping him get it under control again. He lay there several long moments, his eyes closed, panting. Slowly everything settled down, and finally he opened his eyes to peer sideways through a little forest of pale grass to a concerned and nearly upside-down face that was looking at his own. It struck Vin as funny somehow, that mustache upside-down with several of the long black hairs hanging longway-round, and he chuckled very, very softly and then grimaced at the way that felt in his throat.

"You think if I help you, you can sit up now?" Buck's voice was gentle but wary.

Vin nodded wordlessly, and then felt Buck's hands on his left shoulder, slowly lifting him from the grass where he'd lain. It hurt, but Buck was slow enough and careful enough that it didn't blow up again, and then he felt the rough bark of a tree trunk behind his back and neck and sighed in relief that it was over and he could be still again. He swallowed, sore throat or not, and tried to lick his lips.

"Here," said Buck, "he left us a canteen. But DON'T--" he broke off to put his hands firmly on Vin's as the tracker thought of reaching for it, "try to move your hands, Vin."

Vin looked at Buck, then down at where Buck's hands were on his. They were tied. Buck's hands were tied together, and so were his. He blinked, feeling dully surprised, as he began to remember. How long had it been? Buck's voice interrupted his confused thoughts.

"When you try to move your good arm, Vin," he was explaining carefully, "it moves your bad one, too. You gotta' not move your arms at all if you can." Vin looked over at Buck, turning his words over and fitting them together until they made sense.

"Hell," he said at last, and closed his eyes with a heavy sigh of resignation. Buck let go of his hands, and then he was holding an opened canteen to the tracker's mouth.

"Go slow so we don't spill it." His own voice was hoarse. "And don't move your hands, OK, Buddy? Just keep real still."

The water ran down inside Vin, cold and heavy as a rainstorm, and took the dry stickeriness out of his mouth and throat. "Where are we?" he rasped out as Buck recapped the canteen.

Buck shrugged, and Vin noticed dark smudges of fatigue beneath eyes that were unusually dull. "Keep goin' farther into the mountains, it looks like," he said softly. He looked around the clearing and then at Vin. "We're stopped at a stream right now, an' he's grazin' the horses."

"Where?"

"Over there." Buck nodded towards an area bounded by several tall pines that had grown up between the stream and the nearby ridges. Vin struggled a bit to see the place Buck had indicated more clearly, but gave up when he realized he couldn't do it unless he was willing to aggravate that slug in his shoulder again. Damn, he wished there was some way to get it out!

"Don't suppose there's any way you could dig this thing outta' me." Vin's voice was so weak that at first Buck wasn't sure he'd heard him. Then he realized what the tracker had said and shook his head.

"I don't . . . think there's any way I can do that, Vin." He looked at the younger man, who was slowly slumping farther over on the tree he was laying against.

"Just look an' see," said Vin softly, "Maybe it lodged close to the skin somewhere."

Buck sighed thoughtfully. Maybe so. But he didn't think . . . he looked at Vin's flushed face, the sheen of sweat on it, and caved in. He could at least look, he thought. Carefully moving around to Vin's other side, Buck lowered the leather suspender and then pulled back the edge of the tracker's shirt with his two bound hands. The bandanna he'd placed there earlier had shifted and fallen while the wound was still bleeding, leaving it unprotected. Buck winced when he saw how swollen the area was, and how red. The wound itself, a large hole an inch or so below the collarbone, was seeping a clear fluid but not bleeding now. In fact, it looked like after the first few moments it hadn't bled much at all. Vin's voice startled him.

"Any chance a' gettin' it out?"

Buck bit his lips looking at his friend's chest and shoulder, then very gently bent him forward to look at his back. He was searching for the tell-tale darkness of a slug just beneath the skin, and found himself uncertain of whether or not finding it would be a good thing. He didn't have any--"

"Well, what's this?"

Sullivan's voice surprised Buck so thoroughly that it was all he could do not to jerk Vin in a way that would have caused pure agony. Instead, he lowered the man back against the tree behind him, and pulled the shirt closed. He had to be careful, he thought. Very careful. He didn't look at Sullivan or at Vin either one, but kept his eyes on the ground as he answered.

"Just seein' if it needed more bandagin' on it," he said.

Sullivan squatted on his heels ten feet away from the two men and eyed Buck steadily, with a calculating gleam that Vin noticed with a sharp tremor. Who the hell was this guy?

"And does it?" asked Sullivan, his voice silky.

"No." Buck's voice was flat and emotionless. "He's fine."

Sullivan's eyes slid from Buck to Vin, and his gaze sharpened. "That right, Tanner?" He shifted his weight on the balls of his feet. "You fine?"

Vin was silent, his eyes never leaving their captor. The moment had the uneasiness in it of facing off with a coiled rattlesnake. The dark man in buckskins didn't care about the answer anyway; he wanted something else. Vin just didn't know what. He glanced at Buck and saw in the gunman's tense posture that he did know -- or had a damned good idea. He was mad and holding it in as tight as he knew how.

"You know, you cost me fifty bucks." The man in buckskin broke off a long piece of grass and pointed it at Vin as he spoke, then set it between his teeth. "Fifty. I oughta' take it out a' your hide."

Neither of the wounded men said a word or seemed the least bit intimidated; if anything, Tanner suddenly looked slightly disdainful, and Wilmington kept his eyes on the ground as if Sullivan wasn't even there. Sullivan's face darkened. "We're gonna' stay here a coupla' hours," he said very low, "so I'll just make sure you ain't workin' one another's bindin's loose an' then I'll let you boys visit if that's what you're set on." He stood to lean down over Buck and grab the ropes around his hands, between the man's wrists, to tug at them experimentally. "Nope, still tight as a drum," he said cheerfully. He leaned over Vin, his eyes on Buck. One hand reached down to grab the ropes on the tracker's hands in much the same way, but then he jerked upward suddenly and with force, and shook the ropes as if to test their knots. The hoarse cry that burst from Vin's throat was matched by a roar from Buck as the tall man threw himself at Sullivan.

Sullivan was ready for him this time, though. It was almost too easy to shove the man off-balance onto his injured leg, but there was still plenty of satisfaction in the way his eyes lit up with fire inside as he tried to conceal the pain of his landing. Hate me, thought Sullivan. You're starting to get it now, Wilmington. He looked at Vin, half-off the ground with his hands in Sullivan's grip, his breath coming in strangled gasps as he tried to get his weight under him to take the pull off his wounded shoulder. Sullivan watched him struggle a moment, then opened his hand and let go. Vin fell heavily to the ground, groaning, and rolled to his side with sweat running into his eyes and matting his hair to the sides of his face. Buck looked at him, then looked up at Sullivan standing above them.

"His ropes are still tight enough, too," he said. He held Buck's smoldering gaze for a long and satisfying moment before he broke it himself and turned to head down to the stream. Maybe it wouldn't be such a loss, he thought, that he couldn't kill them and had to deliver them pretty much as they were now. Breaking Wilmington's reserve was proving an interesting challenge after all.

Part 44

It took a long time after Sullivan left them for Vin's breathing to stop running in and out of his shuddering chest in ragged gasps. Buck sat with his tied hands on the calf of the other man's leg, afraid to touch his arm or shoulder, as Vin lay on his left side half-curled, his face clenched every bit as tightly as the rest of him was. Buck just sat there, maintaining the light touch to let the other man know he wasn't alone, and watched for Sullivan so he wouldn't be taken by surprise again. Finally he felt Vin's leg begin to relax under his hands, and a quick glance showed him that the tracker's features had eased and that the short, quick breaths he was taking were becoming smoother. After a few more minutes had passed, Buck scooted backwards so he was closer to Vin's head and looked down at his profile against the ground.

"How about a little water?" he asked gently.

Vin nodded slightly, then turned his head just enough to look up at Buck with clouded eyes set into deep hollows. The gunman leaned over him and then looked carefully all around for Sullivan once more before he spoke again.

"Let's get you sittin' up like we did before, ok?"

Vin nodded again, and pressed his lips together as Buck lifted him slowly, the tracker's torso still rigid as he fought the pain, and settled him against the rough red bark of the tree they were both starting to think of with some affection as at least something they could put their backs against safely. Buck uncapped the canteen and waited for Vin to relax a little more, then slowly and carefully gave him some of the water. He took a drink himself, wishing it was a whole barrel or that he could go to the stream and throw himself down on his belly and--

"Who the hell is that guy?" Vin's voice was still tight, and he coughed very softly. But he bit his lips and looked intensely at Buck for an answer, and the gunman shook his head slowly.

"Ain't got the slightest idea," he said. "I thought maybe you knew 'im."

"Nope." Vin sighed and settled lower as his muscles unclenched a little more. "First time I saw 'im was when they took us, back when you were out."

Buck thought a moment. "They?" He looked at Vin, whose eyes met his.

"There was two of 'em," he said. "Other fella' had red hair an' a red beard, cut close."

Buck looked thoughtful and then ran a hand through his hair with a puzzled expression. "Where would he have gotten off to?" He looked towards the stream and his eyes got a far-away look to them, and then he looked again at Vin. "Did you say they were _bounty hunters_?"

"That's what I thought," said Vin. He closed his eyes a moment and shivered, then looked again at Buck with a slightly paler face. "But I can't figure it out. The pieces don't add up."

"You were tellin' me . . ." Buck's voice trailed off as he tried to lay his hands on the memory. ". . . .that you didn't think it was . . .Indians."

"It wasn't." Vin sounded so positive that Buck just waited for him to go on. "The things I found where he attacked you--"

"HE?!"

"Yeah, just one man, Buck. He was layin' there for ya' a while, too." Buck looked down at his tied hands thoughtfully, listening. "He left stuff scattered there, stuff those people don't just leave behind. I figure to make you an' anyone else who found that place think it was Indians." He paused a long time, and Buck looked at him suddenly but saw he was just getting his breath back from having talked so long. Vin swallowed, and went on. "But it's the wrong kind. Crow. Not from around here." He opened eyes that were suddenly very tired and looked at Buck quietly. The tall man knit his brows.

"So they -- _he_ figured to make me think I'd been attacked by braves from the reservation so I'd go runnin' over there mad an' shoot the place up." Buck looked at Vin and the tracker nodded. Buck grinned slightly, a little lopsided. "Came damn close to doin' just that," he admitted. Vin smiled and put his head back against the trunk with a deep shuddering sigh.

"Thank God you didn't," he breathed.

"Well, you gotta' admit after the day I'd had--" Buck broke off, suddenly remembering in a rush of lead weight that thumped down in the middle of his gut just what sort of day he _had_ had. How in one moment everything he'd wanted to believe in had come crashing down on his head. He closed his eyes and then heard Vin's voice from beside him, soft and hoarse.

"Why _did_ you leave, Buck?"

"Huh?" Buck opened his eyes and blinked at Vin. What kind of dumb ass question was--

"It made it look like you knew what she was gonna' say, you runnin' like that."

Buck squeezed his eyes shut suddenly and felt a whole new kind of pain run down his insides like lightning. He wasn't sure for a moment he could even speak. Finally he looked away from Vin and his voice came out tight and hoarse.

"Is that what you thought?" he said softly. "Is that what Chris thought?"

"No." Vin's voice was steady. "I don't know any man I could be more certain of it about. You don't have it in you to do that to a woman."

Buck looked quickly at Vin, feeling a rush of something he didn't have a name for. Then he thought of Chris, of Josiah, and his face hardened. Vin saw it.

"Why'd you leave?" he asked again.

Buck was silent a long time. When he spoke, his voice was distant. "Son of a . . . whore," he said, so softly that Vin could barely hear him. The last word was little more than a breath of air. Vin remembered, when he heard it, remembered then the way Josiah had roared that: "Admit it, you son of a whore!" He studied Buck's face and waited for the rest. Buck turned his wrists up and down as if he thought he might loosen his bonds, his gaze on the ropes but his eyes unfocused. "I was a skinny kid," he said at last. He chuckled lightly, without any joy to it, only shame. He looked at Vin and his eyes filled with pain. "It wasn't right," he said.

Vin nodded. "It wasn't," he agreed.

Buck closed his eyes and swallowed hard and waited while dizziness pulled at him like a little whirlwind, and then went away. He sighed. "I don't get it," he said. "It just don't add up. Is this one a' the guys you saw? Is one of 'em the one that shot me?"

"Yeah, this guy was there when they got us. I don't know if he's the one that ambushed you, but I'd lay money on it he is. That buckskin stuff he's wearin', it's cut like they do 'em up north."

"Like Crow." Buck looked at Vin, and the tracker nodded. "OK, so what about the other man? And what's this all got to do with bounty huntin'?"

"Don't know." Vin's forehead drew together. "Somebody was trailin' me when I left town; I found his sign just before I got to the river an' saw what'd happened to you. I made a false trail into the sand flats on the south side a' the river, so he _should_ be--"

"Still tryin' to figure out where the hell you went," Buck finished. Vin looked at his friend steadily, there being nothing to say. "So who's the man with the red beard?"

"A damn good shot," growled Vin.

Buck's eyes softened. "A lotta' good that's gonna' do 'im when WE catch up to the bastard."

Vin laughed, a weak and pained and tired laugh, but it made Buck smile and that was enough. He lifted his bound hands and laid back against the tree, and mock-threatened "I'm gonna' kick the SHIT outta' him." He looked at Vin and then added, "An' I'll hold him so you can get in some licks, too, cripple that you are."

"Gee thanks, Buck." Vin lay his head back against the trunk of the tree and closed his eyes.

Buck settled down and tried to pretend that his leg didn't feel like it had a hot anvil sitting on it. "Any time," he said, "I help old ladies, too."

Part 45

Nathan nursed the glass of water that Ezra had left for him. Poisoned. He had been poisoned. What did Ezra say? He didn't think they'd make the same play twice. Who is they? He had reassured JD that the poisoning wasn't his fault. Purely chance. And only him. Why would 'they' want to poison anybody? Why hurt so many people? What kind of man plans to hurt so many? Must be an awful powerful reason. In Four Corners, Nathan thought skeptically. Sure, Four Corners was gaining influence in the region with the new train service, exchange, telegraph, stage, hotel, restaurants, and newspaper. But Nathan couldn't imagine why anyone would target this town. Nathan shook his head; he couldn't make sense of it.

Nathan needed to drink lots of fluid, he knew that, but he shuddered at the effort, he felt like he was going to float away. He forced himself to finish the cup. Nathan had to admit, all things considered, he was feeling pretty good. He sat up more in the bed and moved his arms and legs, and though he felt weak, he was otherwise okay. How long had it been? Flashes of nightmares struck Nathan. He had been so sick. The pain. The vomiting and diarrhea. He couldn't help himself. And he was alive today. Nathan sometimes you are just damn lucky. If Mary hadn't figured out about the poisoning, Nathan would be facing his last day. Nathan had faced last days before. On the run. In the war. The lynching. Now, the poisoning. Four lives, Nathan. Nathan was using up his lives fast lately. Cat has nine lives. Nathan somehow figured he didn't have that many. How many? Maybe seven. Nathan smiled. He liked the number seven a lot. He owed his life to them. And more. Nathan looked around his room. Somebody had gone to a lot of effort to clean up. Nathan was sure of it. Yeah, he liked the number seven a lot.

Mary and JD came into his room. Nathan looked assessingly at Mary Travis. She looked tired. Real tired. Guess, that was my fault. Mary had been a friend before he met any of the seven. He knew she had been there for him -- again. Yeah, seven -- he liked that number.

"Hi, Nathan," Mary greeted Nathan softly.

Nathan reached out his hand and Mary took it, "thank you, Mary, thank you for all you did."

Mary was softly shaking her head, "I did so very little."

"Ezra said it was you and the doctor in Denver that figured out I was poisoned, I'm sure it made all the difference in my recovery," Nathan squeezed Mary's hand reassuringly.

"It was the very least I could do." Mary's eyes darkened and she looked away from Nathan. Nathan half-thought he had another JD thing on his hands -- false guilt. Okay Mary, I'd love to know why you feel guilty. Nathan pressed the issue.

"What is it, Mary?"

"Nathan, I wrote an editorial this week calling for a doctor for Four Corners," hurt flashed Nathan's eyes, Mary hurriedly explained, "I had the best intentions. You had been so busy trying to keep up with your duties for the Judge and providing healing services. Well, I just thought."

Nathan nodded his head slowly, understanding the issues that brought this about. "I understand. Not like I've been available the last few days. And a real doctor could do things I can't."

Mary protested, "no, Nathan. There are so many things that you do and the community is so grateful. I let myself get influenced by talk and didn't realize the full implications of what I wrote. I'm sorry, Nathan. This community will never forget the debt they owe you. I won't let them."

Nathan nodded solemnly, "thank you, Mary." Nathan smiled and squeezed her hand again. "I surely appreciate that." In that quiet moment, the air was cleared between them.

Nathan straightened up in bed, "so, let's move on to more pleasant topics. Where is everybody? What have I missed?" Nathan asked eagerly. Both Mary and JD stiffened at Nathan's questions. Now what?

"What do you know?" JD asked.

"About what?" Nathan retorted sharply. "I know nothing. I had returned from the Andrews' farm and you brought me dinner. I went to bed and as you know, got very sick. Has anybody heard from the Andrews?"

Mary responded, "Seth Andrews has been to town and said both mother and baby are doing fine."

Nathan smiled with relief, "that's good news."

"Nathan," JD interrupted, his face pale, "that was 3 days ago that I brought you dinner."

"WHAT?" Nathan was shocked that he couldn't account for so many days. He had been sick for several days. Ezra had told him that. But to have no awareness of anything else left Nathan feeling lost.

"There's been so much going on," Mary reported. She was making an attempt to be calm but was failing at the effort.

"That's putting it mildly," JD commented under his breath.

Mary reached into her pocket. "I have the list of events from the newspaper that Ezra asked me to make." Nathan considered reaching for it. It was like Mary -- get the facts, write them down. It was what she did for a living. Ask the questions -- then, answer them. But Nathan had more pressing issues.

"Wait, wait a minute. First, just tell me where everybody is?"

"Buck, Vin, and Chris are gone. Josiah is drinking . . . a lot," JD reported somberly.

Nathan processed what JD said. "Let's start with Josiah." Nathan had known Josiah the longest. He was generally the easiest for Nathan to talk to and figure out. "Is he in town? I take it this has something to do with Miss Belle?"

"How did you know it involved Miss Belle?" Mary asked puzzled.

"Because with Josiah, it's always about some woman when he drinks like this," Nathan responded; he'd seen it enough times. Miss DuBois was the latest in a series of woman for Josiah. Nathan knew that when Josiah met the right woman, that would be it for him. He'd find a peace and contentment the preacher had long thought lost to him. But he always managed to find the wrong women in the wrong places.

A rap on the door interrupted the conversation. JD opened the door and let Casey in. Casey ignored JD and hurried to Nathan's side. Nathan restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Now what was with those two? A sweet smile crossed her face, "hi Nathan, are you feeling better?"

"Much better, thank you." Nathan responded quietly. He inclined his head to catch a glimpse of her face that she was hiding from him. He frowned at the state of the girl. She was very pale with dark circles under her red rimmed eyes. "Casey, you all right?"

"Me. Me. Oh sure, I'm fine. Really," Casey lied -- Nathan knew it.

"Casey, did you take Billy to Mrs. Potter's?" Mary injected herself into the conversation. Nathan smiled to himself -- Mary, the fixer.

"No, he's with Ezra but they were headed that way," a relieved Casey responded to Mary's rescue from the awkward situation.

"Tell me." Nathan demanded firmly but quietly. Everyone in the room froze. Nathan could feel the chill. What the hell had happened? He looked at the threesome. Casey's eyes were downcast and she looked ready to cry. JD was obviously agitated but kept quiet and still. Nathan looked to Mary -- he pleaded, tell me.

"Casey was in town, four nights ago when you and Nettie were at the Andrews' farm." Mary gently explained. "Some hands from the trail crews tried to . . . well, they tried to have their way with her."

JD's stillness ended with the last statement. Agitated, he restlessly shifted his feet and started clenching and unclenching his fist.

"Really, it wasn't nothing. I got away and Buck rode me home in the morning," Casey's quivering lip belied her statement, the true impact was clearly evident -- on her_and_JD. When she started to talk about Buck, JD slammed his fist into a wall. Both Mary and Casey jumped and shied away at his display of anger. Tears fell from Casey's eyes.

There was a light rap on the door and Ezra entered. His eyes circled the room assessing the climate. They were all upset, especially Casey. Mary silently urged him to say something to break the stalemate.

Ezra smiled pleasantly, "Mrs. Travis, Billy is at Potter's."

"Thank you for walking him," Mary nodded her approval. "What did Dr. Francis have to say?"

Ezra frowned at Nathan - what the hell is going on here? Nathan subtly nodded his head - not now, we'll talk later. Ezra understood and made a show of pulling a collection of telegrams from his pocket. "He believed Nathan would recover. He recommends continuing to push fluids, clear fluids today, and he can try solid food tomorrow. And rest. So maybe we should allow you to get some?"

"Oh no, you don't." Nathan was willing to let the issue of Casey rest but that was all. "That's all I've been doin', is restin' in this bed. I want to know what's goin' on. Start with Josiah and Miz Belle," Nathan folded his arms across his chest obviously waiting for one of them to inform him.

Ezra looked at the others but they all swung their eyes expectantly at him. Ezra sighed deeply -- me again. This was really getting old. He wasn't cut out for this.

"Well. From what we have been able to ascertain from Casey and Josiah, Miss Belle accused Buck of raping her at her house the morning Josiah and JD rode out again to the Delano Mine to investigate the cave-in."

"WHAT?" Nathan exclaimed, "Buck would never."

"He didn't," Casey exclaimed. Nathan's eyes swung to Casey. "He couldn't of possibly. He was taking me home and stayed well into the morning."

"As Miss Wells has explained, Buck has an alibi," Ezra explained.

"But why wouldn't Buck just say that?" Nathan asked puzzled.

"That's my fault," Casey's voice conveyed her misery and guilt, "I was real upset and I made him promise not to tell."

"So Josiah believed Belle. So where's Buck?" Nathan asked.

"We don't know." JD joined the conversation, "he rode out two days ago."

"Wait a minute. Why? Miss Belle's charges are false. Buck wouldn't break Casey's confidence but he was never one to run," Nathan was trying to make sense of Buck's actions.

"I assume it's because he had some disagreement," Ezra suggested.

"With Josiah?" Nathan asked.

"WITH CHRIS," Ezra, JD, and Mary chorused together.

Ezra looked at the two other, "you think that too?" and both Mary and JD nodded their heads.

"Chris has been on edge these past few days. Even minor annoyances were irritating him out of proportion to their import. We could hardly carry on a civil conversation," Mary explained. Of the five people in the room, she was the only one who had spent any significant time with Chris.

"They've known each other a long time. Buck didn't just leave. He packed and left. He didn't intend to come back. Only Chris could make him do that." A look of pain flashed JD's face. Ezra could feel the young man's pain. Jesus - how had it gone so wrong.

"So where's Chris?" Nathan asked.

"I saw him ride out yesterday morning," Mary responded.

"Do you think he went after Buck?" Nathan asked Ezra.

"Since Mr. Larabee didn't have the common courtesy to let any of us know his plan -- that's pure speculation," Ezra couldn't prevent a little of his disgust at Chris's desertion creep into his voice.

"You said Vin was gone too," Nathan commented. "Is he at the reservation at the Green Corn Festival?"

Ezra smiled ruefully. Of course, Nathan would remember the name of the festival.

"Yeah, he rode out two days ago," JD responded.

"Anybody go get him?" Nathan asked.

Ezra stiffened at the question taking it as an affront to his management of the situation, "we're a little short of hands."

"What about Josiah?" Mary asked.

"He's indisposed," Ezra commented dryly.

"Don't you think he should know the truth about Belle and the charges?" Nathan asked.

Ezra turned that over. He agreed. Josiah did need to know. Ezra was missing Josiah's counsel and if there were more threats or worse to come -- they needed him.

"More importantly, we need his gun."

"You'll have to sober him up," Nathan shook his head warily.

"No offense, Ezra, but I don't think the two of us can do it_and_survive," JD skeptically pointed out.

Ezra looked over at Nathan. "I agree. We need some way to lure him out of the saloon. Then we can sober him up"

"I can do it," Casey volunteered quickly.

"Absolutely not," JD vetoed.

"JD," Casey whined.

"No, I won't hear it," JD rebutted. JD was ignoring the others in the room and his eyes only focused on Casey. "I won't let you get hurt. I won't even allow you to be put in that position."

"I'll do it," Mary volunteered.

"No, I need to." Casey averred. She turned to the others to plead her case, "none of this would've happened if I had told or hadn't made Buck promise. This is my fault."

"Casey, I'm not going to let you do it," JD flatly stated.

"JD, it's not your place," Ezra inserted himself into the discussion.

"Not_my_place," JD objected.

"JD, we don't have time for this." Ezra sharply cut off further protest from JD. He took a deep breath to calm himself. He needed to convince JD, not antagonize him.

"It's going to take all four of us. I agree with Casey. I think she has the best probability of successfully getting Josiah to leave the saloon. We'll only get one shot at this," Ezra ended his argument. He looked over at Nathan and with his eyes told him to agree.

"Nathan?" JD also asked the healer if he approved.

"I agree with Ezra," Nathan confirmed.

JD nodded his head but obviously was unhappy with the decision. He looked hard at Ezra. Ezra nodded at him -- I know, nothing can happen to Casey.

"So what's the plan?"

Four sets of eyes looked expectantly at Ezra. Ezra softly chuckled mirthlessly -- me again. He surveyed the foursome. You all are desperate. And he looked over at Casey who seemed particularly frail. Mary and her fatigue -- she'd collapse if he didn't relieve some stress from her. Nathan in bed -- the sallow skin, the sunken eyes, the hollow cheeks; the poisoning had taken a severe toll. And JD -- a lot was depending on him - -- it would have to. Ezra could not do this alone. And more than anything else that's what he wanted. To be able to do this alone. But it wasn't possible. It was going to take all of them. No choice. You better make this one good, Ezra.

So, what the hell was going to be the plan?

Part 46

It was, thought Ezra, precisely like baiting a bear -- something his mother had taught him NEVER to do. "Bait them any way you like, Son," she'd said more times than he could remember, "but never _ever_ bait a bear; they take the bait and the rest of your arm with it." She'd been thinking about possible marks who had political clout and friends in high places, but if she'd seen Josiah as he was now, he'd surely have made her list. Ezra sighed. This plan wasn't LIKE baiting a bear. It WAS it. That's what he was doing.

And he was sure he was going to regret it.

Mary slipped in the back door of the sheriff's office and paused when Ezra turned quickly to look at her. When she saw him relax, she came on across the room to where Ezra was looking out the window at the street.

"Any sign of him yet?" Her voice was barely a whisper, and Ezra smiled slightly.

"My good lady, even if our illustrious Mr. Sanchez were on the very boardwalk outside, I doubt there would be a need for you to whisper." Mary's face broke into a shy smile, and she looked down at her hands quickly and then back up, her eyes sliding to see out the glass herself. Ezra laid a manicured hand upon the woman's shoulder, very carefully so as not to exceed the bounds of propriety, and she looked up at him with a sad expression. "He'll be along shortly, I'm sure," said Ezra. "Then it will be all right."

"I hope so." Mary's voice was small this time, not whispered. Just small with fear for all the things she didn't know. She thought suddenly of when Steven -- she pulled her thoughts up, but they went on turning, showing her again the similarity: things going on under her nose that she'd not even been aware of, a man she cared for learning about it and trying to deal with it and being on the ropes from the very beginning. She sighed, and squeezed her eyes shut against the fear that pinched her heart.

A sudden satisfied "ah!" from Ezra snapped her mind back to the present, and Mary looked at the man to see him wave her back from the window. "Go," he whispered. "Get clear until you hear me call you." Mary nodded and hurried to slip out the same back door she had come in. As she did, she heard Casey's voice from the street, high and sweet and sounding far too excited.

"No, she's THIS way, Josiah!" Casey was saying. "Come over HERE."

"Casey!" JD's young voice calling from a little farther down the street.

"Just a minute, JD! Miss Belle needs to see Josiah, an' he's-- WHOOPS!"

A heavy thump from the street in front of the sheriff's office made Mary put one hand to her mouth. She heard the grunts of the young people tugging at the big man, then, and their low voices: "C'mon, Josiah." "Get up now, Josiah."

"Where i'she?" The big man's slurred voice rumbled like an oxcart, and Casey's eager one danced over it nervously.

"She said she'd wait in the jail. She said to hurry, Josiah. She's -- she wants to see you powerful bad."

More heavy thuds, this time of slow steps coming up onto the boardwalk. "Th' jail." The steps halted. Mary could almost see the big man's face turning to stare at Casey's. "Why th' jai--"

"She really needs you, Josiah." JD's voice, breaking in. No doubt he was stepping bodily between the girl and the big man who seemed so intimidating right now, friend or not.

A long silence, and Mary held her breath. Then heavy footsteps again, shuddering the building now, and the sound of the front door opening, and other steps and Ezra's light voice. Casey flashed suddenly into sight as she ran around the building into the alley to take Mary's hand into her own. The women looked at each other wordlessly at the sudden roar from inside.

"BELLE!! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH BELLE?!?!?"

"Mr. Sanchez, if you would be so good--"

The wall shuddered again, this time as Ezra was slammed into it bodily. JD's voice, quavering, rose over the sound. "Now, Josiah, don't you make me--"

>>SLAM<<

Mary and Casey stared into each other's eyes and nodded very slightly, then let go of each other's hands and ran quickly out of the alley and to the front door of the jail just as Josiah stepped into the opening. He drew up sharply as he saw the two women, and a look of confusion ran over his features.

"Casey?" His voice was soft, puzzled, had dropped nearly to a whisper.

The girl shook, but she stepped closer to him. "Did . . . did you find 'er, Josiah? She was really lookin' for you."

"No." The big preacher shook his head. "I looked but . . . Where'd you say she was, Casey?"

"In there." Casey pointed, and Mary saw the girl's finger trembled so that it could hardly point straight. But it pointed back into the office, behind Josiah. He pulled himself up straighter, a look of total bewilderment passing over his face, and put one hand on his head.

"Funny," he said to himself. "I di'n't see --" He turned around to disappear inside again, shuffling into the dim interior. The women followed cautiously, and then Casey stepped across the threshold into the room as Josiah walked all the way to the jail cells and turned around to look at Casey again, and asked plaintively, "WHERE'd you say she is?"

"In there." Casey pointed into a cell with one hand, the other behind her back clenched in a tight little fist. Ezra and JD, sprawled in a tangled heap on the floor near the back door watched in silence, not daring to breathe.

Josiah turned his big head around and looked into the empty cell. Then he looked back at Casey, clearly confused.

"Don't you _see_ 'er?" Casey's voice was shaking now. Josiah shook his head as though to clear it, and put his hands to his face. Then he looked at Casey again.

"I don't," he whispered, "I don't see 'er, Casey. Are you _sure_ . . ."

"Miss Belle," said Casey, her chin raising bravely and her eyes on the cot in the jail cell, "Miss Belle, here's Josiah like I said. You two can talk an' I'll be back later." She looked at Josiah. "Well," she said encouragingly, "go on in an' talk to 'er."

Josiah turned full around to look at the empty cell. Then he took a step towards it. Then another. It brought him to the open doorway, and he hesitated only a moment before stepping across it and into the cell. Ezra and JD were on their feet so quickly that Casey was shocked and startled even though she'd known what they would do. They slammed the jail cell door with a bang that made Casey's ears ring, and locked it even as Josiah whirled to grab the bars in his hands and began to yell, "Lemme' outta' here, Ezra! EZRA! Open this door!

"Get the first bucket," said Ezra in a hurried voice, to JD.

JD blinked, nodded, and grabbed the first of several full buckets of water that were lined up against one wall out of the way. He handed it to Ezra, who shook his head in almost a shrug. "I apologize in advance, Mr. Sanchez, but . . ." And he heaved the water from the bucket into a long arc that crashed against Josiah's face and chest so hard that the big man staggered back from the door, shaking himself. Ezra threw down the empty bucket and it clattered as it rolled across the floor to bump against the wall.

"The next one, Mr. Dunne. Please."

Josiah had recovered enough that he was standing at the door again, muttering imprecations that had significantly less heat to them than they had before. Ezra took the second bucket of water from JD and drenched his friend again.

Josiah stood in the jail cell and stared at Ezra, who still held the empty bucket in one hand. The floor was running with water that sloshed against the wall and then rolled out under the bars . The big man put one shaking hand to the side of his head, and blinked slowly. He looked at JD, then at Mary and Casey , and then he sat down upon the soaking cot in his dripping clothes, water running in streams down his face, down his arms, pooling on the floor beneath his boots. And then he put his head in his hands and bowed it.

Mary swallowed after a long moment. "I'll get the coffee," she said softly. She left the room with Casey at her heels. Ezra and JD remained where they stood. When the women returned with a large tray, Ezra pulled the door opened to admit them, then took the tray from Mary as JD came over to hug Casey reassuringly.

"Drink this." Ezra held out a tin cup of steaming coffee to the man sitting on the edge of the cot. Josiah looked up silently, reached out one hand, accepted the coffee through the bars, and began to drink it.

Josiah drank five cups of coffee in the space of an hour, and Ezra marveled at the man's capacity -- in more ways than one. Then Josiah looked up once more at the gambler, his eyes bloodshot but no longer distant or confused, and he spoke in a low, unutterably weary voice. "What," he said, "do you want from me?"

Ezra frowned, and slid a chair nearer to the bars. He sat down. "I'm afraid there are some rather serious things going on, Josiah. We need your help to find out what's happened, possibly to save the lives of some of our companions."

"I don't know anything," moaned Josiah tiredly. He put his face in his hands again.

"I know." Ezra sighed. This was perhaps the hardest thing he thought he'd ever done. He knew how it felt to find out you'd been used and betrayed by a woman who you'd thought loved you. "Josiah, I am afraid I have some bad news about Miss Belle."

Josiah's head snapped up, and fear shot through his eyes.

"I'm afraid she lied to you, my friend. And I fear it was--"

"Oh . . . No." Josiah's voice was not angry, not loud. It was rough, torn at the edges, ripping apart in the space of a single syllable. Ezra paused, giving the man the space he needed for the room to stop spinning. Then he went on.

"I fear it was to further some sort of plot," continued Ezra. "It seems there is irrefutable proof that Buck was not at her house at the time she claimed he assaulted her."

Josiah's brows knit. He was listening, at least, thought Ezra, and that was good. He took a deep breath and went on, glancing once at Casey and seeing her nod back to him.

"Buck was with Casey. Rescuing her from two trailhands who tried to -- well. And then he took her to her aunt's ranch and stayed there with her until she was no longer terrorized." Ezra stopped speaking, and the room was silent as Josiah stared at nothing, his eyes glazed.

Casey walked up slowly with small steps nearly to the bars, and looked in sadly. "It's true," she said in a small, tearful voice. "Buck was with me, only I asked him not to tell anyone, 'cause I was . . . ashamed. . . ." Her voice cracked and she sobbed, and Josiah looked up at her quickly.

"Oh Casey," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry someone tried to hurt you." He stood up and went to the bars, and somehow Casey found herself enfolded in his arms, her own threaded through the bars and as far around his torso as she could get them. She found herself sobbing as he hugged her.

"I didn't know," she was crying, "I didn't know until yesterday. I'd a said somethin', but I didn't know."

Josiah held Casey and looked over the top of her head at Ezra, and his eyes looked like all the sorrow in the whole world was there, and he said: "Why would she lie to me like that, Ezra? Why did she do it?"

"I fear there are very serious reasons," replied the gambler. "We all need to put our heads together, and quickly.

Josiah stepped back from Casey and wiped a tired hand across his face. "I think," he said, "that I need a meal. And some dry clothes." He looked at Ezra, and Ezra looked at him.

"Thank you," said Ezra soberly.

"God forgive me," rumbled Josiah. JD was rattling the keys as he opened the cell door. "God forgive me."

Part 47

Chris rode slowly out of town just about an hour after dawn. By now he knew that continuing along the path he was on was useless. If Buck were going in this direction, Chris would have encountered some sign by now. The problem was, that meant Buck wasn't acting like the man Chris thought he knew. And if he wasn't the man Chris knew...well, that opened too many possibilities that Chris just didn't want to get into. So, he told himself, one more day. He'd hit two more towns along the border road and then he'd swing back toward Four Corners checking out all the towns along the way. It was remotely possible Buck hadn't gone very far at all, just holed up somewhere nearby to drink and stew and head back into town when he was ready.

Of course, if that was true, then where was Vin? There was no sign of him either. No sign at all. Chris hated anything that didn't make sense. And this didn't. None of it.

'You could let it go,' a voice whispered inside him. Let it go. Let Buck ride away. Let Vin ride after him. Not arrest Buck. Not believe Belle. Walk away from the man out of friendship, not anger. But hell, he thought as a flash of that familiar anger ran through him right then, if he had a friendship with Buck that meant anything, why had Buck left town?

He wondered for a moment if Vin had returned to Four Corners since he'd left and he figured he'd better send a telegram when he got to the next town. It was remotely possible that he was winding himself up in knots for nothing. He looked up at the clear sky above him. There was a morning breeze blowing out of the northwest and for a brief moment the air was cool. About a mile south of him was the river. He could see tall cottonwoods standing out against the sky. He'd try a couple of towns on the Mexican side of the border, he thought, on his way back. Just to see.

The sound of a horse approaching rapidly interrupted his thoughts. A red-haired man on a dun-colored horse galloped around a curve in the road. He reined in hard when he saw Chris.

"Hey, mister!" He shouted from a distance of about ten feet away. "Am I glad to see you! Didn't think I'd find anyone on this road." He turned his horse back toward the way he'd come and waved Chris forward. "Come on! You gotta help me." He kicked his horse into a trot and then pulled up again when it became clear that Chris wasn't going to follow him. His horse danced nervously back and forth. "Come on!" the man shouted. "There ain't no time to waste!"

Chris's hand rested lightly on his pistol as he studied the man in front of him. There was something vaguely familiar about the color of his hair or the cut of his beard, though Chris wasn't exactly sure what it was specifically. "Hold up," he said sharply to the impatient man. "What do you want?'

The man let his horse dance back toward Chris. His eyes flashed with a quick, calculating light that put Chris on edge. Then the man took a deep breath and his whole posture seemed to slump in defeat and Chris thought maybe he'd been mistaken about the flash.

"Look, mister," Chris could hear a soft trembling in the man's voice. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude, but you gotta help me," he pleaded. "It's my wife. And...and my son. They're trapped. The cabin...I couldn't--" He reined his horse around hard again. "Come on! _Please_! You gotta help me." And then he was back off down the road again without waiting for Chris this time.

And Chris had only time to think, 'What the hell? Gotta be careful,' before he was following him at a gallop almost against his own will. His horse settled quickly into a smooth ground-eating lope as he tried to catch up with the man on the dun horse.

They rode like that for a couple of minutes. Then, Chris saw it, over the ridge to the south, smoke rising on the morning air. 'Oh my God!' he spurred his horse and passed the other man as if he were standing still. He could smell the thick scent of something burning, taste the acrid smoke on the back of his throat. Wife, the man had said. Son. He forgot careful. He forgot suspicious. And he rode.

The small cabin was already burning steadily when he rode into the clearing. Chris reined in his horse and leaped off before it had stopped completely. Water, he thought in panic. Where was the well? And it didn't even register that there were no horses in the corral. He ran toward the house and as he approached he could feel the heat from the rising flames. There was still time, he thought. He could still make it.

'My God!' he thought. Why weren't they screaming? There should be screams. Why couldn't he hear them screaming?

"Mr. Larabee," came a quiet voice behind him.

Chris's head had barely started to turn sideways when something dark and heavy slammed into the side of his head. The world flashed white, then black, then disappeared.

Chris Larabee was lying on his back on the dusty ground and Striker was standing over him when Thompson finally rode up. The fire, which had mostly been brush around the small, old cabin was already starting to die.

"Damn, Striker," Thompson said as he dismounted. "You're a mean man, you know that?"

Striker shrugged. "Worked didn't it?" he said. "Man like Larabee, you can't be too careful. You got to hit them where it hurts them." He turned dark eyes to Thompson. "If you don't know that, sooner or later, you'll be in trouble."

'Yeah, yeah,' Thompson thought. 'Tricks'll only get you so far. The rest is all skill and I got that.' "You want me to take him?" Thompson asked. Not because he wanted to make the long trip to take Larabee in, but because he figured Striker would tell him to anyway and he wanted to beat him to the punch.

"No." Striker's response was short and flat. "I want you back in town. Tell Hammersmith the status here. Tell him the rest proceeds on schedule. Got that?"

"Got it," Thompson said blandly, though his eyes glittered. He helped Striker load Chris into the saddle and tied his hands and feet, like he'd done with Wilmington and Tanner the day before.

"Cover his eyes," Striker said.

"What?"

"He'll wake up before I get there. I don't want him to know where we're going or who I am. The less he knows the better." He looked straight at Thompson again with that flat calculating stare. "Never let anyone know any more than they have to," he said, then he mounted up, took the lead rope Thompson handed him and trotted away from the clearing.

Thompson spent a few extra minutes checking to make sure they'd left nothing behind. As he prepared to ride out, he took one more look back at the scorched and blackened cabin. He wondered what the cabin's owner would think when he came back. And then he wondered if Striker ever even thought about things like that at all.

Part 48

Josiah wanted to crawl into a dark hole somewhere and die. He looked at himself in the mirror and wondered why it was even worth trying to clean up and become someone again. His shirt looked as if he'd slept in it for three days, sweat stains under the arm, dirt and grime on the front where he'd obviously fallen flat on his face. Unshaven, unkempt, just generally a mess. His head ached and his stomach felt queasy. It felt even more queasy when he looked into his own bloodshot eyes and tried to think clearly about what had happened.

What _had_ happened? Belle had lied to him. Lied! She'd cried and begged him for forgiveness. She'd left him that damned letter saying she'd been wrong, the shame was too much to bear and she had to leave him, though she didn't want to. And it had all been lies! How could she have done it? How could he have believed her? He scrubbed his hand across his bristly chin. This town was in trouble. His town. Partly because of what he'd done to Buck. He winced just thinking about it. He couldn't crawl in a hole. He couldn't slink away from this. Things had been done that couldn't be undone, maybe. But they could sure as hell be paid for. And if there was one thing Josiah knew it was paying for his sins.

He turned away from the mirror and pulled his suspenders down off his shoulders. First, he needed to get cleaned up, get the stink of stale whiskey out of his bones. Then, he needed to find out just exactly what had been happening while he'd been, well, distracted was probably the best word. Then, he needed to just do what needed doing until this whole thing was turned around and made right again.

+ + + + + + +

Mary wanted answers. What she had so far were questions. Last night she had listed off for Ezra all the events in town over the last week. What was important and what was not? Was someone trying to damage the seven men who protected the town or was this just a week where everything happened at once? Where had Buck gone? Where had Chris gone? Who had tried to poison Nathan? Who was Belle and why had she lied about Buck? Had something happened at the Delano Mine or was it just another accident?

She and Casey had searched through the papers for the last week, but they'd found nothing. Difficult to believe they would have found anything since Mary wrote and published the paper herself. Presumably she'd know if there was anything significant there. But they'd been looking for patterns and sometimes patterns could only be seen by looking back.

Mary also got weekly papers from most of the surrounding towns. Thirteen papers in all, reporting on events for nearly a hundred miles altogether. She'd read them every week and pull articles for her own readers. In her turn, she sent a copy of her newspaper every week to the other weekly newspapers. This morning, she'd set Casey to the task of searching through those papers for the last month. It was a grimy dirty task, but Casey had set to with enthusiasm and Mary suspected she was pathetically glad to be doing anything that didn't take her out into the crowded streets of Four Corners.

Mary's instructions were to look for anything that had to do with poisoning, rape charges, mine accidents, and Indian troubles. She hoped in the broader circle they might find some sort of pattern.

"Mary?" Casey's hesitant voice spoke behind Mary, who was trying, not very successfully to work on an article for the paper.

Mary turned to face her. In Casey's hand were a sheaf of papers. Her hair had straggled loose of its tie back and she had a dark smudge on one cheek from the newsprint. "Have you gotten through all those papers already, Casey?" Mary asked.

Casey shook her head. "About half of them maybe. But I found lots of things. I want you to look and see if any of them are important."

Casey's voice sounded so anxious that Mary wanted to take her in her arms and give her a hug, but she sensed it would be exactly the wrong thing to do at the moment. Casey felt responsible for Buck leaving town, for things falling apart and she needed time and space to see that things were not exactly as she saw them. In the meantime, Mary could give her work to do and find other ways of helping her take her mind away from it. She smiled at the girl. "Show me what you have."

They spread the articles out on the layout table. Casey laid each piece of paper down carefully so they all laid flat in front of the two women. "Okay," Casey said. "Some of these might not be important, but you said anything and since we don't really know..." Her voice trailed off.

Mary touched her on the arm. "You did exactly what I'd hoped, Casey. Now," she turned briskly back to the newsprint laid out for her. "Tell me what you've found."

Casey smiled shyly and pointed to the first article at the very top left corner of the board. "This is about a mine that sold up last year and the new owners." She looked sideways at Mary. "I know the part about selling the mine isn't new, but you said anything on mines and the _article_ is real new." She looked up at Mary who nodded for her to continue. "Then there's three articles about poisoning, but I don't think..." She pointed. "These two are about cattle poisoned at a watering hole. I think it's actually the same water hole, or, I mean, the same cattle, just in two different papers. And then, there's this one about food poisoning at the hotel in Fort Laramie."

"Food poisoning?" Mary asked sharply.

"Yes." Casey frowned. "But I don't think it's the same as what happened to Nathan because it says they traced the cause to bad meat."

"The poisoning was supposed to be related to bad meat," Mary said thoughtfully. "You'd better save that one, Casey," she said. "Just in case."

Casey nodded and then pointed to another article. "This one's about a mine cave-in over at Sweetwater. It wasn't too bad. No one was hurt and they say in the article the reason it caved in, but you said to look for anything. And this one," she pointed at another article, "is about another mine owner that sold up and moved back East. The article says a lot of the little mines are selling out to bigger ones as the West gets more settled." Casey looked up at Mary. "Does any of this mean anything?"

Mary shook her head, frustrated. "I don't know, Casey. I just don't know."

"The only other thing I found," Casey's voice trembled a little. "Was this article about a woman who was attacked over in Eagle Bend. They don't say she was...you know...but the way it reads, I thought...."

Mary squeezed her shoulder. "You've done really well, Casey. I don't know if any of these articles are important, but they're just the kind of thing we need to look for. Would you mind going through the rest of them. See if you can find any more like the ones you've found already."

Casey nodded, bobbing her head up and down. "Okay," she said. "Okay, I'll do that." She left the articles she'd found so far, lying on the layout table. Mary studied them for a few minutes after she'd left then shook her head in frustration. What was going on? What did they need to know?

+ + + + + + +

JD wanted something to do. Casey and Mary were at the newspaper office going through old articles and JD couldn't hardly see the use of that. He didn't really care about all the whys and wherefores of what was going on, all he wanted was a direction. If someone could just tell him where Buck had gone or where Chris had gone he could ride out there and ask questions. He could _do_ something. All this waiting and pondering and looking for clues was wearing him out.

He walked to the livery and found the blacksmith there as well as Yosemite, talking about a horse at the stable that needed new shoes. JD asked Yosemite and the smithy, since he was there anyway, if they remembered either Buck or Chris riding out. Yosemite allowed as how he couldn't remember Buck leaving at all, though he had a vague memory of Chris coming in in the late morning the day before, saddling up and riding out. He hadn't said a word, much to JD's disappointment. Only notable thing that had happened lately, Yosemite told him, was when that fancy lady friend of Josiah's had ridden out of town in her carriage.

"You never heard such a ruckus," the livery man said with a chuckle. "The cushions had to be just so. Her bags had to be packed in the exact way she ordered them. Her driver was a big hulk of a man. Never said a word. Just did everything she asked. Said the journey would take three days and she didn't expect to be shaken out of her boots every inch of the way. Woman like that could drive a man to drink," Yosemite said with a laugh.

'_Did_ drive a man to drink,' JD thought as he thanked the man. He turned to leave then turned back, more in desperation than anything else. "Isn't there anything else you can think of?" he asked. "Anything? It doesn't have to make sense."

Yosemite shook his head though he looked for a moment as if he was trying to grasp an elusive memory. "Nope, sure can't say as I can think of anything, JD. 'Cept for the trail crews, and, you know, that other, it's been quiet down here."

JD sighed and he was about to turn away again when the smithy spoke up. He was normally a silent man and JD had to admit he couldn't exactly remember his name. "Hold on there," he said quietly. "There was one thing."

"Yes?" JD said, trying not to sound too eager.

"There was a fella in just the other day. Brought his horse in and wanted it reshod."

JD couldn't hide his disappointment. "Is that all?"

"Well, his shoes were good. Practically brand new. Told him he didn't need new ones, but he insisted. Was real adamant about it. Checked 'em over real good too. Before he'd let me put 'em on. Said he didn't want any cheap 'marked' ones."

"What'd he mean by that?" JD asked, interested in spite of himself.

"Somebody'd marked his horse's shoes." The smithy said with a quiet confidence. "I expect he didn't want me to know that, so he went on about cheap shoes with defect marks on 'em. But it was clear that someone wanted to be able to follow his horse and they'd put a mark on one of the shoes so they could do it."

"Do you still have the shoe?" JD asked.

"Sure do?"

"Could I see it?"

"Hell, you can have it."

"Great." And JD waved goodbye to Yosemite as he trotted off down the alley after the smithy. He supposed it didn't have anything much to do with the matter at hand, but it was interesting in its own right. Maybe someday JD would want to mark some horse's shoe himself.

Ten minutes later, horseshoe in hand, he was back on the street and his frustration returned. There had to be something he could do. He'd crossed the street and headed back toward the newspaper office when he spotted Mr. Delano across the street heading toward a restaurant. "Hey! Hey, Mr. Delano," JD called.

Mr. Delano, an average looking man of middle years, turned. JD could see worry in the new lines on his face and the tiredness in his eyes. JD trotted quickly over to him. "Heading back to the mine?" he asked.

"After I eat," Delano said. "I find it difficult to stay away for long. Especially..." he let his voice trail off. The contrast between the blustery man of yesterday and the obviously tired and defeated man of today surprised JD and he realized that he'd really like to do something to make him feel better.

"You know we really tried to find something out at the mine," JD said earnestly. "Me and Josiah. We didn't just pretend to look. There just wasn't anything there."

Mr. Delano laid a hand on his shoulder. "I know. I've been a mining man for twenty years. If there'd been something there I suspect I would have found it. But I hoped another set of eyes..." He sighed. "Mining's a rough business, JD. Accidents happen. You lose good men. But this is different. I know it. I just wish I could figure out how."

On impulse, JD said. "Mrs. Travis is looking through the newspapers to see if she can find anything about the mines and...about other things that have been going on. You should talk to her before you leave. I could take you."

Mr. Delano looked off at the horizon for a moment as if considering what JD had said. After a minute he turned back. "I can wait an extra hour before I head back," he said. "I'd be pleased to go with you."

He and JD fell into step together as they walked off toward the news office.

+ + + + + + +

"Mary?" Casey's shy voice interrupted Mary again. This time she'd been in the middle of writing next week's editorial and had completely lost track of her surroundings so that she jumped when Casey said her name.

"Oh, Casey, you startled me!" she said, then she smiled and brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. "Did you have something for me?"

"I've finished going through the papers," Casey said. "I have a few more articles if you'd like to look at them.

Mary got up from her desk and joined Casey at the layout table where she'd already spread out the new articles. There were only three more. "Here's another one about a mine that was sold. It says the mine was not in good shape and the owner had to sell up and move. Just like the last one," Casey said. "I know it's not like cave-ins or anything, but I thought..."

Mary studied the article. "This mine is on the other side of the reservation," she said as she read the description of the mine sale and the mine owner's comments. Mention of the reservation reminded her. "Did you find any articles about Indian troubles?" she asked.

Casey shook her head. "The only other article I found that I thought looked anything like what you wanted was this one." She pointed. "It's just about the trail crews coming into towns and tearing things up. I guess it's an editorial, really, not an article. But..." Casey looked away from her at something really interesting on the back wall.

"Casey..." Mary begin.

Just then the front door slammed open causing both Mary and Casey to jump. JD came in, closely followed by Mr. Delano. "What did you find?" JD asked as soon as he'd stepped through the door. "Anything? Casey, you look like you've been playing in an ink well," he said abruptly.

"Oh, JD," Casey said with a frown, forgetting to be nervous of Mr. Delano. "_I've_ been working. Unlike some people who just take off every chance they get."

"Oh, yeah, right. I have obligations, Casey," JD said. Suddenly, he recollected that there were others present. "Did you find anything?" he asked again.

This time it was Mary's turn to frown. "We don't really know, JD. Why don't you come and look. You, too," she said by way of invitation to Mr. Delano.

Casey pointed at the articles spread across the table. JD looked at them quickly and said, "Well, I don't see anything here. They're all about different things."

"The pattern certainly isn't obvious," Mary said. "Still...with so many things happening in town in the last week."

Mr. Delano looked up abruptly. "There have been more problems than just the mine? What's been happening?"

Casey and JD stumbled over themselves to tell him about the bank robbery and the trail crews and the Indian troubles. JD explained about Nathan's poisoning. He started to tell him about Belle and the rape charge against Buck, but Casey kicked him and finished up by saying, "Well, and some other stuff too."

"Do you think it's all connected?" Mr. Delano asked.

"Frankly," Mary said, "We don't know. I really don't think so, but when you don't know what's significant, you have to question everything."

"Hmmm..." Mr. Delano said. "Hmmm." He appeared lost in thought for several minutes, then he stood. "You know, I think it's time I started back to the mine. I've been away too long. I want to thank all of you for listening to me."

"Mr. Delano?" Mary asked, curious about the change that seemed to have come over him. "Did you discover something? Is there something important in the articles."

"Hmmm," Mr. Delano was obviously still distracted. "Oh! No, I don't think so. Although," he said after a pause, "if you wanted to look into something, well, I didn't know Emerson, the man who owns this mine," he indicated the article about the most recent sale that Casey had found. "Had sold up. Hadn't heard anything about it. And you can see he's across the reservation from me--a good long distance in miles, but he's one of the closest mines to me--so usually I know. You might just check it out. In fact, you might check all of them out. All the mines you've got here. They're close enough that it might have some bearing." He rose and settled his hat back on his head.

"And you, Mr. Delano?" Mary asked. "You seemed to think of something. Was it important?"

"I don't know," Delano said. "I'm not even quite sure what it is. But your remark about questioning everything. It's a good one. And I think maybe I need to go back to my mine and look at everything again. Maybe like I'm seeing it for the first time."

He tipped his hat to Mary and Casey and shook JD's hand and then he left rather quickly, leaving Mary and Casey and JD to look after him somewhat bemusedly. "What's got into him?" JD asked.

Mary looked toward the door thoughtfully. "You know, JD," she said, "I think he's realized that just because there doesn't seem to be an answer that that doesn't mean there isn't an answer." She looked at the two young people in front of her and she consciously straightened up and wiped her hands on her apron. "And I think he's right. We can't give up. And we can't believe that just because the answer isn't obvious that there isn't an answer. Casey, could you write down the names of those mines? I'm going to telegraph them and see if they can give us any information that might help. Then, I want you and JD to talk to everyone you can find and see if any of them saw or talked to Buck or Chris before they left town. We need answers."

Part 49

"Wake up, you two!"

Sullivan's voice was distant but sharp, and it brought Buck groping up through the heaviness of deep sleep to late-morning sunlight. He shook his head, wondering how he'd slept so deeply when things were so dangerous and uncertain. Sullivan called out again, closer.

"HEY!! I said WAKE UP!" He was leading Buck's grey towards the tree, and it was saddled. Buck groaned and looked at Vin, next to him. The tracker was slowly stirring, waking. Buck laid his tied hands on Vin's left arm, next to him, to shake him a tiny bit, afraid that if he didn't wake up Sullivan would be only to happy to "help" him. He frowned when he realized that Vin's arm was warm to the touch, even through his shirt.

"C'mon, Vin." He shook the other man again very gently. "Wake up so Sullivan ain't got an excuse t' do nothin'."

Vin moaned slightly as he pushed himself higher against the tree, blinking. Sullivan stopped about 15 feet away from the two men and stood looking at them with a closed expression. He had the reins to Buck's horse in his right hand, and a wad of rope in his left. He lifted it to gesture to Buck and then the grey.

"Git on," he said flatly. "Now."

Buck fought to get to his feet, his bad leg protesting the movement by sending a long sharp flash of pain from his ankle all the way up his side. He gasped, caught himself on the tree with his hands, and fought to get his balance as dizziness grabbed him and spun the clearing suddenly. He heard Sullivan's voice again. "Ain't got all day, Wilmington."

Suddenly there were hands on his arm, dragging him, and Buck was at the grey's side and being shoved up into the saddle. His bad leg was stiff from having sat under the tree so long, and when the knee bent in the stirrup he had to bite his lips to keep from reacting audibly. But he wouldn't let Sullivan see or hear anything of it; he wouldn't give the man the satisfaction. Not one bit. Buck lowered his head and concentrated on his breathing, determined not to pass out. No way this bastard was going to win. None. He felt his foot jerked and moved around as Sullivan tied his foot to the stirrup and its leather, then after a few moments the same thing on the other side. This time, it was the leg that was injured, and Buck couldn't help but catch his breath when Sullivan roughly shook his foot around by the heel as he wrapped the bindings and lashed them down. He heard Sullivan laugh very softly, opened his eyes, looked at him hard.

Sullivan stopped and looked back. Then he reached up, his eyes still locked with Buck's and quickly lashed the man's tied wrists to the saddlehorn again. "Hate me yet?" he asked softly. Buck just stared at him, then looked away casually and studied a rocky escarpment to the east. Sullivan's face darkened, and he jerked the grey to the tree and tied it to one of the branches, then stalked off.

When he was out of earshot, Buck looked down at Vin and called to him. The tracker looked up from where he sat, and Buck saw that his face was slightly flushed again, like it had been the evening before. His eyes were dull. "Buck," said Vin hoarsely, "I don't think--"

"It'll be ok, Vin." It wasn't what Buck had wanted to say exactly, but he knew he didn't want Vin to put out-loud words to what he had been thinking just then. He looked at the tracker's pained features and wondered how the hell Vin was going to make it even another mile. "We gotta' be gettin' close," he said, "to have stopped so long here."

Vin just turned his face away with a weariness that made Buck feel suddenly scared, and he looked to see that the tracker was watching Sullivan, who was approaching again with his own horse's reins in one hand and Vin's in the other. He walked up to Vin, dropped both sets of reins to ground-tie the animals, and looked at the tracker almost genially.

"We got a ways left to go," he said softly. "Time for you to get back up here."

Vin looked at Sullivan but didn't move for a long time. Then, slowly, he bent his legs and shifted his weight to one side, starting to try and push himself up the tree to stand. He pushed his back against the trunk behind him, his face tight and his neck corded with the effort of trying to do it without moving his tied hands or his shoulder. Finally he was standing, leaning back against the tree, his head tipped back and his eyes fixed on Sullivan. His shirt was still askew from when Buck had checked the wound, and the suspender on that side hung down over his arm in a slack loop. He stood there, breathing heavily, his face more deeply flushed than before. Sullivan crooked his finger at Vin and his voice was softer, slick with menace.

"Now. Come here," he said.

Vin shook his head slowly. "No." His voice was so soft it was barely audible in the late morning stillness. Sullivan drew back in mock surprise.

"No?" He advanced closer towards Vin, half circling as though the wounded man leaning against the tree might suddenly attack him.

"Bring my horse here," rasped Vin. "I can't get there."

"Oh, but I think you can." Sullivan stopped walking and leaned indolently on one hip, looking at Vin. He turned then, to look at Buck, who sat his tied horse to one side and almost behind him. "Don't you think he can?"

"Go t' hell," growled Buck.

"Oh, we're already there," said Sullivan. "All three of us." He looked back at Vin. "You come here," he said flatly. "Now."

Vin shook his head again very slightly, and Buck saw that the hair along the side of Vin's face was wet, that sweat glistened across his forehead. He realized, suddenly, what even standing up was costing the tracker. He threw a sharp look at Sullivan and realized with a sense of helpless rage that their captor knew it, too. Sullivan took two steps back suddenly, drew his pistol, and pointed it at Buck. "You come here, or I'll kill this useless man now," he whispered. "Then I'll be free to play nursemaid to you, ok?"

Vin closed his eyes, and Buck gritted his teeth. Nothing he could say would make it anything but worse. He knew it. But that didn't make it easier to keep his mouth shut. When Vin pushed off from the tree with the back of his good shoulder and took a single faltering step towards the black gelding, his face closed up with renewed pain, and Buck had to bite his lips to keep from cussing Sullivan seven ways from Sunday. Vin managed to get several more steps before he went down, heavily, and his impact with the ground broke loose a choked cry. Sullivan bent over the tracker and shook his head.

"You didn't get very far," he said. "Get up."

'Leave him alone,' thought Buck. 'Come and get me, you bastard. I'm the one you want.'

Sullivan holstered his gun, suddenly, and grabbed Vin by the arms and dragged him to his feet. Vin recoiled reflexively against the pull, but Sullivan just jerked him the harder towards the black, then shoved him up into the saddle, cursing when Vin nearly toppled out of it the other way. Sullivan lashed his wrists quickly to the saddlehorn as Vin bent nearly double in pain, his breathing ragged again and breaking off into gasps as Sullivan jerked his feet into the stirrups roughly, and tied them. He finished and looked at Buck with a dark, defiant expression in his face, even as Vin was still reeling behind him. Sullivan went to his own horse then, and ran the lead rope back through the hardware on Vin's horse first this time, then to Buck's. He glanced up at Buck as he fastened it off, but the other man looked away again.

Fine, thought Sullivan, we'll see.

He mounted up and led off at a jog, satisfied at the sharpness of the cry that burst out behind him when he did, and then he pulled on the lead rope that went to Tanner's horse so that the black came abreast of his own mount, the grey close enough now that he knew Wilmington could hear and see everything. Tanner was to his left. Which meant that his wounded shoulder was right there in easy reach. Sullivan turned back in his saddle to look at Wilmington. He looked him right in the eye, and then he looked at Vin and said cheerfully, "Only another eight hours to go!" and heartily clapped the wounded man on the shoulder.

The sound he got for his trouble was like a mountain cat's cry, and Sullivan turned back so that his eyes held Wilmington's again, ten feet behind the two of them. He knew Tanner had passed out and was slumped over his saddle now, but he didn't care. He looked at Wilmington and knew the answer, but he wanted to ask anyway. "You hate me yet? Eh? You hate me NOW?"

"Why?" Buck felt like he could explode the ropes right off him if he tried. Vin's agonized cry had seared him like it was his own pain, and he wanted only to tear Sullivan to pieces, bit by tiny bit.

"Because I am paid to hate you," said Sullivan. "Don't you understand? So it has to work both ways. To make sense." He released the lead rope to Vin's horse so that the gelding dropped back, and then he slowed to a walk as he led the string up a steeper slope and more deeply into the mountains. Buck looked at Vin slumped over the gelding's whithers, in front of him, and wondered how the hell either of them could make it through eight more hours of riding like this. Then he started working on the thing Sullivan had accidentally given him: that he wasn't a bounty hunter after Vin, at all.

Who had paid Sullivan to hate Buck? And why?

Part 50

"You know, Casey, you look awful."

"Oh, OH . . . thanks a lot, JD. I really appreciate that." Casey was clearly offended and ready to flounce away.

JD beseechingly reached out to Casey. "Casey, you know that came out wrong. Please . . . please, sit with me."

Casey reluctantly returned to the table in Mary's kitchen. Using the news stories Casey compiled and the names of other mines from Delano, Mary had gone to wire surrounding towns gaining information on the status of the mines in the region and to see if there was any word on Buck and Chris.

In the meantime, JD and Casey had again talked to as many townspeople as possible seeing if they could get any information on Buck's or Chris's leaving. All they had been able to find out was that Miss Molly, the new seamstress, had seen Buck stalk along the boardwalk with packed saddlebags two days ago. That was apparently just before Buck left town. She related how she had tried to greet him but thought he hadn't even seen her. "He was truly frightening," Molly said, "dark and threatening. I've never seen him like that."

JD had. And it took quite some effort to make his easy-going friend act like that. But never, never had he'd seen Buck in a situation forced to defend his own honor. And Buck chose to leave. JD had to wonder if he'd ever see him again.

Yosemite, the liveryman, was positive Chris had left late yesterday morning. When JD talked to him a second time, he also thought he remembered a man, about Chris's height, trim build dark hair on the boardwalk intently watching Chris leave. Been around town a few days, mostly playing poker. Yosemite didn't know if it meant much but he thought he was unusually interested in Larabee leaving town. Yosemite thought he'd make trouble with Larabee gone but nothing seemed to come of it. Yosemite had shrugged, dismissing the observation as not important.

And that had been it. How could two of the best-known men in Four Corners just leave and no one seemed to have really noticed? Probably because it wasn't that unusual. Damn, JD wished they had said something before leaving. The not knowing was wearing.

It had been that way with Casey. He knew something had happened but it was the not knowing. Well, he knew now. Some bastards had hurt her like no man should. Sure, it could have been worse. But it was bad enough. JD looked over at Casey and thought if he said 'boo' the girl would shriek with terror. She seemed so fragile that JD wanted to wrap her in a cocoon and let no one touch her, let no one frighten her, let no one hurt her. That's why he hadn't wanted her involved this morning. A drunk Josiah could be frightening, depending how deep he was in his cups. And JD didn't want Casey frightened anymore.

JD looked over at Casey and smiled gently. She smiled tentatively back. "It went well with Josiah, don't you think?"

JD moved stiffly, exaggerating some slight injury from when Josiah had knocked him to the floor, "oh yeah," JD grinned mischievously, "don't hurt much at all." He looked over slyly, "you know, you could kiss me and make me forget about all my pains."

Casey's laughter tinkled like piano keys, "Oh JD, you're silly."

JD sobered. "You did good, Casey."

Casey nodded and a smile fleetingly crossed her face before it was that quickly gone. You'd have thought it was an illusion if you weren't watching her closely, the smile was that brief.

JD scooted his chair closer to Casey and grabbed the front legs of her chair and scraped it across the floor pulling her in front of him. He wanted to gently tip her chin so she'd look at him but he was afraid that would be pushing her, so he restrained himself. Guess he'd have to try to tell her. He was never good at that.

"Casey," JD broached the subject tentatively, "I want to help. I want to protect you and not let you ever hurt again."

Casey shook her head sadly never raising her chin from her chest. "JD, you can't possibly do that for me."

"I can try," JD earnestly believed that.

Casey smiled skeptically. She started to look around the room, anywhere but at him. JD could see the slight quiver of her lips and was afraid she'd start crying again. Damn it, Casey, those men aren't worth one of your tears.

"Casey," JD paused till Casey looked at him, "Let me help you."

"How JD?" Casey plaintively pleaded.

"Put your hand up, palm facing me."

Casey frowned at JD, not sure what he meant to do. JD smiled encouragingly and nodded at her left hand. Casey raised her hand. JD hesitated a minute, then slowly raised his own hand lightly against hers. He let it rest there a minute and looked at Casey. She still seemed confused but not frightened. Definitely not frightened. JD increased the pressure against her palm. Her eyes widened and she slightly gasped but didn't draw away. JD licked his lips and kept applying pressure till Casey either had to counter that pressure or let him push her hand back. Casey chose to counter the pressure. JD smiled and spread his fingers and Casey's fingers followed, pressed against his. He folded his fingers over her hand and she followed.

JD's smile broadened. He gently rubbed his thumb against her hand. She started to say something and JD shushed her and gently shook his head no. Her breath had quickened and her mouth had opened slightly. JD watched her lick her lips and saw the soft glistening of moisture on them.

"Casey?"

She nodded her head.

Still holding her hand, JD pulled ever so slightly on her hand encouraging her to lean forward and come to him. Her eyes never left his until they were so close JD gently pressed his lips to hers. He pulled on her hand and increased the pressure. Casey took the cue and pressed her lips more firmly to his. JD cupped her head with his other hand at the back of her neck and tilted his head to . . .

"Casey, JD." They quickly broke apart and pushed their chairs away from each other.

Mary entered the kitchen. She was so intent on sorting through telegraph messages, she suddenly stopped and looked at them intently. Mary slowly looked over at JD, then Casey. It almost appeared she was going to say something but decided against it. "We've got to go and meet the others. I just wanted to pull one file and I'm ready." Mary stepped back to the front office.

"Guess, we'd better go," Casey's voice was husky.

"Casey?"

"Later, JD." Neither realized they just weren't going to have a later.

When they arrived at Nathan's clinic, Josiah had returned from the church, Nathan had shaved and cleaned up, and Ezra was there too. And that was it. No Buck. No Vin. No Chris.

Casey and Mary sat in the two chairs in the room. Nathan was in bed but sitting up. Josiah was leaning back against the wall, nursing another cup of coffee. Both Ezra and JD stood also.

"I was just bringing Josiah and Nathan up to date on what we know about Chris and Buck. They both agreed that one of us needs to ride out to the reservation and get Vin." Ezra quickly summarized the conversation that had gone on before they arrived. "Did you find out anymore about Buck or Chris?"

"Not much," JD reported, "only to confirm when they actually left. Miss Molly told us she saw Buck with packed saddlebags two days ago -- real upset. Yosemite confirmed Chris left about 24 hours later. He thought he saw someone watching Chris but nothing seems to have come of it."

"I wired towns about mining problems but checked to see if there was any word on them. Nothing," Mary related, clearly discouraged.

Ezra sighed deeply. "Shit," he said under his breath, not loud enough for the ladies to hear. "Well, if we're going to find them, we'd better retrieve our tracker."

"I'll go get Vin, Ezra," JD volunteered.

Ezra nodded his head. "Thank you, JD." One thing about JD, he was always eager to take on a task. Ezra really appreciated that quality in JD over these past few days. Ezra sure didn't want to do it. Although they seemed harmless enough, he wasn't comfortable on the reservation and would rather not go there himself.

Ezra surveyed the room and everyone seemed to be in agreement with the plan to get Vin. "Okay then, let's put our heads together about what has been happening. Mary?"

Mary pulled out her notes. "Casey and I put together a list of events that have happened over the past week in town. Casey then went through newspapers from the surrounding towns for the past month and we tried to see if there was any pattern to the events. This is what we got. The only bank robbery in the area in the past month was here. The Delano Mine cave-in and Delano's insistence that someone was after him. Several mines in the area have either been sold or had accidents. The trail crews - Casey's attack, several episodes of drunkenness, disorderly conduct, and gunplay. The talk of needing a real doctor. Nathan's poisoning. There was one other poisoning related to bad meat. Indian troubles - reports of butchered steers, old Sam's claim they killed his sheepdog, and the report from one scared drummer that he was chased by braves through the reservation. The accident at the Robert's ranch. The rape charge against Buck."

"Any reports of any Indian troubles in surrounding towns?" asked Nathan.

"No, not at all." Casey piped in, having done the research.

"It almost seems that . . ." Ezra started to say something and then the room got very quiet.

"Ezra?" Nathan asked.

"The bank robbery. The trail crews' actions. Both seem to test our response. Your poisoning. Buck accused of rape." Ezra listed events specifically targeted at the seven.

"I attack Buck over a false charge by a woman who had now left town." Josiah couldn't look at the others as he explained what happened with Buck.

"Chris is gone. No explanation. No word." Mary commented.

"It's unexplained. Doesn't seem related. It just seems like someone is after us and they're doing a good job," JD mused.

"It might seem like that but do we have any evidence?" Nathan asked.

"No, NO." JD shook his head disgusted. "Just my gut."

Mary stiffened sharply at JD's last comment and Ezra rose from his relaxed pose against the wall, frowning at Mary.

"When did we hear that before?" Mary asked Ezra.

"Delano," Ezra replied. Four sets of confused eyes looked at Ezra. "We had almost the exact same conversation with Delano about the mine cave-in and his insistence someone is after him. Mary, what do you have on the mining stories?"

Mary spread a map out on Nathan's bed and the rest gathered around the bed. "I've marked the mines in the area that have been sold. Almost all of them had some type of accident and/or deaths prior to being sold. Near Sweetwater, there was a mine cave-in. There was an article about the owner of Apex Mining and how many of the small mines in the area have sold out. They include Kirksen, Mitchell, and Jefferson -- they all had problems before selling. Emerson sold out -- he had a mine on the far side of the reservation from Delano." As Mary related the stories she pointed to the locations of the mines on the map.

"So the only mines in the area that haven't sold recently are Delano Mining and Apex Mining," Nathan observed as he looked at the locations of the mines and the stories.

"So Apex is the only one not having troubles?" JD asked.

"Well, not that they told me. But I had to wire the mine. The only road access is from the northwest over here so they don't come to Four Corners," Mary explained. "I do have a theory why these mines are being taken over."

"Please enlighten us," Ezra invited.

"This article was in my files. The federal government passed a law called The Apex Law. According to this law, a miner can pursue a vein an infinite distance if the apex was in the surface boundary of his claim."

"What's an apex?" Casey asked.

"It's the top of a vein," Josiah explained.

"What happens if the miner doesn't have the apex?" Casey asked.

"If it is subsequently discovered that the claimant erred and the apex is not located in his boundaries, then he loses the right to follow the vein," Mary read from the article.

Ezra let out a low whistle. "So you have a rich vein and don't have the apex, you lose all rights to mine the vein. Not only that, whoever owns the apex has the right to mine it on your claim. I'm sure this law is leading to some very expensive and confusing litigation."

"You know, it seems Mr. Delano may have a point about him being a target," Josiah commented.

"He's been begging for someone to go out there again," Mary added.

"It seems with this new information that his mine should be investigated again," Ezra agreed. Ezra looked over at Josiah. There was no way the man could make the six-hour ride to Delano's today. That left either him or JD. JD was the logical one to send to Delano's but he was going to the reservation. Aw hell, that meant he'd have to go retrieve Vin from his party.

"I think JD should ride over and take a look around there again," Ezra nodded at JD. "He knows the lay of the land and wouldn't be starting from scratch initiating a further investigation." I thought the leader got to pick his assignments, Ezra thought disgusted. But it didn't make sense for him to go to Delano's.

"Fine by me," JD agreed, "but I was supposed to get Vin."

"Yes, well, I will have to go retrieve him," Ezra volunteered resignedly.

"Will you be leaving now?" Mary asked.

Ezra nodded. "JD can get to Delano's before dark and I can make the round trip to the reservation and be back today if I don't delay. We best move out. Nathan you need to drink and get rest." Ezra looked over at Josiah. "See that he does that." Nathan rolled his eyes at that last comment.

Ezra moved to leave and looked pointedly at JD. JD wasn't paying attention to him apparently having a quiet word with Casey. She nodded at whatever he said.

"JD," Ezra called out impatiently, "we have got to depart now."

"Yeah, yeah," JD responded distracted as he moved closer to Nathan's bed to look at the map again. "I was just thinking. We already know Delano is having trouble at his mine. Maybe one of us should make a visit out to Mr. Apex?"

"That's a good point, JD but let's even see if we can even find evidence at Delano's," Josiah observed, "then, we can look at other mines if we need to."

"Isn't it funny that Mr. Apex has a law named after him?" JD commented.

"JD, apex refers to the top of the vein, not Mr. Apex," Josiah explained.

"Who is Mr. Apex?" Ezra asked.

"The owner of Apex Mining," JD answered.

"He's not the owner of Apex Mining," Ezra contradicted JD.

"So who DOES own Apex Mining, then, if it's not Mr. Apex?" JD asked confused.

"Michaels," Mary answered.

"Sterling Michaels."

Part 51

Damn, damn, damn. If it wasn't one thing, it was another, and Ezra had gotten to the point where he was about fed up with it. He'd been gracious. He'd been gallant, even. He'd been a nurse, a scrubwoman, a confidante, a clerk, and a sobering influence. He started to smile wryly at the thought, then frowned again. If only . . . oh, never mind, he told himself crossly. Just never mind. Just ride on out to the Godforsaken Indian reservation and drag Mr. Tanner out of whatever heathenish ceremony he was partaking in -- by the collar of that dead animal he facetiously referred to as a coat, if necessary -- and get him back into town to take over this entire mess. Ezra had done more than enough already. MORE than enough. He nodded to himself as he rode along at a brisk jog, his brow furrowing in indignation at the very thought of the way everyone was starting to impose on him, just because he'd had the decency and breeding to step into the breech in a crisis. It was temporary! Gads, didn't these people understand _temporary_? And now they were all excited about this mining business and . . .

Ezra's face grew serious and he legged the horse into a slow lope. He didn't even want to think about the possibility of what they were turning up turning out to be true. How could it be, really, that someone was doing something so insidious? It was a ridiculous notion. He knew how much effort and money it took to pull off a complicated scam, and this one would be . . . well! Ezra shook his head and smiled to himself, showing his gold tooth. It would be insanity even to contemplate.

Yet, Chris was gone. And Buck. And someone had poisoned Nathan. Why?

Ezra couldn't get the question out of his head. Every time he ran around the impossibilities and unlikelihoods of the whole thing, it always came back to that. If there wasn't a scheme of some sort, if there hadn't been some secretive and concerted effort directed against them, then why had Nathan been poisoned? And by whom?

He was relieved to see the tops of several lodge poles appearing above the low rise ahead of him on the trail, and took off his hat as he slowed the gelding to a walk. He wiped the back of his coat sleeve across his forehead and looked up at the sun, grimacing at the very thought that he was out here in the heat, instead of inside some decent, civilized--

"Ho." A man had stood up next to the trail, materializing it would seem out of nowhere, and Ezra drew rein in some surprise. He hadn't remembered anyone being stationed as a guard or sentry here before.

"Hello," he said. He felt suddenly awkward, and smiled ingratiatingly. "I'm looking for Vin Tanner, who's--"

"Wait here," said the man.

"No, I--" But before Ezra could say another word, the man was gone as silently as he had come. Ezra looked around the vicinity and thought seriously of continuing onward, but decided to wait at least a little while. The last thing he needed was for Tanner to come flying out of some hovel in a rage over his having . . . well, actually he couldn't remember ever having seen Tanner in a rage. Perhaps a cold fury. Or a tight--

"You are Standish." The familiar timbre of a voice he knew as Kojay's interrupted Ezra's musing and he looked to see that the man was standing on the trail practically in front of him. He didn't, Ezra thought, look particularly welcoming.

"Yes." Ezra dismounted and grinned nervously. "I need to speak with Mr. Tanner."

"He is not here."

Ezra blinked, opened his mouth, and then shut it again. He cocked his head and waved one hand in frustration. "There must be some mistake," he said at last. He looked very intensely, puzzled, at Kojay. The man merely looked back at him, and shrugged.

"He is not here," he repeated.

"When did he leave?" Was it growing hotter by the minute? Ezra ran a finger around the inside of his shirt collar.

"He has not been here at all." Kojay just kept staring at Ezra in a manner that was beginning to approach rude. The gambler sighed in exasperation.

"I _know_ he came here to your festival, to that - that - _corn_ thing," said Ezra, "so don't tell me he never--"

"Vin Tanner has not been here," said Kojay. He folded his arms across his chest. "I have been worried because of it. I thought perhaps trouble between our people was growing faster than I knew."

"Well, no, I--"

"But now you make me worry that he is the one in trouble," Kojay continued. "I think he must not be in town, either, if you come here looking for him."

"No," said Ezra. He was starting to dislike where this line of thinking was going. A lot. "No, he's not in town. You're right."

"How long ago did he leave?" Kojay's eyes were steady and clear, and Ezra found himself held by them suddenly, unaccountably, wondering when _was_ the last time he'd seen Vin. In the saloon, he remembered, with Josiah. No -- it was the next day, in the morning. With Chris. "Vin's gone," Chris had said. Ezra frowned slightly, his gaze drifting inward as he remembered.

"Three days," he said softly, almost to himself. He raised his eyes again to Kojay's. "He left town day before yesterday."

"That is not good." Kojay turned to the man next to him, the one who had been standing watch, and spoke briefly in their own tongue. The man gestured subtly with his chin as he replied. Kojay asked him something else, it seemed, and the man replied shortly and sprinted back towards the village. Kojay turned back to Ezra. "Please forgive my lack of hospitality," he said softly. "We are at a time in our ceremony that is very sacred, and that cannot be interrupted by an outsider. But there are some hunters we need to speak with. He has gone to get them."

Ezra nodded as if that made sense to him, and waited. It was only a moment before two young men were standing next to Kojay, their dark bodies lithe and shining with the sweat of some exertion. A rapid exchange took place, and then Kojay spoke again to Ezra.

"They were out yesterday morning, early," he said. "Over that way." He pointed with one gnarled finger, to the east. "They heard the sounds of guns shooting, maybe five miles away."

"Where were they then?" Ezra slapped at a fly that was hovering annoyingly around his ear, and tried to remain dignified.

"At the edge of the reservation. That was why they could not go see what it was," explained Kojay. "They said it sounded like it came from the base of that ridge there." He pointed, and Ezra saw the long ridge of desert and scrub, and he sighed. Great, more riding. He looked at the hunters, and made one last effort to get out of this apparent trap and go home before it was too late to get any supper.

"Why do they think it had anything to do with Mr. Tanner?" he asked.

Kojay had started to turn around, but at that he faced Ezra again, and he was very still. Ezra toyed with the reins in his hands, looked at the ground uncomfortably, and then cleared his throat.

"Yes. Well, I'll be off to check it out then." He put his foot into the stirrup and swung up as he coughed lightly. "Just . . . check it out on my way back to town," he mumbled. He glanced out from under the brim of his hat to see that Kojay hadn't moved a muscle and was regarding him with the same silent, expectant look he'd had a moment before. Ezra turned his horse, and headed for the ridge.

So much for dinner, he thought.

Part 52

"Mary asked me to bring this up to you."

Josiah opened the door to Nathan's room wide enough to take the broad tray from Casey's hands, then pushed the door shut behind her with his foot after she came in. The girl smiled shyly at Nathan in the bed as she went to the table next to it and began to take things off and set them on the floor. "Just a minute and I'll fix a place to set the tray. There's supper here for both of you." She glanced at Nathan. "Mary told me to let ya' know she made it herself this time, so you don't have to worry."

Nathan chuckled and pulled himself up higher against the pillows that were propped behind him. "I ain't worried about that," he said, "but I sure hope she sent me somethin' my stomach can handle. I'm hungry, but . . . "

"Chicken broth." Casey looked at Nathan again and smiled when she saw him nod with satisfaction. "Here, Josiah. You can set it down here now." The big man slid the heavy tray to the table and Casey started pulling off the heavy cloths Mary had placed over the covered dishes to keep everything warm. Nathan straightened up even higher on the bed when he saw the bowl of broth Mary had fixed him. She'd set it on a large china plate and laid a spray of snapdragons next to the bowl, and Nathan looked up at Casey and grinned.

"That's gotta' be the prettiest lookin' bowl a' broth I ever seen," he said.

"Mary said it showed how glad she was that you're gettin' well." Casey blushed, and then handed Nathan the dish and a napkin. She turned to Josiah to see that he had pulled up a chair and was sitting in it regarding Nathan with an expression of pure joy on his face. He looked up when he realized Casey was staring at him, and a sudden flash of grief and shame ran across his face and he looked down at his hands. "She sent you fried chicken, Josiah. An' mashed potatoes, an' . . . " Casey's voice trailed off and her young face knit together as Josiah ran a hand through his silvering hair and stood up with a deep sigh. He wandered to the far side of the room as if unsure of where he was going, then turned around to face Nathan and Casey and leaned against the wall behind him with his arms folded across his chest. Nathan looked up from sipping the broth.

"Gotta' eat," he said. "It'll help finish gettin' all that alcohol outta' your blood."

"How can you care about that, Nathan?" Josiah's voice was soft and rough, and it made Casey sink down gently onto the foot of Nathan's bed.

"I thought . . . I thought things were gonna' be ok now." Her voice was young and filled with sad longing, hope sliding from her fingers as she realized it might have been her own imagining.

"I don't know." Josiah rubbed the back of his neck.

"Can't get better unless you eat somethin'," observed Nathan. "Start gettin' things back to normal."

"Normal." Josiah laughed softly, shortly. He came back to the chair and dragged it out a little ways, sat down, rested his elbows on his knees and looked at the floor. "I've done a lot a things in my day, but . . ." He sighed, and then rubbed his face with a tired hand. He roused himself to look at the tray and then at Nathan. "I shoulda' offered you some a' this coffee," he murmured. "You want--?"

"Thanks." Nathan handed the nearly-empty broth bowl to Casey, who smiled delightedly when she saw how well he'd eaten. He reached across to take the cup of coffee Josiah poured and held out to him, and nodded to the preacher as he closed his eyes in satisfaction to sip of it. "Ezra 'n' Vin'll be back soon." He opened his eyes and looked at Josiah. "We'll get it all figured out."

"Figured out ain't the same as put right." Josiah shifted uncomfortably in the chair and looked up from under his brows at Casey with a shamed light to his eyes. "I'm right sorry you had to see all that," he added.

"I just wanted to help," said Casey in a small, troubled voice. "Things are so . . ." She leaned forward from her perch on the foot of Nathan's bed and an earnest look crept into her face. "Josiah, can I ask you somethin'?"

The big man nodded silently, but looked again at the floor between his feet.

"Why'd you believe her . . . over Buck, I mean?"

Josiah shook his head wordlessly, then exhaled long and sadly. "I wish I knew," he said.

"Is it 'cause she's, you know, someone you like?"

"I s'pose that's part of it." Josiah looked up slowly at the girl.

"Do you . . . _love_ her?" Casey's voice was a little breathless. She'd never asked a real grown-up man such a question before, and for just a moment she thought her Aunt Nettie might come flying in the door to grab her by one ear and drag her out for being too big for her britches. But what happened instead was that Josiah's eyes grew limpid, and he said in a choked voice:

"I thought I did. Now, I don't know." He turned his sad expression to Nathan. "Why would she lie to me like that?"

Nathan turned the coffee cup in his hands as he thought. "You know what Ezra thinks." It was all he wanted to say right now. No need to kick a man who was already down. Things would come out in the wash soon enough if they were there.

"Josiah?" The big man looked back at Casey, who had scooted to the very edge of the bed. Her eyes had gotten large with wonder and determination. "Did you ask her to _marry_ you?"

"Yes I did, Casey." Josiah smiled sadly at the look of amaze and thrill that raced across Casey's face at his words.

"An' . . . an' did she . . .?"

"She said yes." He stood up and rubbed his head again, stretching his long back and closing his eyes. Then he looked at Casey again, and then Nathan. "That's why I thought I could trust her. We was gonna' . . . we was gonna' announce it this comin' Sunday. At the end a' services."

"That sure is odd, her doin' that an' then sayin' what she did about Buck." Nathan's eyes were unfocused as he thought about what Josiah had said. Casey looked at him with her heart racing way up high in her throat like it was a runaway yearling colt. Josiah had asked Belle to marry him! And she'd ACCEPTED! Casey clenched her little hands into fists and reminded herself that a wedding probably wasn't going to happen, though.

But it nearly had. A wedding. JD would probably have been best man or something. He'd have worn a nice suit and maybe handed Josiah the gold ring. Well . . . maybe it could still be, though. Maybe the kinds of things that had happened didn't destroy that. A wedding could still happen, JD could still stand up in a nice suit, looking handsome, holding a gold ring. She bit her lip.

"Josiah?"

The big man smiled at the girl, sat down and drew his chair closer to her. He looked into her face kindly.

"What is it, Casey?"

"Do you think . . . Will you still . . . I mean, you know, get married?"

"No."

"No?" Casey's eyes unfocused as she puzzled out why Josiah wouldn't . . . and then they widened in horror as realization flooded her with shame. Both men saw it crash over her little head in a tide of paling as she shrank in on herself, although neither could quite understand why. The girl felt like she was choking suddenly. How could she have forgotten, just because JD had been nice to her. Just because Vin was coming back and then Buck and then Chris and they'd all be here again. That wouldn't change what had happened to her, not at all. Nothing could. And if Josiah . . . Then JD . . . Tears rose to stand in her eyes and her voice shook. "It's because . . . because of what happened to her, ain't it? She was right. If a woman--"

"Casey?" Josiah had reached out to lay a hand on the girl's shoulder, but she kept going as if he hadn't said anything.

"--gets . . . you know, 'ruined' . . . by another man, then she can't, that is she isn't, she's never--"

"Casey, Casey. Casey, Stop." Josiah shook the girl gently by her shoulder and took one of her hands in his other one. Her voice trailed off and she looked at him with a pain in her eyes that he thought might have driven him to drink if he hadn't already been there. Then it hit him: he HAD been there, and Casey had seen him there, and she knew why. And he'd acted like-- "No," he said quickly, suddenly. A wedding, he thought. She's got it all tangled up. "No, Casey. You've got it all wrong."

"But--"

"Listen to me a minute. Please." He glanced over to see that Nathan was watching both of them with a concerned expression, and he nodded almost imperceptibly to Josiah now. "Go on," his nod said, "talk to her. Do something."

"First," he said, "it didn't matter to me at all, what Belle said had happened."

"But--"

"You said you'd listen." Josiah let go of Casey's shoulder and took both her small hands in his now. He felt like he was holding the girl's whole life in his clumsy hands all of a sudden, hands that could plane wood but that . . . He shook his head. No, he wouldn't go there, not now. Casey needed him now. "The reason I was so upset was because she wouldn't listen to me. I told her it made no difference, but she wouldn't hear of it. It was her refusin' me that made me so upset, not that she'd said she'd been . . . you know." The big man paused. "Well, that an' the idea that someone had hurt her. And that it mighta' been someone I'd trusted." He looked into the girl's eyes again. "But that's somethin' else entirely. If she'd been willin' to see it my way, it wouldna' mattered so much. I still loved her. I still wanted to marry her."

"But Josiah," Casey's voice was as small as he'd ever heard it. "Other people, they'd've thought . . . they'd've known . . ."

"Casey, there are two things about this. About this type of thing. It's not right or fair, but you've gotta' see it. A woman gets hurt two completely different ways when a man hurts her like that. The first way is whatever happens at the time. Do you understand what I mean?"

Casey looked away, her gaze skittering across the floor to take refuge in a dark corner of the room. "Yes," she breathed softly. "Bruises an' stuff."

"Yes," said Josiah. He had to work to make sure the anger that flared in him at her words didn't show. She'd never realize, right now, that it was directed at the men who'd hurt her a lot more than he'd realized up until this precise moment. She'd think he was angry at her. He kept his face calm, but repeated the word once more. "Yes. An' the second kind is a hurt against what the woman thinks of herself."

Casey kept looking at the corner, her hands limp. Josiah took a deep breath. 'God,' he thought, 'I could use a little help here, please.' He looked over at Nathan suddenly and raised one eyebrow in an unspoken question. The other man understood him immediately, and nodded with a solemn expression.

"Think a' Nathan a minute, Casey."

"Nathan?" That brought Casey's eyes back to Josiah at least, he noticed. She looked at him puzzled, then glanced over to Nathan's face.

"Yeah. Nathan. You know, he could say he's ruined as a healer now."

Casey's face snapped back to look at Josiah's with alarm. "What? Why?"

"'Cause he got so sick himself, and it was from someone poisonin' him. He could say, an' others might say, that if he fell into somethin' like that he wasn't fit to heal others. You know: 'Physician heal thyself.'" He threw another quick glance at Nathan to make sure he was on safe ground with a man who still had to feel pretty sick, but the dark man's eyes were soft with affection for the girl as he sat listening, and he nodded to Josiah to continue.

"That wouldn't be right," said Casey, confused by the line of discussion. "It wasn't Nathan's fault that--" She drew up short, suddenly seeing what Josiah was trying to point out to her. She cocked her head sideways and started to say something, but each time she did, the answer came right into her lap all by itself.

Other people might still say something about her, though. Just like they'd been saying things about Nathan before the poisoning, and might still say them now. Didn't matter what people said.

It didn't change the fact that those men had hurt her. Had scared her. Well, Nathan had still been poisoned. Someone had tried to kill him. That was scary, too.

People would know what had happened, that they had touched her and thought about her body in certain ways. But people knew what happened if you got poisoned, too. Everyone in town knew that Ezra'd had to touch Nathan in certain ways to save his life. It didn't matter. That's how it was. If you didn't know that, then you had no business being out west. Best go back to Boston or New York.

There were women who would die of shame if it happened to them, and there were probably people who would die of shame if they'd been poisoned. But they weren't the kind of people she knew or cared about. They weren't the kind of people her friends cared about.

The girl's eyes cleared some as she looked into Josiah's face. He could see she was still struggling.

"So, the reason you won't marry 'er is because . . . because she wasn't strong enough not to be ashamed a' what happened?"

"No, Casey. Feelin' ashamed is normal. Ain't that right, Nathan."

Casey looked over to Nathan and saw him nod. She thought about what Ezra had done for him and knew why. OK. She looked back at Josiah. "Then why. . ."

"I would've married her no matter what, if she woulda' had me," explained Josiah. "Up until the moment I found out she'd lied to me about Buck."

OH! Casey felt the room tip around her. That it'd had nothing to do with WHAT Belle said had happened, but that she HAD said it had happened when in fact it hadn't . . . the girl felt like everything was turning upside-down. Josiah pressed her little hands firmly within his own.

"Casey, if there ain't trust between two people, there can't be a relationship. There has to be trust, above all. And she destroyed my trust in her."

Casey's brows knit. "You mean, you can't even be friends with her now?"

"No, Casey."

"But you'll be friends again with Buck," she pointed out.

Josiah swallowed as the girl dragged him onto ground he hadn't even seen coming. He answered slowly, with reluctance. "I'm not sure I will be, Casey."

"WHAT!?!" The girl leaped to her feet, her face corded with outrage.

"Calm down, Casey." Nathan set his cup of coffee down on the table and reached for her, but she evaded him and faced Josiah angrily.

"What d'you MEAN you don't know if you can be friends again? What are you TALKIN' about!?!"

"I'm not sure Buck can forgive me, Casey." Josiah looked up steadily into the girl's hurt eyes and thought to himself he just couldn't seem to stop hurting people he cared about lately. Just one after another after another. "I said some bad things to him. An' I thought even worse things of 'im. An' he knew it."

"But . . . but it wasn't your fault!"

"A man always has a choice what to think, who to believe." Josiah sat calmly, looking at the girl as she struggled with what he'd said. She sat down suddenly, sagging, and her face fell.

"Oh," she said. "Oh, then you're sayin' it's all ruined after all." She looked up with tears trembling in her eyes. "What'll we do?" Josiah placed his hand on her shoulder.

"We'll do our best."

"You'll still try?" Her voice was small, bereft of hope, trembling.

"I didn't think I could, until you put it that way." Josiah touched a huge thumb gently to Casey's cheek, to wipe away a tear that had spilled over to run down her face. She closed her eyes, squeezing them tightly, all her unshed tears overflowing to run in long streams down her face; she grabbed Josiah's hand in hers and pressed her face against it tightly and wished her heart didn't feel like it was breaking.

"Casey." The gentle voice was Nathan's. The girl swallowed against the pain in her throat and turned her face to look at him. "There's more goin' on here than jus' hurt feelin's." He threw a meaningful look at Josiah and went on. "Fact is, findin' out what's been goin' on might just change things a lot. No sense givin' up right now."

"OK." Casey sniffed and rubbed one hand across her face.

"An' remember this: Buck never lied to us about any a' this. Belle did, but we don't know why yet. Buck never even _met_ Belle. Shoot, _I_ never even met Belle. There's too much we don't know, to go jumpin' to conclusions."

"Yessir." Casey smiled tremulously, and looked shyly at Josiah. "Thank you, Josiah."

"For what?"

"For explainin' things to me. With Aunt Nettie gone--"

"Come here, Casey." Josiah smiled broadly and pulled the girl to him into a bear hug. "Just think of me as your Uncle Josiah whenever she's not around."

Casey looked up at Josiah and smiled.

"Well, in that case, I'm gonna' make you eat your supper."

Josiah pushed Casey away from him at arms' length in mock astonishment. "An' why is that!?"

"'Cause otherwise _I_ have to carry it back down all those stairs again, 'Uncle Josiah'!" Nathan and Josiah both laughed lightly, and Josiah sat down and pulled the table closer to him.

"Never let it be said Josiah Sanchez is mean to his niece," he said. "Pass me the pepper."

Part 53

The base of the ridge. Well, he was at the base of the ridge, and he didn't see anything. Not that he'd thought he would. Ezra sighed and looked at the westering sun to see how much daylight he had left. Enough to search a while and still get back to town before dark, he thought sadly. Might as well do it. They'd all figure it out anyway if he cut corners and then there'd be hell to pay and another ride to make tomorrow, all over again. He sighed once more and took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. How was it Mr. Tanner did these things, when he did them? Oh yes. Circles. He rode in circles. Ezra laughed to himself, suddenly. I can do that, he thought; it's all I've been doing for two days anyway, going in circles.

Legging his chestnut into a jog, he began to describe large irregular circles outward from the base of the ridge Kojay had pointed out to him nearly two hours before, his eyes scanning the ground for something he wasn't sure he would recognize if he found it. Maybe a gun emptied of its bullets, he thought wryly, then with a flash of pride in his thinking: perhaps the carcass of a deer. Or . . . he frowned and tried to remember what sorts of things the others picked up when they got down off their horses at times like this. Spent shell casings. Pieces of torn cloth.

A coat.

Ezra froze. For a moment, it seemed like it had to be a practical joke. A neatly rolled coat lay on the sand beneath a tree as if someone had set it there intentionally for him to find. The gambler looked all around the area warily. Nothing. Not a soul. He looked back at the coat and rode a little closer. He didn't particularly like what it was starting to look like, and it didn't make any sense, either. If it didn't make any sense, he told himself as he dismounted, then there really shouldn't be anything to worry about. There had to be . . .some . . . . . .logical . . . He paused about ten feet away from the garment and felt his heart drop into his boots. It was Buck's. Unmistakably.

Ezra closed his eyes a moment, and then opened them again. What on God's green earth was Buck's neatly folded coat doing here, sitting on the sand beneath a hackberry tree, in a place where someone had been shooting yesterday morning and where he was looking for Vin? Ezra frowned. Leave it to Buck to screw things up, he thought. He bent to pick up the darned thing and then looked around. It was all too easy to see that something had happened here, maybe twenty feet away. Even someone as untrained as he was could hardly fail to see the . . . blood. Ezra knelt to touch the dark stain on the hard, light-colored ground. The gravely sand was cut up from horse hooves and something he couldn't identify, and the blood trail led off from the place . . . he stood up . . . in _that_ direction. He pulled his horse to him by the reins without taking his eyes from the cluster of rocks that lay directly in his line of sight as he stood looking down the trail made by the splotches of dried blood that was probably Buck's, and he mounted with a grim face and rode there with a horrible feeling that he'd finally found a job even worse than the others he'd done the last two days.

When he got to the rocks and saw that whoever he was following had gone inside the barrier they formed, he stopped his horse and closed his eyes again. If it had been 36 hours in this heat, this was not going to be good. He pressed his lips together and exhaled, then dismounted and climbed the rocks with a hard face and an even more hardened heart. Buck Wilmington, he thought, if you do this to me I swear I will look you up in hell and get even.

What he saw when he got to the top of the stones wasn't Buck's vulture-chewed body, though. It was Vin's hide coat -- laying rumpled and abandoned in a depression on the rocks inside the cleared area. And for just a moment it made Ezra think he was going to fall, he got so light-headed from the overwhelming sense of unreality. It was just impossible! He put a hand to his face, and wondered if he could be dreaming. It made NO sense! Ezra shook his head, and walked slowly up to the coat as if it might suddenly leap up with a bear hidden beneath it. He bent slowly, then, to pick it up, his eyes falling soberly on the large hole in the shoulder of it, the stain of blood on the front and sleeve. He looked at the stone, but there was nothing else. No other sign. He looked at the coat again, now held in both his hands, crushed together, as he fought the sense of totally unreasonable panic that was threatening to choke him. Vin's coat. Buck's coat. Dear GOD what was going on!?!

Ezra practically ran to his chestnut, threw the hide coat over the pommel of his saddle, and mounted up as if any moment he would see yet another sign of some horrible, inexplicable thing that had happened to the men who were missing. The men he'd been so sure were fine. The ones that no plotting had taken place against, no machinations had moved against, no --

Ezra suddenly shivered, and pushed the chestnut into a gallop. He had to get help, and get back out here and follow the trail and find them. And he had to do it fast.

Part 54

Every time Buck got half a thought together, it seemed to skitter away across the sharp, hot river of pain that was the wound in his leg. Every motion of his horse seemed to fire it until he thought it wouldn't be possible for there to be any more pain. And even with all that he was having trouble staying awake. He couldn't remember the last time he'd really laid down and slept. There'd been this morning, when they'd stopped, but that hadn't hardly been enough, didn't seem like anything now.

But in a way, none of that seemed important, not when he could look ahead of him, and see Vin up there, just hanging on. He hadn't been conscious since Sullivan slapped him on the shoulder and Buck couldn't help but be grateful for that. He knew now, what Sullivan wanted, though he didn't understand it. As long as Vin stayed unconscious Sullivan would leave him alone. And at the moment, that was the most Buck asked for.

He tried to concentrate on three things: what he and Vin had talked about, back at the river, what Sullivan had said to him, and where they were going. They were in territory Buck wasn't familiar with, high up in the mountains. Why, he thought. Can't be bounty hunters. It _isn't_ bounty hunters, he told himself. Happy just to know one thing. Sullivan had said that someone had paid him to do this. Someone had paid him to hate Buck. Who? Why? And Vin thought Sullivan was the one who'd attacked Buck at the river, heading him toward the reservation. Again, why? Who hated him enough? Who wanted that kind of thing from him? And if it was Buck they were after, why the arrows, why send him to the reservation? It didn't make any sense.

'Twenty-four hours to bring him back.' That thought popped into Buck's mind so suddenly that his head jerked up from it. 'Chris Larabee, you son-of-a-bitch,' Buck thought, glad in an odd way to have something else to think on for a minute. How could he think that? Even for one minute? How could he suspect that Buck would do _that_ to a woman? After all these years? Vin might say Chris didn't think it, but Vin was a good man and he couldn't hardly say anything else. And this was what Buck knew. Chris hadn't come himself to ask. He hadn't backed him against Josiah. And he'd made that threat, the one men made when they thought a guilty man was about to get away--'Twenty-four hours and then I'm coming after you.'

Well, maybe it was just a sign. Buck had hung onto his friendship with Chris for a long time. It had been his fault Chris had stayed that extra night in Mexico. His fault they hadn't been there when Sarah and Adam needed them. Chris had pushed him away and pushed him away and Buck had finally left and found his own way for a couple of years. Then, they'd come back together in Four Corners. And it hadn't been easy. Chris had threatened him with a straight razor the first day back in town after the Seminole village, but something had seemed different and it had seemed worth sticking there for awhile to see what would come. And, Buck had to admit it'd been something new. Men to watch his back. People to take care of and to care about. Worrisome at times, all the pressure of it, but satisfying too. And then, it had all shattered as if it had been just an illusion all the time anyway. And Chris Larabee had given Vin twenty-four hours to bring him in.

Buck closed his eyes. He was so tired. And for a moment he let the rhythm of the horse carry him along, drifting closer and closer to the sweet welcome arms of oblivion. But, he opened his eyes again, he was too thirsty, too hungry, and his leg was hammering at him too insistently for him to slip easily away. Gotta think, he told himself. Gotta figure this out.

Why had this man taken them and what did he want? That was the question Buck figured he needed an answer to. Why does he hate me, Buck wondered. It couldn't be what he'd said, that he was paid to hate Buck. No one hated like that just for the money. It wasn't natural. Revenge, maybe. Maybe he was Belle's brother come to avenge her honor. Buck smiled without humor and stifled a groan as his horse stumbled on the broken ground and sent a shaft of pain spiking up through his leg.

Sullivan looked back at him. His eyes seemed to glitter in the afternoon light. 'Who are you, you son-of-a-bitch?' Buck wondered. He continued to stare at Sullivan, willing the man to break whatever sadistic rule he was following and come after him, straight up. Sullivan just looked at him.

After a minute, he jerked on the lead rope and pulled Vin's horse up to ride beside him for a moment. Buck's stomach twisted as he watched Sullivan pull Vin closer. He could feel the muscles in his arms stretch into tight angry cords, pulling against knotted ropes that wouldn't budge. The heavy, dark weariness that had been dragging at him rained off him in sheets and he knew that if Sullivan did one thing--one thing--that he would explode. His breath was short and tight and his eyes were narrow as he watched. When Vin was beside him, Sullivan looked back at Buck again, then he reached out and lightly touched Vin's forehead. He looked back at Buck. "Got a fever," he said. "Might not make it." And then, he just let the lead rope loose and let Vin's horse drift back along it and kept on riding.

Buck could feel a growl building deep in his throat. His arms pulled so hard against the ropes that one of his wrists started to bleed and small black spots drifted across his eyes. Damn! God damn you, you son-of-a-bitch! Buck closed his eyes and then opened them. He forced himself to relax, to be quiet, to wait. They weren't dead yet. Neither one of them. And that meant that a chance would come, some time, and Buck would need to figure out a way to be ready.

+ + + + + + +

Chris had been awake for the last three hours. Blindfolded, with a head that ached like a sledgehammer had hit him, he had been sick and disoriented for most of that time. Gradually, the world had begun to make sense to him again. He was on horseback. His hands and feet were tied. Judging the sun by the heat he could feel on his skin and the way it changed as time passed he figured they were headed directly north. The sun was already low in the sky and he figured they'd been travelling a good five or six hours.

He sat and tested the rope around his wrists and listened to the sounds. He couldn't be sure but he thought there was only one other horse besides his own. One man. What had happened to the other one? There had been two at the cabin. Chris was sure of that. The one he'd seen. The red-haired man with the beard. And the one who'd been there, waiting when he rode up to the cabin. The one he hadn't seen, had only heard him say his name--'Mr. Larabee.' Chris would remember those words and the voice that had said them.

So which one was it now? The red-haired man or the other? And what the hell did either of them want? Not to rob him. They'd have hit him and then left him right there on the ground. Or maybe killed him. But they wouldn't haul him like this--blindfolded and helpless.

His horse kicked into a quick jog as his unseen captor hauled on the lead rope and the change in the rhythm jounced him and sent a sharp stab of pain spiking through his right temple. Damn it! They'd known who he was. That was the thing that ate at him. Known how to get to him. Wife. Son. Burning cabin. Someone had known all that. Gone to a lot of trouble it seemed. Had they followed him when he left Four Corners? And if they had, then he came straight back to the same question. Why?

"Who are you?" Chris's voice was raspy and dry and when no immediate answer came he cleared his throat and tried again, louder this time. "Who the hell are you?"

A dry chuckle came from the man he couldn't see. "I expect," said a cool voice, the same one Chris had heard at the cabin right before everything had gone black. "it'd be very interesting for you to know that."

"Untie me, you bastard."

"Well, now, that isn't going to happen."

"Then tell me where you're taking me."

The man laughed again, a dry cool sound like an early winter wind through dying tree branches. "Now, that isn't going to happen either."

"What do you want with me?"

"That," the man said with a certain finality, "will be clear in time."

+ + + + + + +

Striker allowed himself a small feeling of satisfaction as he watched emotions play across Chris Larabee's face. Things were really going very well. Not perfectly perhaps. But then, they never did in a plan like this. It was critical to have contingencies. And the contingencies were paying off. The regulators were in disarray. Three of their members had disappeared. One of them was rapidly becoming a drunkard, felled by a tiny woman. The plan had backups and backups and backups and soon the final phases would kick in and...well, Striker wouldn't, perhaps, get what he wanted. But the person who paid him to do the things he did would obtain the outcome he so ardently desired. And that was all Striker asked. That someone pay him. And that there continue to be plans to enact.

He looked up at the sky and the setting sun and figured he'd find a place to camp soon, maybe in a couple of miles when they reached the river. He wasn't in any particular hurry to get where he was going. Thompson would deliver his message to Hammersmith who could be counted on to do what was necessary back in town. The last two inciting incidents wouldn't happen for several more days. Everything in motion now would stay in motion until then. Small things would come to fruition. Lives would be ruined and perhaps lost. And Striker would have had a hand in it all.

Part 55

The sun was getting low in the sky. JD had pressed his horse hard to get to the Delano Mine before sunset. He had made really good time and he drew his horse up before he made a final descent into the valley where the mining operations were located. JD dismounted and saw the cemetery off to his right and his breath caught as he saw the three freshly dug graves. Mining could be extremely lucrative but the price could be high.

"Put the cemetery here so the men would spend eternity in sunshine after a lifetime in the dark," Delano had walked up the hill to meet JD, "hell, probably don't make no never mind, they're six feet under."

JD looked over the graveyard, the neatly maintained site surrounded by a freshly painted picket fence. Someone had gone to great deal of effort to plant flowers. JD's thoughts hearkened back to a grave in a Massachusetts churchyard. He wondered if someone tended his mother so well.

"I think you're wrong, Mr. Delano. They know," JD quietly responded.

Delano just nodded. He extended his hand to JD, "appreciate you comin' up and lookin' around again. Hoping a fresh set of eyes can see what I've been sayin' all along -- someone is out to take over this mine."

JD shook the hand firmly, "I'll do my best, sir."

"Come on, let me show you the lay of the land. Was busy with rescue efforts the last time you were here - didn't really get a chance to talk."

"I was surprised by the size of this place." There were at least 50 buildings, many neat houses to the right of the valley with most of the mining operation buildings on the left side of the valley nestled against the foothills.

Delano smiled proudly. "Started this operation almost 25 years ago--just me. Now I have 200 miners and with support staff and families, there are almost 500 people that this mine provides for. Two years ago was our best year ever and the prospects looked good for this year. Discovered a new vein, almost assuredly the apex. Our hopes were so high - assay came back at five thousand to the ton." Delano chuckled humorlessly, "hell, you can't bribe an assayer to give you that kind of certificate."

"The apex means all the ore in the vein, no matter where it's located belongs to Delano Mining."

"That's right. I'm impressed, not many non-miners know about The Apex Law," Delano looked at JD with new respect.

"I can't take the credit. Mrs. Travis, the editor of The Clarion, wrote an article when the bill was passed by Congress and what it would mean."

"Mr. Delano, I'll take care of the horse," the liveryman approached and took the reins proffered by JD.

"Thank you. Could you please grain him extra, been rode hard?" JD asked.

"Certainly sir." The man tipped his hat respectfully at Mr. Delano as he led the horse away.

"Mr. Delano, you were saying it had been a tough year."

"We've had four major cave-ins. Lost men each time. But it's been other things as well. Heavy equipment failures. Supplies not arriving as expected. Hard time hiring new men," Delano couldn't keep the defeat out of his voice. "Men here deserve better."

"Have you dug out from the last cave-in?"

Delano nodded his head. "We're back to full operations. You probably never got a chance to meet my manager last time you were here. Let's go get him and then, we'll show you the mine."

As they walked through the town that was Delano Mine, it was clear to JD that Delano was clearly respected and liked by his miners. To a man, they all greeted Delano and several engaged him in conversation.

"Mr. Dunne, this is Steven Borall, manager of Delano Mines." Steven Borall was a big man, at least as tall as Buck but much beefier. With graying hair and a bushy moustache, he reminded JD of Buck and what he would look like in 30 years. JD half-wondered if he would see his friend again. He left JD, packed up. JD couldn't let himself dwell on it. He couldn't afford to. He was here to do a job.

"Mr. Dunne," JD found his hand taken in a firm grasp, "pleased to have you come out again."

"Mr. Borall."

"Please, call me Steve, won't know who you're talking to otherwise," Steve smiled broadly.

"Mr. Delano, excuse me." Another man came forward and made his apologies to JD and Steve. "Need to talk to you about lumber operations."

"JD, this is Richard Browne, manager of lumber operations. Mine like this uses a lot of lumber. Having a mill on site ensures a ready supply. If you both will excuse me."

JD's eyes followed Delano as he walked off with the lumberman. Delano must have been in his early 50's. He was about 6 feet with a medium build but it was obvious his stature in this community was much taller.

"Good man," the mining manager quietly commented.

"The people here seem to think that," JD agreed.

"It's more than that. Most owners know that to some extent they have to take care of the men. Since the placer mines were overtaken by heavy equipment operations, you need a man of capitol to support all this," Steve's hand swept the valley. "Over those mountains is Apex Mining," Steve jerked his head to the mountains to the west, "Owner there is Sterling Michaels. Got a sweet operation over there and Michaels pays his men better than Delano. But he also charges more at the company store, for medical care, and for food," Steve sneered. "Fools, the only one lining his pockets over there is Michaels."

"You don't think much of Michaels, do you?"

Steve shook his head no. "He lives in that big house, even got him a house-full of servants. In another place, in another time not so long ago, you'd almost consider it a plantation with the big owner lording over his slaves. Mind you, he does it with style and grace. But hard to see him getting his fingers dirty if his men were trapped in a cave-in."

"Have they had trouble over there?"

Steve shook his head. "Not that I've heard of. But it's not that miners talk. Don't want to let the other guy know about your operations."

"If another miner wanted Delano out of business, would Michaels be your first choice?"

Steve didn't answer for a minute. "Yeah," he agreed slowly, "probably would be."

Delano rejoined them. "Let's show JD the mine and where the cave-in was."

"We were just talking about Sterling Michaels," Steve informed Delano.

Delano grimaced. "Don't think much of the man. A vulture swooping in to take over after the hard work of others."

"Mr. Michaels wasn't the original owner of Apex Mining then?" JD asked.

"Nope. Used to be owned by Roscoe Graham and it was called The Mazatzal then. Graham had operated the mine for several years but was killed in a freak mining accident two years ago and next thing you know Michaels had bought it out. He's heavily bankrolled so he had the funds to move in fast."

"Do you think he killed Graham?"

Delano chuckled morbidly. "Never heard any word that was the way the man operated. But he has his eyes set on a much bigger prize -- statehood and being the first governor. Wouldn't think a man with those aspirations would risk that type of operation? But then again, till what's happened here recently, I attributed Graham's death to a mining accident. It ain't unheard of in this business."

"If another miner wanted you out of business, would Michaels be your first choice?"

"Well don't quite know about that. Michaels would be taken an awful risk forcing me out of business. Wouldn't look good and I've been letting it be known that there has been sabotage at my mine. We have such a rich new vein, don't just bring one vulture but a whole flock."

"Yeah, anymore you have to set up security." Steve pointed to the road into the mine, "We have gates on the access roads and have a 24-hour mounted patrol."

JD was handed a helmet as they approached the mine entrance. "Mr. Delano, I meant to ask you. I only noticed three new graves in the cemetery. I thought there were two other men presumed dead."

"Totally dug out the cave-in and never did find them. Half-thought they might have been involved with the sabotage," Delano shrugged. "We have men decide this isn't the life for them and up and leave. May have been what happened in this case."

If JD thought he'd ever be a miner, he was quickly dissuaded. The tunnel narrowed sharply so that within twenty steps of the mouth, any daylight was completely gone. The walls were a dark brown-black color and water dripped incessantly. The air was dank and heavy. At every shoring there was a lantern hung, but the light they cast was so small and there were many dark shadows. JD shuddered with the damp chill and fear raced through him when he heard the ominous words "fire in the hole."

He ducked close to a wall but noticed that Delano and Steve didn't even flinch when they heard the yell. There was a brief, mild shake and a little dust was kicked up and that was it. JD felt sheepish for being a little scared, but this place was eerie.

"Fire in the hole," JD cringed but was proud he kept step with Delano and Steve this time.

Delano pointed out the start of where they had to dig out from the previous cave-in. They had added shoring in the area. JD looked around carefully for signs of a recent blast but didn't see anything. They continued further into the mine. Cold, wet, musky -- how could the men stand it for hours on end?

"Fire in the hole," JD cringed again and did lean a bit closer to the wall. And how could they stand the shudders from the explosions and what was keeping it all from falling in on their heads?

JD looked back over the route they had traveled and down the tunnel further. At regular intervals there was wood shoring. JD half-smiled, he could see why'd you want a steady supply of lumber. JD cocked his head and was trying to figure out . . .

JD looked closer at the beam. "What the hell is that?"

"Fire in the hole," JD lurched forward and slammed his body against the vertical beam of the shoring, with his hands he grabbed the overhead brace and held it up. The weight of the wood was straining his arms and he felt another person come up behind him to help hold the support. Immediately a whistle started blowing and more miners came to support the post and overhead beam.

Delano recovered from the shock of the near cave-in and immediately ordered shoring to support the damaged brace. Several burly miners who brought in bracing to support the overhead beam relieved JD and Delano.

"Thank you, JD" a relieved Delano clapped JD on the back, "great save."

JD smiled broadly and ducked his head thinking it was more a miracle than anything he did, "you're welcome, sir."

JD looked around, puzzled. "What would cause a beam to go out like that?"

Steve carried over the damaged wood. It was clear a saw had been taken to the wood and with the explosions from blasting, it was enough to finish the job."

"Well, that's it then. Finally, have proof." You would have thought in some measure Delano would be relieved. But he seemed more disappointed than anything else. "Steve, stop all operations. We need to inspect all shoring," Delano quietly ordered.

JD accompanied Delano and Steve on the inspection and five more beams and supports required replacing.

"JD, thanks for your help." Steve shook JD's hand. "Don't know about you boys but I'm ready for some grub." Delano remained at the mine to discuss some matters with the shift supervisor.

Steve escorted JD to the dining hall. On a blackboard outside was the evening menu. JD never thought he'd smelt food so good and couldn't decide if it was the mountain air or that he hadn't had a decent meal all day.

"Serve four meals a day."

"Four?"

Steve smiled. "Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and midnight chow. Ever hear the saying an army marches on its stomach. Well, a miner digs on his."

There was festive feel to the dining hall. The walls were painted white, eyelet curtains hung on the windows, and checkered red and white tablecloths adorned every table. There had to be at least 30 long tables that could sit 10-12 men. At one end were the kitchen and a serving line.

Dinner tonight consisted of a choice of prime rib or lamb chops, Yorkshire pudding, roasted potatoes, peas, and carrots. Fresh bread was served to every table on a cutting board and there was a soup starter and a choice of chocolate cake or pecan pie for dessert. Actually, you didn't need to make choices, you could have some of everything if you so chose. And many chose. JD, who had eaten in many restaurants, thought this was the best food he'd ever tasted.

Halfway through dinner, Delano rejoined Steve and JD. He had gone through the line, just like his men.

"Doing another inspection before we resume digging," Delano shook his head disgusted, "It'll take the better part of the night."

"Do you think it was the sawn boards that caused the cave-in last week?" JD asked.

Delano shook his head no. "We would have discovered it during the clean up. No, this was a new attempt to shut down the mine. Bolder than previous attempts. Whoever it is, is either getting desperate or running out of time."

"Running out of time, how?" JD was curious.

Delano shook his head wearily. "Don't know really. I just said that." Delano slammed his hand on the table, "damn, this is so frustrating."

"Sir, do you have a map of the area?"

"In my office. Let's take our coffee and dessert back there and look at it."

Delano, Steve, and JD rose to leave the dining hall. JD sensed he had eyes on him as he left. As the door was held for him, he casually looked back, noting a man that had been sitting directly behind JD and Delano. JD was certain he hadn't been there when they sat down. It was late for dinner and the dinning hall was emptying out with most of the late comers sitting near the serving line in easy reach of seconds. This man was sitting alone and quite far away from the serving line.

"Steve, who's that man in the plaid shirt?"

"Homer Beckwith, been with us about three months."

"Probably need to keep an eye on him. I recognize him from when Josiah and I were here last week. Awfully convenient him sitting behind us at dinner. May not want to talk business in the dining hall anymore?"

Steve looked over at Delano. "Know that's not your way but what he says makes sense. Also think you should lock up all the papers in the safe and post guards at the office and your house."

"Damn, I feel like I'll have no place of my own. No place to talk freely," Delano complained. "But you're both right. See that it's done, Steve."

Steve nodded.

The threesome reached Delano's office where a map of the region was spread out. It was a topical map that showed the land features as well as the location of towns, mines, roads, and rail and stage lines. JD brought the two men up-to-date on the research Mary and Casey had done. Both men were surprised by the extent of the turnover at the different mines.

"You mentioned running out of time. Could it be that whoever is doing this needs to make sure he has the apex to the vein he's currently mining?"

Delano nodded, "Or they can just want a rich vein."

"What's this area?" JD pointed to an area with no mines.

"Indian reservation, Kojay's tribe. Never had no problem with them." Delano commented.

"Hmm. That's interesting. Been talk of Indian troubles in town."

That statement gave Delano pause. "JD, they could be a target too. This area is rich in silver veins, no reason not to think that there would be some on their land too."

The three men spent several minutes discussing the area and mining operations till JD couldn't prevent himself from yawning deeply.

Delano chuckled. "Sorry about that young man, I could talk all night on this stuff. Let's see about finding you a bed."

"That'd be great, sir. I'd like to get an early start in the morning back to Four Corners and report what we found here."

JD was shown to a guestroom in Delano's house. By no means luxurious but it was comfortable enough for JD's needs. JD quickly washed up and settled down for the night. It had been a long day and he was exhausted. He'd been up before dawn, rode out here, and put in several hours in the mine. But before he could settle down, his thoughts returned again to Buck and Chris. Think I did some good work here, fellas. Don't know if it means anything but sure wish you'd guys would be back in town when I give report. Then, we could all go after the men who are doing this. The Magnificent Seven. JD chuckled as he remembered the words from Jock Steele's dime novel. Would the legend ever ride again? JD just couldn't be sure. So much had happened. Exhaustion soon overwhelmed his morose thoughts and JD fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Part 56

It was dusk when he rode into town, and the brown-grey shadows of the buildings stretched all the way across the street from one side to the other so that Ezra rode through them like a series of shallow ponds. He drew up, feeling almost numb, in front of the Clarion office when he saw Mary step out onto the walkway. Her door had been standing opened and she stood framed in it with the yellow lamplight from inside tumbling past her to spill onto the boardwalk. When she saw the look on his face, her hand went to her mouth.

"We all have to meet," said Ezra. "Go up to Nathan's. We have to get anyone who's not there already, and tell them to come. Where's Josiah?"

"With Nathan."

Ezra nodded. "JD?"

"Still at the Delano Mine."

Ezra closed his eyes. Damn. Of course. The boy couldn't possibly have made it back yet. Not until tomorrow. Dear God. He opened his eyes again. "Find Casey," he said. "Bring her, too." He legged his tired chestnut on, towards the livery.

Behind him, Mary grabbed the doorframe as she felt her legs try to give way. Stilling the questions fighting their way into her mind, she slipped inside to grab a thin shawl and put out the light. She was glad, suddenly, that she'd sent Billy to spend the night at Gloria's. Casey was there too at the moment, and she'd stop and pick the girl up to come with her. But . . . Mary paused and looked down the empty street towards the livery. Shivering suddenly, she shut the office door and hurried to Gloria's.

By the time Ezra climbed the steps to Nathan's room, Mary and Casey were there. He went inside and stood looking at the women and at Josiah and Nathan, the way they turned expectant and fearful eyes to his face, and thought: three men, one of them sick, one woman, a girl. He sighed and lifted his arm to deposit the bundle he carried on the bed over the top of Nathan's legs. He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. Nathan threw a worried look at Ezra and reached slowly to the things he'd thrown down. Every eye in the room was on them, knowing and not wanting to know. Nathan pulled a big brown coat free, unrolling it as he did. Casey gasped. The one tangled with it tumbled loose at the same time: leather, with fringe. A big hole in the upper right-hand corner, and blood stains. Casey whirled to bury her face against Mary's breast, her arms crushing the woman as she grabbed her. Mary looked up at Ezra, then Nathan, then Josiah, and held Casey silently. They all sat a long moment, letting it sink in.

"Is this all you found?" It was Josiah. He had risen slowly and was reaching to the bed to finger the coats.

"That. And blood stains on the ground."

"Where?" This time it was Nathan.

Ezra swallowed. Their questions were helping his mind work again. It felt like it had been stuck since he'd found those things. "About--" He had to stop and clear his throat, and Josiah silently poured a glass of water and handed it to him. Ezra drank it gratefully, suddenly realizing just how thirsty he was. "About 6 miles southeast of the reservation," he said. "Close to each other, but not together." He pressed a tired hand against his face. "It looks like they were ambushed there, and taken prisoner. I don't know if they were both shot or--"

"NO!!!" It was Casey, wailing as she flung herself from Mary's bosom and whirled around to face Ezra. "Don't you say that! You don't know NOTHIN'!"

"Casey, honey--" Mary tried to calm the girl, but her eyes were wide with horror.

"NO!" She jerked away from Mary and threw herself at Ezra, flailing small fists at his chest. "Take it back!" she screamed, "take it back! They're fine! They're both fine! I never even got to THANK Buck for-" She collapsed, sobbing, to her knees, her face on her hands, and Ezra bent to put both his hands on her arms.

"They may both be fine, Casey," he said softly. "It may well look worse than it is."

The girl looked up at Ezra with a miserable face, and swallowed. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, Ezra." He gathered her into his arms and raised her from the floor, then set her on the side of the bed.

"Quite all right," he said. "I'm experiencing much the same condition myself." He rubbed his eye with one hand and looked at the others. The room was darkening as night fell outside, and Josiah reached over to raise the wick on the lamp. It flared higher, and Mary silently folded Vin's coat over so that the blood on it was not visible.

"Start at the beginning," said Josiah.

Ezra nodded, and sighed. The beginning. He laughed softly to himself. Did anyone know when this nightmare had begun? He shook his head and licked his lips. "Vin never got to the reservation. Kojay made that very clear. But he said some of his men had heard shooting the day before, some distance to the southeast. They pointed out where, and Kojay insisted I check it out. He seemed to think Mr. Tanner's absence at their fete was significant."

"I agree." Mary's soft voice made Ezra look at the woman, and he nodded.

"I suppose, in hindsight. . ."

Nathan's mind was racing. Yesterday, they'd said. "What time was it they said they heard the shots?"

"Mornin'." Ezra sighed once more. "Anyway, I rode over there, and found Buck's coat. An' there was blood on the ground there, an' even I could see something had happened. I followed the trail to a sort of collection of rocks, and it was in there that I found Vin's coat."

"Were the coats just layin' there?" Nathan asked.

"Vin's was, yes. Rumpled. But Buck's was rolled up, almost folded. Neatly."

Josiah and Nathan exchanged quick glances. "If it was morning," said Josiah slowly, "then maybe Buck had slept there, used his coat as a pillow."

"That makes sense," said Nathan, "but why would he an' Vin have been together? They didn't leave town together."

Ezra shook his head. "They're together now," he said. "That much is clear." He threw a cautious look at Casey, and then continued. "And there seems reason to believe that at least one of them may be injured." The girl bit her lip, but this time she maintained her composure. Mary laid a proud hand on her shoulder, and Casey looked up sharply and smiled a wavery little smile at the woman. Everyone was silent a while, thinking.

"Could this have anything to do with Apex Mining?" Mary's voice was tentative. But she felt like someone needed to say it.

"We know someone poisoned Nathan," said Josiah. "We know someone tried to get Buck jailed. We suspect someone shot Vin. That's a lot of coincidence."

"But how . . . and why?" Mary's face had drawn into a puzzled frown.

"Maybe Vin found somethin' on his way out to the reservation," said Nathan.

"An' maybe Buck heard the trouble an' came to help," added Josiah.

"This is all speculation, gentlemen." Ezra stood up and began to pace nervously. "We need to stick to what we know."

"And what is that, Ezra?" Mary was not challenging him, he saw. She was asking him. "We can't prove anything. We can't point to anything certain. All we have are too many things happening to be just coincidence."

"That's what worries me all of a sudden," said Ezra. "I don't know why it took me so long to believe it."

"To believe what?" Nathan leaned forward from his pillows.

"This, all that's happening: it bears the earmarks of a well-laid and high-stakes con." Ezra ran his hand through his hair distractedly. "I might have seen it sooner if I hadn't been . . . "

"What earmarks do you mean?" Mary asked softly.

"Just what we're experiencing. Events that seem unrelated but that add up to accomplish some effect, to move people a certain direction -- usually against their will and in a way that feels confusing to them."

"That's sure how I feel lately." Josiah sighed.

"You might be right; I don' know," said Nathan slowly. "All I know is that it looks like Vin's been shot, an' that it was nearly two days ago. We need to find 'im. Right away. Whether there's somethin' else goin' on or not."

"Agreed," said Ezra softly.

"Ezra," Mary's voice was thoughtful. "You said a con moves people a certain direction. What direction would that be, here?"

"Dear God," said Nathan suddenly, softly, "Away from each other." He looked up and met Ezra's gaze. The others were silent, turning over what Nathan had said.

"I better get somethin' more solid than broth in me, if I'm gonna' ride tomorrow," said Nathan grimly.

"Nathan, you can't--" Mary started to correct him, but Josiah was shaking his head.

"We have to, Mary. No choice at this point." He looked at Nathan. "I'll get you what you need. Just tell me, when we're done here."

"But, you mean you're _all_ . . ." Mary felt like she was going to choke for a moment, but closed her eyes against it and recovered.

"They separated us for a reason," said Ezra. "That means we have to come back together if we are to stand a chance. What _they_ did tells us what _we_ must do, to fight them."

Mary nodded. It made sense. Still. She looked at Casey and saw that the girl was as scared as she was. She'd load the shotgun, she thought, and put Billy and Casey to sleep on pallets behind the heavy cast-iron press the nights the men were gone. It would be ok. They would be back soon, and things would be all right again.

"I'll ride out with you first thing," said Nathan. "I'll be ready."

"I'll go out to Delano's an' get JD. We should be able to join you not long after you get there," said Josiah.

Ezra stood up. "I'll go ask Yosemite to grain the horses extra tonight."

"I'll fix you some food to take with you," said Mary. "You come help me, Casey."

"Yes." The girl stood up, her hand in Mary's. She looked at Josiah. "Tell JD to hurry back safe," she said.

"I will." Josiah's eyes followed the two women out the door, and when it had shut behind them he looked once more at Ezra. "Casey missed what you said about blood stains on the ground in both places, but I didn't. What makes you think Buck an' Vin are alive?" he said.

"Their bodies weren't there," said Ezra. "We may find them a mile up the trail for all I know, but all I found was two coats. I have to hope that means something."

"Wish we knew where Chris was," said Nathan.

"Amen, Brother." Josiah stood up, too. "Tell me what food to get you."

Ezra went to the door as Nathan began to explain, and turned to look back at the two friends talking softly in the glow of the lamplight. He didn't have the heart to point out to them that Chris's absence was as mysterious and coincidental as the others'. Which meant he was snared in whatever plot there might be as deeply as Buck or Vin or any of them were.

Which meant they might find another body on the trail -- one they weren't expecting to find at all.

Part 57

Vin had been awake for some time, though it had taken a slow layering of awareness, minute by minute, before it had completely dawned on him that he was awake. The pain in his shoulder almost completely filled his brain, like a blue so dark it was almost black, and left only a tiny clear section at the very top where there was almost no space left at all, where he could think.

He'd been shot. By bounty hunters? That didn't seem quite right somehow but it was the only thing that made sense really. And they were in the mountains. The air alone told him that, cool and crisp. Buck would be having trouble with it--the mountain air--harder to get his breath and after he'd lost all that blood...Thinking of Buck snapped him up a little higher. Where was he? Straight ahead there was the man in buckskins, but Buck wasn't there and he'd been there before. Hadn't he? What had happened? Vin's heart beat a little faster. Don't panic. They won't kill him. But the truth was, Vin didn't know what 'they' would do. He didn't know who they were. They didn't act like bounty hunters.

His horse stumbled on a loose rock and the dark inky blue of the pain in his shoulder surged sharply and threatened to wash over everything and drown him. NO! He couldn't let go. He had to hang on. Though everything ached and he couldn't quite think and the pain just kept building, burning hotter and brighter and sharper with every single step and...Where was Buck? That was the thought he had to cling to. The one that made sense, sort of.

Where was Buck?

+ + + + + + +

Buck had spent the afternoon worrying at the ropes that bound his hands until his fingers were sore and his wrists were raw and bleeding. But he'd felt something start to loosen a bit and thought maybe one thick strand of the coarse rope had started to fray under his fingers. He straightened in the saddle and looked ahead at Sullivan and at Vin who seemed to have come around some time back. Good, Buck thought, that would make things easier when his opportunity came.

The trail they'd been on for the last hour suddenly broke out of the rocky pine forest into a long, narrow valley. Under other circumstances, Buck might have appreciated the combination of the fading late afternoon sky and lush summer grass and bright yellow wildflowers. But today it could have been the entrance to hell for all he cared. The trail itself led down the long slope into the valley and then back up and through the pines again between a set of low rounded mountains. Buck didn't even waste his time wondering where they were going; he'd wondered too long now and he no longer had the energy to spare.

+ + + + + + +

Sullivan stopped the horses near a small stand of pine trees. He dismounted and looped his horse's reins over a low hanging branch, then he looked back at the two men he'd been leading behind him for the last day and a half. Both of them looked like hell--the tracker was conscious, trying to sit up in the saddle, but not really having much luck. His face was tight from holding in all that pain and his eyes were dull and glazed. And the other--Sullivan looked at Buck who for once looked straight back at him, his eyes unreadable--his face was pale, there were dark, deep hollows under his eyes and he didn't look like he could stand up to much of anything if pushed. Sullivan observed the two of them with a sort of deep satisfaction. Or at least as close as Sullivan came to ever feeling satisfaction.

They were less than two miles from their destination and Sullivan knew that once they reached it everything would change. He would no longer be the one controlling these men's lives. He might not have any more contact with them. So, he decided to take one more opportunity.

'Can't kill them.' Striker's orders echoed in his head. 'No,' Sullivan thought. 'But I can make them wish they were dead.'

+ + + + + + +

Buck watched Sullivan approach Vin. 'Don't you touch him, you bastard,' he thought. 'Don't you touch him!' He could feel every muscle in his body strain, almost against his will. If he could have killed Sullivan with his thoughts alone, the man would be dead, lying flat on the ground.

Sullivan cut the ropes on Vin's legs and he had just reached up to cut the one that bound his hands to the saddle horn when he stopped suddenly as if an important thought had just occurred to him. He turned to Buck.

"You know," he said in a thoughtful voice. "I noticed a while back that you seem unhappy with the way I'm treating your friend." He walked back along the lead rope to Buck's horse, letting his knife blade flash in the late afternoon light. He reached out with a quick motion and cut the rope binding Buck's right leg to the saddle. He raised the knife, coming dangerously close to the wound in Buck's thigh, which Buck by now knew was on purpose. 'Push me a little more, you bastard,' Buck thought. 'Just go ahead and do it.'

Sullivan didn't even look at him, just walked around to the other side and cut Buck's other leg and his hands free from the saddle horn. Then, he just stood there, jam up against the stirrup so Buck wouldn't have any choice but to get off on the right side, putting all that pressure on his bad leg. He didn't do it, though. He nudged his horse a half-step to the right and he grabbed the saddle horn and swung himself down to the ground. Then, he stood toe to toe with Sullivan and ignored the white spots of pain from the wound in his leg.

+ + + + + + +

It had taken Vin a minute or two to figure out what was going on. They'd stopped moving. That was, as always, the important thing. And the man in buckskins had been near him, had cut the ropes on his legs by the feel of it. But,...he carefully flexed the muscles in his good arm, his hands were still tied to the saddle horn.

Where was Buck? He tried to look around without moving much and he saw that Buck was standing a few feet to his left, squared off with the man who'd been hauling them further and further into the mountains. There was a look on Buck's face that Vin knew meant trouble, meant he'd had enough and more than enough of everything that had been happening to them for the last two days and he was setting up to push back and damn the consequences. Vin could understand that feeling. If he had a little more room in his head outside the pain in his shoulder, he imagined he'd be feeling like that himself. But Buck wasn't up to his usual standards and Vin wasn't entirely sure that he realized it.

He nudged his horse gently in the left flank to get him to move sideways a bit. If either of the other two men noticed the movement neither one acknowledged it. Vin looked at them and felt the tension in the air like it was a live thing and tried to think of something he could do that would make a difference.

"Buck," he said. Just that one word. And he could see it, the unspooling of something black and nearly overpowering that had seemed to fill the air around the horses and the trees and the three men bent on something only one of them could name. Buck looked up and over at Vin and Vin could see the blankness there, the remote and deadly look of someone who was ready to try anything. But then, something changed and Vin wasn't quite sure what it was. It wasn't the look in Buck's eyes, still far-off and savage, but something else that made Buck shift a little bit and move away from Sullivan toward Vin. He looked up at the tracker with a message in his eyes that Vin couldn't quite read, but he decided he'd just do the best he could to be ready for anything. And he knew that the time was past where anything he could say would make a difference.

+ + + + + + +

The minute Sullivan had come near him, Buck had let the fury of the past few days wash over him and carry him along far beyond what his body should have been capable of doing. He knew, somewhere deep in the back of his mind that when it was done he would be done too, but it didn't matter. One way or another, this was his one chance and he knew it. It had almost been too much, though, he'd almost pushed too soon, and it had been Vin's voice that had recalled him to the particular moment, to the realization that he couldn't just let go, he had to get Vin out of this too.

So, he took a deep breath and he walked over to the tracker and after he was there he turned back to Sullivan. The man in buckskins looked from one man to the other, his eyes glittering with some kind of malevolent satisfaction. Then, he came over without a word and sliced the knot that tied Vin to the saddle. He stepped back and waited.

'Waiting for me to drop Vin on his face,' Buck thought. But that wasn't going to happen. Not right now. Even with that determination, though, and with Vin helping as much as he could, it staggered him to take Vin's weight. For a minute he thought it was all over then. Useless. Futile. Finished. But then, Vin was on the ground and, miraculously, standing. And Buck was breathing like he'd run all the way to the top of a mountain, but just a minute...he could get a minute, somehow. He pushed gently at Vin's horse so that Vin was just between him and Sullivan and he uncoiled the one loose cord of rope around his wrists. Vin nodded once to let him know he'd seen it.

Then, Sullivan was there, walking up between them and lifting his hand and this time Buck could see it coming, could see him reaching out to push Vin in the shoulder and in that single space of time as Sullivan turned just slightly away from him, Buck stepped back and in the same moment reached out with the loosened rope around his wrists and hooked it around Sullivan's neck and pulled.

+ + + + + + +

As Sullivan was jerked backward by the rope in Buck's hand, an exulting surge rushed through him, even as he was gasping for breath--this was what he'd been waiting for, his own hatred reflected back at him. One hand rose to grasp at the rope around his neck and he felt it give slightly even as Buck wrenched on it more desperately. Sullivan choked, his hand reached for his gun, but he couldn't bring it up and black spots were forming in front of his eyes. Damn! He slammed the revolver against Buck's wounded leg. Slammed it again and Buck went to his knees, his pull on the rope loosening almost involuntarily. Sullivan could hear Buck's breath coming in deep, harsh gasps and he wrenched himself around slipping free of the rope and turning to face Buck, his own breath sounding loud and strident in his ears. A smile began to form. He raised his revolver...and was knocked to the ground by a heavy weight slamming down on top of him, sending him face first into the hard ground and knocking loose his pistol so that it skittered away from him when it hit the ground.

Sullivan pushed and heaved and scrambled out from under Vin Tanner, who was lying face down and nearly motionless, but not yet unconscious, trying against all odds to push himself back up. Sullivan kicked him viciously in the chest. Vin groaned loudly and then lay still. Just as Sullivan was turning, though, Buck hit him as hard as he could in the back with both hands like a club and Sullivan dropped, but even as he hit the ground, he was rolling, scrabbling along for something, some weapon that he could use. His hands grasped a tree branch and he reached back and swung it with all his might, slamming Buck in his right leg, right in the center of his wound. Buck's leg collapsed out from under him and he fell with a cry, rolled a few feet down the slope and was out.

Sullivan stood and looked at both men for several minutes, breathing hard. Then, he went and retrieved his pistol. He lifted it and pointed it at Buck Wilmington's head, cocking back the trigger as he did so. He could, if he wanted to, kill both of them now and light out for the north country. He had the power completely in his hands. Odds were good that Striker would never come after him. Why bother? Everything was his. Right in this moment.

Sullivan looked down at the current object of his hate, lying defenseless on the grassy slope and he knew that he _could_ do it, without pity and without remorse. But...he holstered his gun and went back to the horses, preparing to throw the two men over them and haul them the rest of the way. He wasn't ready for this to be over yet. It would be better, he figured, if they lived. It would be so much better for them to wake up still trapped, with the bitter taste of failure in their throats.

And for Sullivan to be there to see it.

Part 58

"Come in, Sullivan."

Sullivan stood in the doorway to the library and regarded the man across the room with a fixed and emotionless gaze. The light from a chandelier glowed brightly on cherry-wood paneling and floor-to-ceiling bookcases that were filled with first editions and manuscripts from dim and distant places. The big man standing at the sideboard smiled to himself, faintly amused, wondering if this rough-hewn savage had any appreciation for a thing such as his library was, or for the Greek and Roman antiquities arranged here and there on side tables and the desk. He poured a cut-glass snifter of brandy and turned to eye the filthy man with a shade of the pleasant expression still on his face, then gestured pointedly towards a heavy chair with his drink. His manicured smile faded. "I said 'come in.'"

Sullivan crossed the room silently, the sound of his heavy boots swallowed by the thick rug on the floor, and he stood just behind the chair that had been indicated to him, one hand resting on its red velvet back.

"Sit," said the man with the brandy. He was strolling lightly across the room on the balls of his feet, his eyes dangerously intense. They were nearly colorless and looked almost amber in the lamplight. Sullivan trailed his gaze from the man's diamond stick-pin to his silk trousers, and scowled contemptuously. Smooth skin, pink with vitality, gleaming nails, soft hands. Every time he saw Sterling Michaels, he found himself wondering all over again how he'd managed to claw out a mining empire in silver. It was inconceivable to him, to imagine the man having anything to do with rocks or picks or dynamite. He scowled and fixed his stance more firmly.

"I been sittin' most a' two days an' a night," he said. "I'll stand, if it's all the same to you."

Michaels drew up short several feet away, his face drawing closed. He was a powerful man -- in physique and personality, both -- and not used to being crossed. That someone so filthy and rough-hewn as Sullivan would think to do it in his own house . . . He raised the snifter to his lips and sipped from it thoughtfully, his eyes on the man in buckskin. Then he sighed heavily as if it required great patience on his part to give in on a thing of such importance, and rubbed the finger of one hand across the bridge of his nose. He sat down in a chair that matched the one Sullivan was now leaning against, and crossed his legs casually, then eyed the dark man with a flash of scorn.

"So," he said, swirling the brandy in the snifter, "Report."

Sullivan's face darkened a fraction at the shortness of the demand, but he locked his eyes with those of the almighty Sterling Michaels, and began.

"We had to go to the backup plan," he said sullenly. "I brought Tanner an' Wilmington in just now. Thompson went after Striker an' Larabee."

Michaels was silent a long moment after this information had been laid out, and he sipped at the brandy and then stared into space a moment. He rubbed a thumb along the carved wood at the front of his chair arm, and then looked up at Sullivan slowly and with menace.

"Whose fault was it?" he said softly.

Sullivan flushed deeply and then frowned. "Theirs. Tanner's mostly." He started to gesture, but Michaels cut him off.

"Facts, Sullivan. Let us be concise." He set the brandy snifter down on the carved mahogany side table next to him, then raised one hand to touch its forefinger with that of his other hand. "Sanchez," he said.

"Belle did what she was supposed to," growled Sullivan. "Last I saw of him, he was so dark-drunk he'd kill you as soon as look at you."

"And did he attack Wilmington?"

Sullivan nodded. "An' Wilmington took out mad, yes. Only--"

Michaels held up his hand, palm out. "I am in charge of this. Just answer the questions, please." He steepled his fingers together and eyed the veiled fury that raced across Sullivan's dark features. "I take it Tanner did not go to the reservation as he'd planned to."

Sullivan shook his head angrily, his eyes defiant as he pushed Michaels' own rules of this "report" in his face. Ask away, he thought. Go ahead. Michaels saw the insolence, and stood up. He turned suddenly on his heel and walked over to the heavy desk and laid his fingers upon the globe sitting there. "Why didn't he go there?" he asked.

"Thompson said Tanner went to bring Wilmington back to town."

"I see. But you had gone after Wilmington, so when Thompson apprised you of this . . ."

"I'd already shot 'im," said Sullivan shortly. "Like we planned. I took care of it, left stuff around. Tanner tracked him an' found it, though, and then found him -- or Wilmington woulda' hit that reservation like a bat outta' hell anyway, whether he found Tanner's body on the trail or not."

"So why," said Michaels slowly, "did you not kill Tanner anyway and let Wilmington do just that?" He looked at Sullivan almost benevolently. "That _was_ the idea," he said, "to make sure the whole thing was entirely self-contained."

"Wilmington pulled the damned arrow out of himself," said Sullivan. His face was growing even harder as Michaels pushed him. "Lost so much blood I wasn't sure he'd make it to the reservation. Thompson an' I watched how things developed, and--"

"I see." Michaels turned the globe slowly on its axis and studied the moving patterns on it. "I see," he said again. He sighed and looked at Sullivan. "And Thompson?"

"Went to get Striker."

"You left town early, so you know the status of none of the other plans."

"Right."

"And is Wilmington still alive?"

"Yes. Tanner, too, although he may not be that way for long."

Michaels frowned. "That they remain alive was a very clear part of your instructions in the event we used the back-up plan," he said in a low voice. "So explain this to me, how it is that Tanner is apparently not all that alive."

"They're good at what they do," said Sullivan shortly. "It was that or kill them, or die ourselves. They don't just--"

"Very well." Michaels waved his hand at Sullivan and shifted his weight in some indefinable way that indicated the interview was at an end. Sullivan felt a low fury course through his veins at it, and he shook his head.

"Why is that such an all-fired big deal to you, Michaels?" he said, "that they're alive? Why not just kill 'em?"

Michaels vibrated at the challenge, and his eyes grew dark as he advanced towards Sullivan slowly. The nerve of this man, to question him! He looked the man in buckskins up and down as if he'd detected a sudden odor emanating from him, and then his eyes narrowed and he spoke slowly, carefully enunciating each word, his gaze boring into Sullivan's like a diamond-bit drill.

"You _never_ know when you can use a man to serve your purposes," he said, "and once you kill him, the chances of using him drop to zero. I never -- NEVER -- kill a man until I know for a fact there is nothing else he can do for me. One way or another." He stood there, his eyes still locked on Sullivan's, and the dark man felt himself grow cold under it.

Sullivan turned suddenly, breaking eye contact, and headed for the door. Just as he got to it, Michaels' voice called him back. He turned to see that the man was running his fingers along the velvet of the chair Sullivan had been leaning against. He looked up at Sullivan and smiled pleasantly. "Tell the kitchen help to take food down to them tomorrow. And _you_ take some water down there tonight and leave it, so they _stay_ alive. And useful."

Sullivan flushed, furious, and vanished from the doorway.

Michaels stood looking at the space he'd occupied, then looked down at the dirt the man had tracked in on the carpet, and then he laughed softly to himself and went to pour another brandy. The man didn't even know enough to wipe his feet off before he came into a fine house, and he thought he could best Sterling Michaels! Michaels sniffed the brandy's aroma and studied the map of his enterprise that hung framed behind his desk. Always a back-up plan, he thought, always. That was how he'd come so far, and succeeded so often. Men don't always do what you think they will -- even if you've had them watched for months and learned everything about them -- they still surprise you. Ripping out arrows so they bleed too much. Riding after a wanted man instead of going to an important ceremony. But he'd had a back-up plan in place, like always, and it was well-orchestrated. Now it was playing out despite the wrinkles, and soon it would reach its climax.

It was going to be wonderful.

Part 59

His two hands were in two different places. Buck flexed his fingers, aware of that one thing before anything else sank in. For at least a long day and a long night, plus most of a day before that, his arms had been drawn together across his torso and his wrists had been pinned tightly in a way that was almost suffocating, somehow, if he let himself think about it. So he hadn't thought about it. He'd just made do trying to give Vin water and--

God. Vin. Buck sat up slowly. The last thing he could remember of Vin was a flash of seeing Sullivan kick the shit out of him for his part in the near-escape. After that . . . Damn. No wonder his leg felt like hell, thought Buck. But he had no idea where Vin was now, or even where he was. Wherever it was, it was pretty dark. He looked up as hollow footsteps sounded overhead, and shivered. Probably a cellar somewhere, he realized, and from the feel of it not a real big one. He moved his good leg tentatively, and found his feet weren't tied either. Buck sat still a moment, feeling the floor around him with his hands, palms out flat and fingers spread, trying to get a clearer idea of where he was. Damp, hard earth, cold to the touch. It was irregular, a little bumpy here and there where harder areas had resisted the shovels that dug out the space. There was a thick timber column a few feet from where he'd been laying, and beyond that . . . Buck froze as his exploring hands encountered the sole of a boot.

"Vin?" Buck's voice was hoarse and low, and it seemed to him that the damp darkness swallowed it completely. There was no answer. The tall man scooted carefully closer to Vin, wincing as the movement pulled at the wound in his leg, and felt around again until he found a hand laying on the floor, palm-up and fingers half-curled. The skin was warm, too warm in fact, but at least it wasn't cold -- and Buck heard himself exhale the breath he'd been holding. OK, he thought, OK. Nothin's been done yet that can't be undone. He sat in the darkness thinking a moment.

They were in a cellar. People stored stuff in a cellar, and had to come down in there to get that stuff. Slowly and carefully he stood up and ran his hands cautiously up the wooden column he'd found, until he found where it joined a beam that ran overhead. Buck leaned on the timber for support and ran his hands along the beam, then smiled when he encountered what he'd thought had to be there: an oil lamp hanging from a hook in the beam. He shook it slightly, and heard the liquid slosh heavily in the base of it, and wondered if these folks stashed their matches where most . . . yep. Buck's fingers found the small sticks laying in a little scraped-out area atop the beam, right where he'd have put them himself. The tiny flare of the match flame became the warm glow of the lantern in only another moment, and Buck replaced the chimney on it and shook the match out as he turned around to get a good look at his surroundings.

The last few steps of a rickety staircase dropped down out of the darkness a few feet away, and piles and crates of things lay stacked all along the walls and on the floor. Vin was lying partially on his right side with his head near one of the larger crates, and Buck limped heavily the two steps to get back to him, hissing as a flash of hot pain ran through his leg when he put weight on it. He dropped to the floor next to the tracker with a groan, then lay a hand on the younger man's left shoulder to gently push it back and downward, rolling Vin flat onto his back so that there wasn't any pressure on the wound. He pulled back the edge of the wounded man's shirt, then, to examine the injury, and shook his head when he saw it. The whole area was more swollen, and the fluid draining from the wound had gotten much thicker. It looked almost yellow against the angry flush of the skin around it. Buck slid the fabric back in place as Vin moaned softly and moved his left hand in a low, weak arc as though to wave something away. Buck caught it and held it a moment before laying it back on the floor. He studied the tracker's flushed face as he did, and realized Vin was coming around now that he was laying flat.

"Easy," he whispered. Vin rolled his head slightly, and moaned again, and Buck lay a calming hand on the center of his friend's chest. "Easy, Pard," he repeated.

"Ah." Vin opened his eyes, and looked at Buck. "Buck," he breathed.

"Yeah." Buck sat back and took his hand off Vin's chest, knowing he wouldn't move suddenly now that he was fully awake. "We seem to be there -- wherever 'there' is," he said. He looked around the room as he spoke, and the lamplight threw long black shadows across the planes of his face and darkened the deep hollows beneath his eyes. Vin shuddered, and Buck looked back down at him. "You cold?"

"No." Vin had closed his eyes again, and Buck sighed.

"Well, I am." He leaned back against the crate behind him and rubbed a tired hand across his face. Vin opened his eyes and looked at Buck very quietly.

"You're pale, Bucklin," he said weakly, "Need t' lay down. Or you'll . . . pass out."

"Naw." Buck tried to grin at the tracker, but he knew it only ended up looking ghastly; he could feel it. He gave up trying and looked away uncomfortably. "I'm ok," he said.

This time it was Vin that sighed. "Don't make me force you," he whispered calmly.

Buck looked at Vin in surprise, then burst out in a soft, astonished laugh. The tracker smiled weakly. "Well shit," said Buck, "now you've gone an' threatened me, a poor wounded gunslinger! Ain't you ashamed?" He looked around the room with a smile pulling at his lips, and muttered again under his breath, "...make me FORCE you..."

"Buck." The taller man looked down again as Vin started to speak, but then grimaced and shifted around as a spasm of pain from his shoulder caught him suddenly. Buck lay a steadying hand on his friend's chest again in a place where it wouldn't hurt him, and just sat with him while he rode it out. After a moment Vin relaxed and opened his eyes to look at Buck. "You gotta' get outta' here," he said softly. His voice was noticeably weaker, and he'd paled. Buck nodded grimly.

"We will, just as soon as--"

"No." Vin's voice suddenly had a desperate quality to it. "I can't make it, that ride back. But you can."

"I ain't leavin' you here, Vin." Buck pressed his lips tightly together and almost felt angry. Was that the kind of man Vin thought he was?

"Stubborn jack-ass," said Vin softly. Buck smiled and snorted.

"Takes one to know one," he said. He rubbed his hand through his hair, then, and realized it was shaking. He closed his eyes, suddenly tired beyond it making any sense, and just at that moment there was a heavy sound from the darkness above, but very close. It was an unbarring and unlocking sound, and then an opening of a door. A pool of brighter light than that from the oil lamp tumbled down the steps and then spread across the cellar floor as boots appeared and then legs and then a man.

Sullivan.

Buck felt the room tip unnervingly. Sullivan. Again. Still.

The dark man had a big lantern in one hand, and a pail of water with a dipper in it in the other. He set the pail down with a thump that splashed water over the side, and shoved it towards Buck with his foot, his eyes locked on the gunman's face. Buck felt himself starting to rise. He wasn't bound this time. His hands were free. Let's just see, he was thinking, let's just see what you're made of when--

He drew up short, suddenly, as a look of cruel joy race barefaced across Sullivan's hard features. Buck clenched his hands into tight fists and eased himself back to the floor. Sullivan's eyes shot sparks then, and he cocked his head at Buck with insolence.

"What's the matter?" He took a single step closer and licked his lips. "I thought maybe you'd wanna' get in a lick or two at me again, now you're not tied up."

Buck sat quietly, but refused to break eye contact with their captor. He knew the moment he did, the man's gaze would drop to Vin. And Vin couldn't take that right now. Sullivan stood there a very long moment, then he frowned. "Water," he said shortly, his face growing harder. "My choice would be to just lock that door up there an' not come down again for a week or two." He looked around the room then, casually, and almost seemed to smile when his gaze fell on Vin. Buck sat perfectly still. Sullivan looked at him to see what he would do, then he leaned against the stair railing behind him. "You know," he said, "I think Tanner looks feverish."

Buck bit the inside of his cheek and remained silent.

Sullivan stood up straight suddenly and turned to go back up the stairs. He stopped three steps up and turned back to Buck as if he'd been struck by a sudden, brilliant thought. "Hey, I know what to do." He locked eyes with Buck a final time, and his voice slid into a tone of mock cheerfulness. "If he ain't better in a few days, I'll come down here and fix him up. You know. Cut the bullet out for him." He looked at Vin and raised his voice. "Wouldn't you like that, Tanner? Get that slug out? I bet so." He looked at Buck again and almost smiled. "It's gotta' hurt you know," he explained. "Gettin' it out would help a whole lot." He turned then, suddenly, and went lightly up the stairs.

The two men sat in the sudden silence left behind by the slamming and barring of the door, and then Vin chuckled softly. Buck looked at the tracker and shook his head.

"You have got a weird sense of humor," he observed.

"Not so much," said Vin, "just thinkin' how surprised he's gonna' be if he tries that."

"Because?"

Vin turned his head very slightly to look at Buck, and his eyes grew suddenly hard. "Because I ain't tied up no more," he rasped, "an' the first time that man comes in reach a' me again, I'm gonna' fuckin' kill 'im."

"Only if I don't beat you to it," said Buck. He looked up the stairs and thought about Sullivan being out there, just the other side of the door, and he knew he could bide his time. He looked down at Vin, then, and saw that the flush had crept back into the man's face, along with a renewed sheen of sweat that glistened in the lamplight. The younger man suddenly shivered and then went limp without making a sound, and Buck put out a tentative hand to lay several fingers on the side of Vin's face. Suddenly Buck shivered himself as it hit him, and as he wondered why it really hadn't until now, that he couldn't bide his time after all.

Because Vin was running out of it.

Part 60

The night air was almost damp with coolness after the heat of the August day. Josiah lowered the stirrup fender over the leather and ran a slow hand down his horse's neck under the mane, patting it gently. He sighed heavily then, took up the reins, and led the animal from the dark livery into the empty street. The heavy sound of its hooves on the hard-baked ground thumped in a rhythm that was almost comforting.

Comfort. Now there was something in short supply. The preacher shook his head silently to himself as he looped the reins over one arm and turned around to slide the livery doors shut behind him. Then he lifted the reins over the gelding's head and grabbed the pommel and swung into the saddle in a single quiet move that made the horse back a step. Josiah settled more deeply into the saddle and legged the animal forward. Comfort, he thought, was something he sure hadn't given to anyone around him lately either.

Take the horse. Yosemite wasn't a man to mince words, and he'd made no bones about the fact that if Tanner hadn't taken it on himself to care about the abandoned horse and brought Josiah's old friend to the livery from the saloon - -- hadn't rubbed it down and walked it out that day, after Josiah had run it hard all the way back from Belle's -- that Josiah wouldn't have had a horse any more. The old man had been downright mad about it, in fact. Good animal, he'd said, don't deserve to be treated that way just 'cause a man is upset. No excuse for it.

And the hell of it was, he was right. Josiah felt the deep, old ache of guilt in his gut, and looked up at the moon. It was just a sliver in the early sky, wasting away towards the dark of a new moon and rising later -- closer to sunrise -- each day. Not even enough light now to cast a shadow or light the trail, it hung in the sky like a punctured sack, drained of light and hope and usefulness.

Buck, he thought suddenly, hadn't deserved to be treated that way because he was upset, either. No excuse for it. He legged the chestnut into a jog and pulled his hat down harder on his head and stopped looking at the damned moon and thought about the task at hand. He needed to get to Delano's before JD left, so he wouldn't waste any of his horse's energy on a ride back to town that was without meaning now. There was somewhere else to go instead. The kid just didn't know it. He'd thought, when he left, he'd be coming back home.

Coming back home. The thought turned slowly in Josiah's head as the smaller stars, the ones that were like shimmers of dust motes in the church when the sunlight streamed in the old windows, began to fade into the darkness of the sky. When had he started thinking of that town as home? Of that old church as home? He'd sworn off even the notion of something like that a long time ago. At least, he'd thought he had. No, he shook his head, he _had_. It had given him the power to be free, to grab things that tried to choke him or beat him down, and to throw them aside so he could go on past them, stride right on out into a place where NOBODY could do that. Not ever again.

And when he'd thought Buck had acted the way the others had acted and had cuckolded him and blindsided him and shoved him out of the way like he didn't even exist, he'd made sure Buck knew he existed, by God. Josiah groaned. Oh God, he thought, oh God. What had he done? How could he not have seen that this wasn't the same? How could he have let what happened bring the past rushing back like a flash flood to sweep him away as if the present had never existed at all? Was he never to be free of it? Never to climb finally to high ground? Never to stop hurting the people who had the misfortune to be within his reach when it happened yet again? And again?

Josiah bent his head and grabbed the big, flat horn of his Mexican saddle and felt like his heart was being torn out through his chest wall. What he had said to Buck! He'd known even as the words came out of his mouth that they were the deadliest weapons he'd ever turned on anyone, ever, in his life. And he'd seen them hit home. He'd seen the look on Buck's face, felt the sting of their landing in the way the man had moved in his grip, and -- God help him -- rejoiced in knowing he'd hit his mark so hard and so well. It had felt good then, felt strong. As if he'd hit everyone and everything that had ever hurt him.

But _they_ had never been hit at all. Ever. They had gotten away scott-free, leaving only Josiah's friends within reach of his blows -- to bear them in their stead.

+ + + + + + +

Buck had been sleeping when something woke him up. He lay in the shadowy light of the oil lamp and wondered what it had been, and had almost fallen back into exhausted oblivion when he heard it again. It was Vin's voice, very soft. "No," he said.

"Vin?" Buck propped himself up on one elbow and tried to blink the too-heavy sleep out of his eyes enough to see.

"Don't," breathed Vin. He moaned softly, but it was a sharp sound, and then he shifted around against the dirt floor. Buck shook his head, trying to pull himself out of the morass of bone-numbing fatigue that wouldn't seem to let him wake up, and reached out to put his hand on Vin's good arm. He was thinking, somewhere in a hazy part of his mind, that he'd shake it lightly to rouse Vin from whatever dream he was having so he'd go back into a better sleep. But the intensity of the heat he encountered beneath his fingers when he grabbed the other man's arm brought Buck up and awake in an instant. He looked at Vin with eyes that were suddenly clear, and saw the tracker writhe again very slightly, pushing against the ground beneath him as if he could get away from the unrelenting pain that had dogged him for two days and nights now. Even as he did, Vin moved his head against the floor and sighed, and said again, "No."

Buck felt a shock of panic start to run through him, but brought himself up short and reached for the dipper instead. He ladled out some water, and then raised Vin's head slightly on one arm as he held the water to his mouth. "Drink some a' this, Vin," he said.

The tracker rolled his head against Buck's arm, and moaned. Buck pressed the edge of the dipper against Vin's lips, trying to gently pry them apart so he could pour the water in somehow, to lower the fever. Vin moved again, and the water spilled and trickled down the side of his face and then his neck. Buck cursed softly, and stretched over to refill the ladle while still supporting Vin's head. He brought the dipper back and tried again, and this time he got a little of the water in. Vin swallowed it, and then his eyes opened very slightly. He regarded Buck dully for a long moment, then closed his eyes again as the tall man pressed a little more of the water in the dipper on him and he passively took it.

Buck lowered Vin's head gently to the floor, then, and laid a large hand on the side of the injured man's face to gauge the fever. Vin's eyes opened a fraction when he did, and the uncomprehending dullness of his gaze sent another shaft of fear through Buck's fatigued mind. "Hey," he said, "how ya' doin', Buddy?"

Somewhere in Buck's mind, he expected Vin to weakly smile in some sort of wry way and make a dry comment about how did Buck think he was doing, laying on a cellar floor with a slug in his shoulder. But the tracker just blinked slowly, the light not even reflecting off the darkness beneath his eyelids, and he rolled his head very slightly to one side and whispered soft, broken fragments of sound that ended in a deep sigh.

Buck felt fear well up in his gut again, but shook it away. He just had to get the fever down some, he thought. Just get the fever down and it would be ok; he'd be all right. He knew how to do it, too. Knew just what would work, yes. He opened Vin's shirt quickly and then pulled his own enormous bandanna over his head with shaking fingers, poured a dipperful of water onto the cloth, and began to sponge off Vin's face and neck, his chest and shoulders. After a few moments, the tracker shivered heavily and Buck hesitated for a long moment when he saw it, wondering now whether he was doing the right thing or not. He touched his hand against the man's bare skin to see if he'd messed up or gone too far, but what he felt still was heat -- dark somehow, even sullen. As he wondered what to do, Vin moaned again and shifted uncomfortably against the floor and his breathing suddenly grew more shallow and rapid. Buck closed his eyes and decided to keep trying to sponge the fever down, whether it made Vin shiver or not. He had to do something; he couldn't just sit there and watch it get worse.

He rewet the bandanna and began to wipe the sick man's face and chest again. If only there was some air moving down here, Buck thought, or if there was a window he could open . . . his thoughts trailed off as he redoubled his efforts, feeling the heat from Vin's skin coming right through the wet bandanna and into his own fingers now. Then somehow he ran his hand too close to the wound itself as he tried to sponge off the injured man's chest, and Vin cried out suddenly and jerked away from Buck's touch with a gasp of agony. The gunman dropped the cloth like he'd been shot, and leaned back against the wooden column behind him and felt just plain sick. Of all the things to have done, he thought. After all this. He had to pull himself together, though, had to reach out again, to restrain Vin so he didn't hurt himself as he thrashed about in the spasm of pain he'd ignited by moving so suddenly. In the process, somehow Vin's flailing hand hit the wound in Buck's leg, and the gunslinger saw stars and thought he was going to laugh and cry at the same time. It was impossible, he thought. The whole thing. It was just impossible and ridiculous and obscene.

He laid Vin gently back down on the ground as he quieted, and picked up the bandanna again in a shaking hand. He hoped his leg wasn't bleeding again, but he wasn't even going to look. It wasn't like it would kill him at this point if it was, anyway, he thought, and there wasn't anything he could do about it if it did.

+ + + + + + +

Three flights up, Sterling Michaels was dreaming. "No," he said softly, and then, "Don't." The breath-takingly beautiful woman in his dream obliged him by not leaving, but by coming back instead to wrap her arms around his shoulders. A sound woke Michaels up, suddenly, and he lay in the bed feeling cross and wondering what it had been. He'd almost drifted off again when he heard it once more -- the clatter of the shift bell down at the mine. Damn! He sat up in bed and rubbed a large hand across his face. Either he needed to take that idiotic bell away from them, he thought, or make them adjust their shifts so they didn't start the morning one in the middle of the damned night. Suddenly he laughed softly and rubbed his cheeks in chagrin.

"Aw hell," he said aloud to himself as he swung his legs off the bed, "the day I start worrying about the shifts is the day I get too soft to run this place any more; I'm just pissed I didn't get to finish that dream." He grinned, thinking about it, and found himself wondering how much longer it would be before Belle came back. Maybe he ought to send for Conchita again, he thought, have himself a little reward for all the hard work he did.

He stood up with the soft warm anticipation of pleasure running through his belly, then grinned when he saw that little Pedro at least had done well this morning -- had brought up his morning tray without waking him. Its silver gleamed richly from the inlaid mahogany table that stood beneath the east window, and the low light of the lamp he lit danced off the heavy silver coffee service on it that was nearly 200 years old and from Ireland. The sight of it always made him feel proud, knowing he was part of that and that it was part of him. Sterling, he thought, rolling his own name around as he poured a thin stream of the steaming black liquid into a bone-white china cup. How perfect that his father had chosen that name among all others, had lifted him to aristocracy and blessed his future with it, created the man he would become. Michaels lifted the cup of coffee to his lips and sipped it slowly, savoring the heavy blend he had made especially for him, relishing the powerful taste of antique silver that was laced around the edges of it somehow. A loud crash from the mine yard outside as someone dropped a piece of equipment made Michaels' hand jerk, and a tiny bit of the coffee spilled and ran down his chin and then his neck, burning him slightly. He cursed and jumped up to grab a napkin from the silver tray and dabbed angrily at it, then set down the cup and walked to the window to look outside.

The waning moon had cleared the mountains to the east, and it hung like the edge of a thumbnail in a sky already being scrubbed of stars by the distant sun. It wouldn't be light yet for over an hour, but Michaels frowned seeing its approach; he hated summer and the heat, even in these mountains. As it was, the lingering staleness of the previous day had combined with the heat of his dream to make him awaken uncomfortably warm. With a sudden gesture of decision, Michaels undressed quickly and poured water in a deep rushing plunge out of the big pitcher on his dressing table, into the washbasin. He splashed it liberally on his bare chest and neck, and along his arms and face. The cool water was invigorating, although he was still too warm when he finished washing. Striding to the French doors on the other side of the room, he threw them opened to admit the night-breeze onto his wet skin, proud of the brilliance of the way he'd laid out the house so he could do that. He shivered as the dark wind flittered in across him, and smiled in relief.

Turning back into the room to dress, he stumbled against the leg of a massive plush velvet chair that the maid must have moved out of its proper place, and barked his shin so badly that he had to sit down on the offending piece of furniture a moment to get his breath back. For several long moments he sat bent over with his hands to his leg, thinking he might even have broken it, but slowly the pain subsided and he studied it closely, to see that there was only a slight bruise and that it was apparently going to be all right, although no doubt sore. He stood up and tested it carefully, then went on to the matter of dressing and beginning the day. He was going to have to speak to the maid, though, he reminded himself. A man could get himself killed tripping over furniture that people moved around carelessly like that.

+ + + + + + +

Three floors down, Buck laid the wet bandanna carefully over the nearest crate so he could use it again later, and laid back down, exhausted, to see if he could get a little more sleep. Vin's fever had finally gone down and the tracker was resting more easily. Buck laid down, himself, and let the darkness of the deep fatigue he couldn't seem to shake any more pull him back into oblivion.

+ + + + + + +

Josiah pulled his coat closer around him and shivered, settling in for the long haul. It was a very long ride to the Delano Mine. And the journey was going to be a dark one.

Part 61

Mary gave up on trying to get any sleep. She'd been lying awake for quite awhile. She could hear the even breathing of Casey and Billy and was jealous she couldn't rest as peacefully. She just couldn't get her mind to shut down long enough to get some rest.

Chris! Where are you? Your best friends are in trouble and need you. If Chris had found them, he would have either headed to the reservation or nearest town and he would have gotten word to them. But that was just it. The men had at least some clue about Buck and Vin but nothing about Chris.

It had been two days. If Chris had left to look for Buck or Vin and had found no sign of them, he'd check back--right? He'd wire and ask if they'd returned or come back to Four Corners himself. Mary half-convinced herself that she'd see Chris today. Not that he wouldn't ride right back out but he'd be here for a short time and that's all Mary wanted at this point. She just wanted to be reassured that he would be back and a brief glimpse of him would convince her. Although, she thought dryly, a hug would be a lot more effective. Mary sighed - that wasn't going to happen. She really should stop throwing herself at the man. Right girl, like you even do that. Mary softly chuckled, maybe that was exactly what she should start doing. Right now, she'd settle for just seeing him.

Mary decided to get out of bed. If she wasn't going to sleep, she could at least make herself useful. She pulled a dress from the wardrobe and went out to the kitchen. She put on a pot of coffee and quickly freshened up. She pulled the ingredients for biscuits and started to prepare them having long memorized the recipe. As soon as the biscuits were in the oven, Mary started preparing bread. Then, cookies. Yes, she was turning into a veritable baker. Mary started organizing the food into packets to be packed for the men. A light rap on the back door interrupted her.

"Mary, it's Ezra Standish."

Mary cautiously opened the door and when she verified it was the gambler she opened the door wider.

"Are you alright, my dear?" he queried quietly.

Mary smiled slightly. "Except for not being able to sleep, I'm fine. I just started getting food together for your trip."

Ezra looked over at the kitchen table and all the food laid out. "Are you packing for an army?"

Mary shook her head slightly and turned back to the kitchen. "No, just seven men," she said under her breath.

If Ezra heard her, he chose not to comment. "Mary, I have to admit to a little concern leaving you and the others in town without one of us present."

"I was thinking maybe Chris would come back today," Mary said hopefully. "It's been two days. If he left to look for Buck or Vin and he hasn't find any sign of them, don't you think he would come back here?" Oh, if that didn't sound pathetic, Mary.

Ezra seemed to take a moment to find his words. "You could very well be correct. But I think it's prudent to prepare just in case. I've wired Eagle Bend and they will be sending a deputy to assist in law enforcement."

Mary ducked her head trying to prevent the tears that were just a dash away from falling. She had really hoped he would agree with her and tell her Chris would be back. "When is the deputy expected?" Mary asked quietly, knowing she wasn't able to keep the dejection out of her voice.

"Later this afternoon. In the meantime, I would like to check your weapons."

Mary nodded like this was a common request and went to the front office, returning with a rifle and revolver. She went to the back bedroom and returned with another rifle and two more pistols. She then walked away again, returning with three more pistols. Ezra frowned at the arsenal on the table.

Mary looked at the display sheepishly. "I want flowers or candy or perfume. He leaves town," she inclined her head at the table, "he gives me another gun."

Mary walked out of the kitchen again, returning with a wooden box. Inside, neatly arranged were oil, lintless patches, slotted tips for the patches, wire brushes, and several polishing cloths. She took a wistful breath, "I want flowers or candy or perfume," Mary presented the box to Ezra, "he gives me gun cleaning supplies."

Ezra couldn't stop himself from chuckling if he tried. Mary rolled her eyes and sighed, "have at it."

Mary returned to making sandwiches while Ezra started cleaning the guns. They really didn't have a lot in common except their mutual friends and chose not to broach that topic.

"Mama," Billy called out as he came into the kitchen. The little boy wiped his sleepy eyes and shielded them from the lamplight.

"Right here, Billy. What are you doing up, honey?"

"I heard voices."

"It's just Mr. Standish. He's checking our guns before he leaves on his trip."

Billy walked around the table and pulled on his mother's skirt, "Chris does that, not him," Billy whispered.

Ezra paused in cleaning the guns, having heard the boy. He might have whispered but he definitely wanted the gambler to know who was responsible for the guns in this household. Mary glanced over at Ezra and took a shuddering breath in. She knelt at the boy's level. "Chris is gone so he wanted Ezra to do this for him."

"Like walking me to work?" Billy asked tentatively.

Mary smiled, "exactly."

"Then I guess it's okay."

"Yes, I really think it is." Mary patted her son on the head. "Honey, you know it's really early yet. Do you think you can sleep?"

Billy shook his head.

"That's okay. Sit up to the table and I'll get you a drink."

"Can I have a biscuit too?"

Mary smiled, "sure you can."

Mary split several biscuits and spread butter and strawberry preserves on them. She poured a cup of milk for Billy and coffee for Ezra and placed them on the table.

Mary left them alone to their snack and went out to her back shed to retrieve a saddlebag she had out there. When she returned, Casey was up also.

"I couldn't sleep either."

Mary smiled thinking well, we can all take a nap this afternoon. Ezra had finished with the gun cleaning and Mary took the guns returning them to their places.

"Yosemite is preparing the horses and bringing them here. I'm going to get Nathan," Ezra walked across the kitchen to leave.

Mary followed him, wanting a word in private. "Do you think Nathan is strong enough for this trip?"

Ezra looked doubtful but of course, attempted to reassure Mary. "He's keeping solid food down with no problem. He's weak but seems otherwise okay. We'll take rest stops but I don't think we can afford not to have him with us."

Mary knew he was right and couldn't see pressing Ezra on an issue he couldn't change if he wanted to.

+ + + + + + +

Hallelujah, he was gone, Nathan thought. Damn, who knew Ezra could be such a nag.

If it wasn't for making rounds, Nathan was quite sure he would kill Ezra. At least, inflict some serious bodily injury. He had taken to hovering - drink Nathan, rest Nathan -- Nathan jeered as he recollected the Southerner's admonitions. Jeez, how did anyone ever put up with him? Sure as hell wouldn't make any kind of healer. All his patients would want to kill him.

Nathan chuckled at the image. Yeah right, Ezra as a healer -- that would be the day.

Nathan took the time to wash and shave. Didn't know when he'd get the opportunity again. He put on his favorite pants for riding and efficiently checked his weapons. He secured his throwing knives to his back and strapped on his guns. If they had to move out fast, he wanted to be ready. He packed some extra clothes and laid out his coat. Didn't need it during the day, but they were heading west. Maybe into the mountains where he'd need it. He knew his slicker was secured to his saddle. Extra ammunition and his rifle were laid out also.

Nathan surveyed his preparations; satisfied that he could take care of himself. Now, he needed to be able to take care of everyone else. Nathan pulled his medical bags and pulled the contents to inventory the supplies. Over his time as a healer, Nathan had learned what to pack and what he could find in the wild. Nathan pulled his leather bound journal out to review the items he would need. The journal was a present left at his door that Nathan was forever thankful for. As he learned about diseases, cures, herbs, roots, medicines -- he would catalog it in this journal. It was a rare day, that Nathan wasn't making some annotation. As he reviewed his medical supplies against his list, he pulled items from his cabinet -- certain roots not available this time of year, bandages, suture material, and ensured his medical equipment kit was complete - scissors, tweezers, scalpel, clamps. He carefully placed the supplies into the bags he used for his medical kit. Nathan made one last check -- he was ready.

He returned the journal to its place on his bureau. It was too valuable to risk on the road, besides Nathan had memorized its contents. Nathan fingered the pages and looked back over his notes. He got a pleasure from remembering the doctors, midwives, and medicine men he met throughout the west. For the most part, there was a very collegial atmosphere where ideas were freely exchanged. In the outposts of the west, there were just too few of them to go around. As Nathan flipped through the pages, he came to a page he hadn't written. Nathan looked over what was written -- fever - no; vomiting diarrhea - yes, severe; garlic odor to breath - yes; pain - yes, abdominal pain, severe, diffuse. Then there was a list of diseases -- diphtheria, typhoid, cholera, scarlet fever, yellow fever, food poisoning . . . This wasn't the record of any patient -- it was the documentation of his poisoning. Nathan knew Mary had a hand is figuring out the poisoning but obviously she had help. Nathan smiled broadly. Well, you all did a good job.

Nathan lovingly placed the journal away and noticed a folded piece of paper on the bureau. He opened it up and realized it was a list of supplies with dollar figures -- sheets, blankets, towels, laundry services, baths, hot water. Nathan eyes widened at the final figure. Wow. Nathan was glad he didn't have to pay the bill. He placed it in his journal thinking he'd make sure it was returned to its proper owner when they got back. If they got back.

The door to the clinic swung open and Nathan quickly drew up. "Better if you'd knock," he addressed his guest as he holstered his gun.

"Excuse my consideration, you were supposed to be resting in bed and I didn't want to disturb you prematurely," Ezra responded pithily.

"Time to go?" Nathan asked pointedly ignoring the comment about resting.

"I see you're ready." Ezra reached for Nathan's saddlebags to add to the ones he already had packed. Nathan grabbed his rifle and coat.

He started to head towards the livery but Ezra stopped him. "Horses are at Mary's. Let's go through the alley."

Nathan looked hard at Ezra. Ezra shrugged, "probably best we not announce our forthcoming departure."

Nathan could see the sense in that. Better to be alert and overly cautious than risk a stupid error that endangered them or the town.

When they got to Mary's, they secured their respective saddlebags, holstered their rifles and double-checked their saddles, tightening the cinch.

When they heard the activity, Mary, Casey, and Billy came to watch them prepare to leave.

"You're going then?" Mary half-asked, knowing the answer already.

Ezra nodded.

"Nathan, remember to drink a lot and get rest where you can." Casey anxiously reminded Nathan of what he was supposed to do. Nathan smiled, unlike Ezra, Casey wasn't near as irritating.

"When you're able, please get word to us," Mary requested.

Ezra nodded. Both men mounted their horses and Ezra offered his usual two-finger salute as he turned to depart.

"Take care," Mary called out and all three waved as the men rode out.

As they were about to leave Four Corners, Ezra drew up. "Yes, Mr. Jackson," Ezra seemed to know what Nathan was thinking before he did. Damn irritating.

"I know we've done it in the past. Don't feel right, leaving them without one of us here."

Ezra nodded his head morosely. "I find myself with the same concerns. I wired Eagle Bend and they are sending a deputy."

Nathan looked sideways at Ezra. "You wired."

"Yes," Ezra responded shortly.

'Mister, I can't see two inches in front of me' took action to ensure the protection of the town. Nathan shook his head in wonder. Circumstances forced men to step forward. It really shouldn't surprise Nathan that Ezra would do that. For all his whining about early mornings or it being beneath him to hunt down some miscreant, Ezra never hesitated to fold his cards without complaint and do what needed to be done. And Nathan didn't doubt he'd back him or cover his back in a fight. It was a measure of the man. Though, he still could be irritating at times, Nathan was thinking he was damn lucky to have Ezra riding beside him.

By silent accord, both men urged their horses forward. They headed towards the southwest to the place where Ezra had found Buck's and Vin's jackets. Time could be running out on their friends. They had to find them soon.

Part 62

"I found Vin's coat here, inside the rocks," said Ezra, "and Buck's was over there." He pointed to the stand of hackberry trees nearly a quarter mile away, and Nathan nodded. He was, thought Ezra, looking none the worse for wear so far. Maybe his repeated assertions that he was up to this ride were based on more than simply wishful thinking.

"Did you take a good look aroun' in there yet?" Nathan was eyeing the outcropping carefully. Ezra shook his head.

"I just looked it over quickly. I found the coat on this end over here, and--"

A piercing whistle followed by a stentorian yell interrupted the gambler, and both men turned in their saddles to see Josiah and JD galloping towards them. The two reined in on plunging horses as they approached the rock outcrop, and JD dismounted to run lightly up on top of the boulders before anyone had a chance to speak. He stood against the bright morning sky, and turned to look down at Ezra.

"These the rocks where you found Buck's coat?"

"Vin's coat," corrected Ezra. "Buck's was at some distance from here. And it's nice to see you, too."

JD nodded and vanished as he dropped over the other side into the enclosed area. Ezra sighed and dismounted, eyeing Nathan warningly as he did so. "I trust you will remain here?" he said. "No reason to use up what strength you've managed to recover on duplicating others' efforts."

A brief scowl flashed across Nathan's face before he relaxed, and then he smiled at the look Josiah threw him as the preacher dismounted to follow Ezra.

"Behave, or we'll sic our healer on ya'," grinned Josiah.

"Wouldn' want that," said Nathan casually, "I hear he's just hell on folks that ignore 'im."

"Amen, Brother." Josiah laughed and climbed over the rocks. The laugh died in his throat as he reached the enclosed area on the other side, to see Ezra and JD examining dark stains on the granite.

"Ezra, there's . . . " JD's voice trailed off with concentration as he walked from where Ezra had found Vin's coat to a position some feet away, and then back again. He knit his brow as Josiah joined him and touched tentative fingers to the grey stone that was now flecked with blood as well as shiny minerals. The youth turned a troubled face to the preacher. "I don't understand it," he said. There's a lot of blood over by where the coat was, and then over here . . ."

". . . it looks like someone else, not bleedin' as badly," finished Josiah.

JD's eyes widened and darkened, and he looked quickly at Ezra. "_Both_ of them?" he said.

Ezra was staring again at the place where he'd found Vin's coat, and he looked up silently at JD's words.

"Show us where you found Buck's coat," said Josiah softly.

Ezra nodded, still without a word, and led the way back to the horses. Nathan gathered the reins of his chestnut when he saw the grimness of the others' expressions as they returned, and drew his horse near Josiah's as Ezra led the way to the other site with JD riding almost even with him, his little bay prancing from the sense of its rider's anxiety.

"How's it look?" he asked softly. Josiah shook his head and then looked at Nathan with an expression of weary sorrow.

"Looks like they're both in big trouble," he answered. "One of 'em's losin' a lot a' blood, an' I'm guessin' it's Buck." Nathan nodded that he'd heard, his eyes fixed on Ezra and JD riding several lengths ahead of them, both men's emotions notched too high for the long-term.

"What exactly did you see?"

"You saw Vin's coat, same as I did. You know he wasn't bleedin' much. The place where Ezra found it, though, someone had been there a long time, bleedin' heavy. Someone else was over against the boulders on the other side, not bleedin' nearly as bad."

"You're thinkin' _that_ was Vin."

"Yeah." Josiah nodded. "So I'm thinkin' he took off his coat to put under Buck."

Nathan looked up at the sun, nearly a hands' width above the eastern mountains now. "When the rocks got hot," he said softly.

"When the rocks got hot," agreed Josiah. Both men had been in the desert longer than JD had, and outdoors more than Ezra had. They had dropped far enough behind the other two to converse without being overheard, but now arrived at the stand of hackberry trees where JD was kneeling to study to the ground, his face wreathed in distress. Josiah dismounted with a sigh and walked over to look down, then gazed back at Nathan and nodded almost imperceptibly. Ezra's face immediately clouded, and he strode over briskly from where he'd been searching to see if anything else had been left behind where he'd found Buck's coat.

"What was that," he said almost querulously, "that I just saw?"

Josiah turned a bland face to Ezra and regarded him silently. The gambler flushed and threw a quick glance to Nathan. JD, sensing the sudden tension between the three, stood up.

"I know you two know something. Or think you know something," continued Ezra. "You forget it's my business to read expressions. In this case, lives may depen--"

"Looks to Josiah like Buck was bleedin' pretty bad," cut in Nathan. He glanced at JD and then back at Ezra. "An' that Vin's got a different problem. Not bleedin' much, meanin' he's probably still carryin' a slug." Ezra looked from one to the other of the men.

"And does this have bearing on the appropriate course of action to choose?"

JD cleared his throat nervously and came closer to the others. "We need to follow the trail," he said, "see where they went. Find 'em."

Josiah and Nathan exchanged a long look.

"Before it's too late," added JD softly.

"When the man's right, he's right," observed Josiah. He swung into his saddle and gathered the reins as he looked at Ezra and JD. "So did they go from here to the rocks, or from the rocks to here?"

"There's a lot more . . . _stuff_ here." JD stumbled over saying the word 'blood' and then went on when he found a way past it. "I think we need to see if there's any sign leadin' away from the rocks. If there is . . . "

". . . then we follow it." Ezra nodded and he, too, mounted up. "Let's see what we can find, Mr. Dunne."

The men went back to the rock outcropping and began to ride carefully outward from it in ever-widening circles, their eyes on the ground. JD grunted suddenly, pointing at the ground. "Here," he said. The others rode over to join him as he looked back at the rocks to get a bearing and then moved out in the same direction from the sign he'd found. Josiah caught up with him, and spotted the second large splotch of dark brick-red at the same time JD did. He looked back more carefully and could see now that smaller spots marked the stones and sand here and there between the two larger marks. He eyed JD appraisingly.

"You've been payin' attention when Vin trails."

"Yeah." JD nodded and bit his lip, then threw a guarded glance at Josiah as Ezra and Nathan rode up.

"JD's found the trail," Josiah explained to the other two.

"Lead on." Ezra gestured, and JD and Josiah led off looking for the next sign. It was nearly 20 yards away this time, and had it not been on the surface of a prominent light-colored boulder they might have missed it. The next was even farther away. Within the space of a half mile the marks were nearly too far apart to locate with assurance, and getting harder to find in the rough terrain. Ezra started shaking his head bitterly.

"This is never going to work," he burst out.

"Then you can go back," said Nathan shortly. "I ain't quittin'."

"That's not what I meant." Ezra reined in and regarded the other three with somber eyes. "I mean it's going to take us too long to do it this way."

Josiah shifted in his saddle uncomfortably. "Since we don't have a tracker," he said. It sounded like the sentence was unfinished, but the others understood the implication perfectly. He looked at JD suddenly. "Although you're doin' a good job," he amended.

"I ain't Vin," said JD simply. He turned to look back at the way they'd come, then took his bearings from the sun. "The trail goes northwest so far, straight as a beeline," he pointed out. "If they kept on this way, they'd wind up at Apex. Maybe we should just head on up there as fast as we can -- to save time." He fiddled with the reins of his bay, then took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his arm, avoiding the eyes of his silent friends. Several moments went by, and then Ezra nodded.

"Our young companion makes a great deal of sense. The chance of being wrong about Apex is slender enough to be worth the risk."

"Risk?" interrupted Nathan. "You talkin' 'bout risk an' what's worth it an' not worth it? With men's lives at stake? Ezra, this ain't no card game--"

"I know that." The gambler sighed and ran a weary hand across his eyes. "The stakes are as high as they get. But it's already been two days, and it's sixty miles to the Apex compound, uphill the whole way, in mountains. I don't think we can afford _not_ to take the chance."

"I'm tellin' ya'," breathed JD, fear setting fire to the edge of his voice, "everything I learned at Delano's makes me think more an' more that he's right. Someone _is_ tryin' to put him outta' business. An' if the things Mary an' Casey found are right . . . " His young voice trailed off, desperation creeping into it. He let the thought hang suspended, unfinished in the hot morning air.

The men remained silent for several long minutes, turning the situation over in their minds. Josiah dismounted and studied the blood trail more closely, then walked a little way farther in the direction they'd come so far with his eyes scanning the ground, and came back. "It does keep goin' the same direction," he said softly. His eyes took on a troubled light and he shook his head. "So far, anyway."

"I guess you're right. We're runnin' outta' time an' got no other choice." Nathan sighed. He looked at each of the other men in turn, and his eyes were dark and somber as a winter rain. "So let's ride."

Part 63

"This looks like a good place to rest an' water the horses." Josiah reined in with a quick look at Ezra, who immediately nodded.

"Yes, indeed," he said. He dismounted and inhaled deeply as he started to lead his chestnut to the silver-flashing creek. He looked back at Nathan, who was still sitting on his horse and was furthermore looking a little cross. "This mountain air is most bracing," added Ezra.

"Bracin'." Nathan looked slowly from Ezra to Josiah. "Horses." He got down stiffly, muttering under his breath, swayed a moment, then caught himself on his stirrup and sighed. He looked at Josiah again, somewhat abashed.

"I ain't gonna' say it," said Josiah. "Not an 'I-told-you-so' kinda' man."

"I am." Ezra smiled enormously, although his eyes were dark in a way that none of the others could miss. "I told you if you didn't stop and rest on the way, you'd fall off your horse. And you see that I was, once again, correct. It really is quite a frequent occurrence, although apparently it fades at once from everyone's memory."

"Shut up, Ezra." Nathan slowly walked over to a tree not far from the edge of the rushing stream, and JD dismounted to hurry over and lift the trailing reins from the healer's hands. Nathan looked up with a flash of gratitude on his face, and JD smiled.

"Might as well water both of 'em at once," he pointed out. Nathan smiled very gently.

"Thanks."

"No problem." JD led the horses off towards the stream, where Josiah had loosened his horse's cinches and tied its reins so it could graze a little on the long grass along the watercourse. The big man strolled over and lowered himself with a groan of relief to the ground next to Nathan. The healer had found a place to sit at the base of a big ponderosa pine, and Josiah looked up through the puffs of needles scattered along slender red boughs, and closed his eyes.

Nathan looked exasperated. "Josiah, I appreciate you bein' a man a' peace, an' bein' able to FIND peace when you need it, but I'll be damned if I can understand how you can go to sleep when--"

"Shhhhh." Josiah spoke in a low rumble without opening his eyes.

"Why, you--!"

"SHHHHHH!!" This time it was Ezra, as he walked over from the stream, pulled off his hat, and started using it to fan himself. "Just let yourself relax a moment, Brother Jackson, while the beasts take their leisure and recoup their strength for the arduous climb yet ahead of us."

JD sat down on the ground with a thump and a short laugh, and pulled a paper-wrapped packet from his coat pocket. "Well, if it's all the same to you, I think I'll recoup _my_ strength, too while we're here." He opened the packet and inhaled of its contents, then held them out to the other men. "Biscuits an' beef. Some a' the stuff Mary made us," he explained.

"Thank you, JD." Ezra removed a morsel from the paper in such a way that Nathan, watching him with a jaundiced eye, was unable to see how much he'd taken. The youth leaned out and around to Josiah, whose broad fingers found a piece of biscuit with unerring aim despite the fact that his eyes were still closed.

"Wonderful gesture, JD," he rumbled.

"Nathan?"

The healer looked from the eagerly proffered biscuits to JD's open face, and then at the other two men. "I suppose," he said, "that y'all expec' me to think this just _happened_."

"Well, it DID." JD looked crestfallen, and Nathan shook his head suddenly worried that the men really hadn't plotted and that he really had hurt JD's feelings somehow. He reached out quickly and took one of the biscuits, and started eating it. He kept his eye on Ezra as he did, watching for the tell-tale gloat that would give away the truth. When he saw none, he relaxed and kept eating.

It really was wonderfully good, in fact, and it did make him feel better. Less light-headed. He uncapped his canteen and took several long drinks to wash down the food, and the water was cool and tasted good, too. When he finished the food, Nathan sat in the warm sun a moment while the horses grazed, listening to the stream and to the fat bees moving among the yellow flowers of the meadow, feeling the firm ground under him and the tree behind him. And then suddenly he realized he'd been asleep.

He sat up with a guilty start, his eyes flying opened in the fear that he would see long afternoon shadows already stretching across the meadow. But it didn't look all that different, except that Josiah was looking him right in the eye. The preacher cocked his head to one side.

"Feelin' better?"

Nathan _did_ feel better, but at what cost? His heart was hammering with guilt. "How long?" he asked.

"Only about an hour." Josiah stood up and extended his hand down to Nathan, smiling. "You had to, Nathan. You know that."

The tall black man let Josiah help him up, and shook his head. "I can't help but worry--"

Ezra showed up from down around a break of trees, the horses' reins in his hands, JD mounted up and riding behind him. "You can't help them if you don't make it there," he said firmly. He held out the reins of Nathan's horse. "And I do believe you are, at least, no longer grey. I will confess your appearance was beginnin' to alarm me the last few miles."

Nathan shoved his foot into the stirrup and swung up, pulled his horse around to face Ezra, and nodded slightly. He looked at JD and Josiah and did the same. There was unspoken thanks in his face. Then he looked up the way their trail headed, at the rugged peaks rising beyond the steep slope they were climbing now. His eyes came back down to those of his companions', and his face grew somber.

"Let's ride," he said softly.

+ + + + + + +

Buck woke up off-balance and startled, feeling almost like he'd fallen down the steps to land on the floor. But he was in the same position as before, leaning back against the central post, and nothing seemed to have moved. He looked at Vin, next to him, and saw that the man's eyes were opened and looking back at him. Buck sat himself up higher, clearing his throat, and turned to face Vin and look at him more closely.

"Hey," he said softly. The creases in his forehead relaxed when he heard Vin's soft reply.

"Hey."

It was barely a whisper, but it was there. Buck reached to the pail and dipped out water for the wounded man, lifting him enough that he could drink it. He was gratified to see that Vin's eyes were a little clearer, even if his skin still felt almost blisteringly hot to Buck's touch. He set the dipper back in the bucket and lowered Vin to the floor again.

"Thanks." The voice was still very low, almost more of a sigh with a word in the middle of it than a spoken word. But at least he wasn't like he had been before.

"Sure thing." Buck smiled. "Think you can take a little more?"

Vin nodded weakly, and Buck gave him another drink, and then the tracker closed his eyes wearily. He spoke without opening them.

"How . . . long?"

"You mean, that we've been in here?" Buck chewed on the edge of his moustache and thought about it. "I'm pretty sure a night's passed. Feels like it. Hell, _feels_ like a week!" He grinned, hoping maybe to see a sly smile flit at the edges of Vin's lips, but there was no response. "I don't know, Vin," he said more soberly. He ran a tired hand through his hair and laid his head back against the post.

"You . . . gotta' get out."

The gunslinger looked down to see that Vin had still spoken without opening his eyes. He shook his head almost angrily. "I ain't goin' without you, Vin. We got into this together, an' we'll get out of it the same way."

"No." Vin was shaking his head now, and his brows drew close. He opened his eyes a fraction to look at Buck, and the lamplight reflected from them like there was a fire banked right inside him. "I can't . . ."

"Look." Buck turned around to face Vin more fully. "I don't wanna' hear that talk, ok? We're goin' together when we go. That's all there is to it."

Vin regarded Buck steadily for a long moment without moving, then slowly closed his eyes again. He reopened them to look at the stairway. Buck shook his head.

"Don't even bother thinkin' about it," he said. "It's locked."

Vin turned his face back to Buck's, and the gunman saw the tracker's eyes narrow in sudden confusion.

"The door at the top a' the stairs," said Buck, "is locked."

"Why?"

Buck sat up straighter. "Well . . ." What kind of a question was that to ask? He shook his head to clear it. "Vin, it's so--" He broke off as he saw the man next to him roll his head to the other side to stare away into the darkness as if he hadn't even realized Buck was speaking. Then came the low, soft drawl again.

"I'd think on it, . . . if I were . . . you."

What? Buck saw the tracker shiver suddenly, a long trembling that ran all the way down his frame, and the man moved against the floor and looked back at Buck with eyes that were glazed now, unseeing, and said:

". . . a box a' shells . . . coffee."

Buck felt despair slowly creep over his heart like a shade being drawn. Vin's words trailed off in slow spirals until they were meaningless syllables again, and then he was silent. Another bout of chills shook him violently, after which his fever seemed to get noticeably higher, and Buck clenched his fists helplessly. And then, right then, he heard the door open.

He didn't even look up this time when Sullivan came down the stairs. The man's footsteps beat an impatient staccato as he came down into the cellar, and he came to a halt staring at Buck, to lean against the wall insolently.

"Looks like your friend's doin' more poorly than he was last night." Sullivan's gaze was fixed on Buck, who looked up slowly with deadly menace deep in his dark eyes. Sullivan chuckled mirthlessly and threw a packet of something wrapped in an old cloth to Buck, across the intervening distance between them. "Food," he said shortly. Then he leaned very slightly to pour water from a pitcher into the water pail Buck had been using, to refill it a little. He kept his eyes on Buck as he did it. When he was finished, he straightened again.

"Got things to see to right now," he said, "but I'll come back an' visit you boys later. Then we'll have us some fun. I promise." He maintained eye contact with Buck as he backed slowly up the stairs, and vanished into the darkness like an apparition. Buck shuddered, and then felt a hot, hot hand grab his own wrist, and he turned with a start to look down and see Vin's hollow gaze fixed on his face. Low and clear, the sick man spoke in a soft voice filled with amaze and horror.

"It's all _bones_, Chris . . . bones . . . all that's left . . . far as you can . . ." Vin's voice trailed off as he turned his face slowly away, into the darkness, and lay still.

Buck sat very still himself, his face burning with slow, bitter anger. No matter that Vin had believed in Buck enough to come after him when Chris had thought the unthinkable about him, no matter that they had endured hell together the last few days -- it was Chris Vin was looking for in his confusion and pain and fever. Even now when he was clearly out of his mind in another place, hunting buffalo that were all dead and gone, he was turning to Chris -- to a man who wasn't there and wouldn't ever be there. Buck clenched one fist and leaned back against the post behind him and tried not to think about it any more. He should have known, anyway. There were too many times he'd been left holding the bag for Chris when the man had just turned around and walked away from the people who needed him. Far too many times. He should have known.

He moved his head then to regard the slender man on the floor next to him, whose face was still shadowed by darkness, and he couldn't stop the shiver of gooseflesh that ran lightly across his scalp when Vin's soft whisper spoke once more from the darkness.

"Bones," moaned Vin, "God, Chris . . . only bones."

Part 64

Buck slept and woke and slept again and it was as if the sleeping didn't count because he was worrying about Vin and the darkness in the cellar never changed one way or another so he couldn't tell if it was night or day or how much time had passed. He wasn't even sure he'd ever slept. He'd lie down and close his eyes and immediately he'd drift away on a sea of fatigue and weakness and pain but then Vin would move or Buck's leg would jerk or some thought would flash into his brain and he'd be awake, not at all certain he'd even been asleep at all.

Vin lay beside him and Buck reached out and felt his arm. Still hot, though he couldn't tell at this point if he was any worse than he'd been the last time Buck had checked him. He reached for the bandanna and sponged him down again with the water. 'Hell!' he thought, 'he can't last.' And he wanted to smash his fist into something with the frustration of it all. He had no way to get the slug out of his shoulder, nothing to fight the fever with.

Nothing! Buck moved slightly away from Vin and leaned his back against a post. He had nothing. And if he didn't do something and do it soon, Vin would die. It was simple, laid out like that. Vin would die. Buck had to do something. Maybe Chris thought he was the kind of man who would attack a woman and run. Maybe Josiah thought he was too low even to walk the same street as the rest of them. But Buck wasn't the kind of man who let a friend die. Not while he was still breathing. It wasn't going to happen. And anyone who thought differently could just go to hell.

He stood, so tired of sitting he could hardly stand it. The movement made him dizzy and he grabbed at the post behind him to keep himself from falling. He stretched his bad leg tentatively and his face thinned down immediately at the strength of the pain that shot through him, sharp, like a thousand needles all stabbed in him at once. With his lips forming a flat, grim line and his eyes narrowed and dark he stretched it out again, put pressure on it and tried to walk. Cold sweat sprang out on his forehead and his breath came sharp and fast but he didn't collapse on the floor and he had to figure that at least that was a good thing. He took another step. He reached the stairs and grabbed the rail with a shaky hand and sank down onto the steps. He sat there for a minute with his head in his hands, one ear open for Vin in front of him and Sullivan behind him, and he breathed.

Damn!

All he had were questions. Why were they here? _Where_ were they? Who was holding them? Who was paying the man in buckskins? Buck didn't much rely on help from unexpected quarters, but he couldn't help thinking on the men back in Four Corners. Would they come looking? He straightened. Well, hell, yes! Though the thought made him scowl. Chris had given Vin twenty-four hours to bring him back. And if Buck knew Chris--which he did--when that twenty-four hours had passed he'd set out himself to track them down So, that was one thing. Sooner or later, Chris would come--pissed as hell and not at all bent on rescue, but he'd come nevertheless. And that was something.

But...Buck looked through the dim light at Vin lying on the cellar floor. Would it be soon enough? Buck had no idea where they were, but he knew they weren't anywhere near Four Corners. And the resident expert tracker was here, on the cellar floor, with Buck. Dying. It would take Chris a long time to track them and it might well be too late. Vin couldn't wait. It was as simple as that. Buck had to get him out of here. He had to.

He wiped a hand across his face as if he could scrub away the fatigue that weighed him down and pulled himself to his feet. There had to be a way out. He walked over and unhooked the lantern from the nail it was hanging on. He carried it with him to the top of the stairs and studied the door. There was a latch on the inside, but when Buck lifted it and pushed it didn't open. He could feel it give a fraction and then bump up against something solid. Probably a bar across the other side of the door. He leaned down and raised the lamp and studied the crack between the door and the jamb. Not much room to slide something through. And they probably had the bar fastened somehow so he couldn't lift it from this side anyway. Hell! He turned and leaned heavily against the door for a minute.

He made his way back down the stairs and held the lantern up so he could see more of the room they were in. There weren't any windows. There was one other door, half-hidden behind boxes and Buck made his way there. He tried to open it, but it was locked. Of course. He grabbed the latch and pushed against the door, but he didn't have much push left and the door stubbornly remained closed.

Well, he thought, he'd have to go straight at things. Truth was, he preferred it that way anyway. It was what he did the best, really. Especially with his back against the wall. What he needed to do was figure a way to take Sullivan when he came down to feed them or torment them or whatever the hell he was going to come down the stairs to do. And he'd have to figure a way to carry Vin. He looked at the boxes stacked haphazardly around him. What the hell, he thought, he might as well start looking for something useful.

He searched systematically through all the crates in the cellar. Most of them turned out to be empty packing crates. He set them aside, thinking that if he got really desperate he could break them down and use the boards as weapons. Then, he laughed at himself in a tired way. If things weren't already really desperate, then he sure as hell never wanted to be around when they were.

He went back to check on Vin, who seemed pretty much unchanged. He wanted nothing more than for the man to wake up and talk to him. But it seemed like just about forever since Buck had gotten anything he wanted. Vin was restless, muttering to himself and shifting on the cool, dirt floor. Buck spent a few minutes sponging him down and getting him to drink a little water. He laid a hand on Vin's good shoulder. "You hang in there, pard," he said. "I'm going to get you out of here."

He stood again. A sudden wave of dizziness hit him when he did it making the floor tilt in an alarming fashion. He grabbed at a support post and leaned heavily on it for a minute. Then, because there wasn't, really, anything else to do, he pushed himself upright and limped heavily back to examine each of the remaining crates.

He took the lantern with him and, though he knew he had to and he knew Vin likely wasn't in any condition to care, he felt bad leaving the tracker all alone in the dark. 'I'll get you out of here,' he thought. And he repeated it over and over as he worked. 'I promise, Vin. I'll get you out.'

It took him awhile, as weak as he was, to work even the first crate open and if he'd thought about it in terms of how many there were, he'd have given up right then. But that wasn't how Buck thought. What he thought was, he had to get Vin out of that cellar. He had to know what was in those boxes. How long it took and how much energy it drained from him meant nothing. He pulled the last board off with a jerk and lifted the lantern to look inside. He moved straw and wood shavings to one side and pulled out a huge vase of some kind. Damn! Buck resisted the urge to just heave it into the corner, though at this point the sound of it as it shattered would have been perversely satisfying in some way. He put it back and started on the next one.

Four crates later, he'd found two large vases, some outrageous huge and gaudy dinner platters and a box completely filled with small, overly ornate porcelain drawing room pieces. Damn! He settled down on the floor and leaned his head back against a post, hoping that if he rested a minute the creeping dark spots in front of his eyes would fade. He had no idea what time it was, but he rather suspected it was the middle of the night. Sullivan had been down there a second time before Buck had started searching through boxes and left them more water and a few scraps of food. No broth. Nothing Vin could conceivably eat. But it was a sign of just how low Buck was that he was only grateful that Sullivan had chosen to leave both of them alone. He knew it wouldn't last. And he knew the next time Sullivan came he had to be ready.

There were three crates left and Buck pushed himself up with a groan and went back to work. As he worked slowly at prying up the nails that held the boards in place he tried to wrap his mind around an escape plan that held some small chance of working. The bottom line was that he had to take Sullivan. When Sullivan came, the door at the top of the stairs would be open. That was one thing. Sullivan had a gun. And a knife too. Buck could use both of them. So, that was another thing. And there was also the knowledge, deep down in Buck's mind that they could never leave this place until they were free of the looming monstrous presence of Sullivan. He held them there as surely as locked doors and arrow and gunshot wounds and fatigue. And if he did nothing else before he left, Buck would make sure Sullivan never followed them.

He had already thought of and rejected several options. There wasn't enough room at the top of the stairs to lie in wait for Sullivan there. He'd gone back and looked at the door on the back wall and considered trying to find where it went, but he didn't have anything to get it open with and he figured it wasn't worth the energy to find out it most likely led nowhere. He thought of turning out the lantern and dragging Vin into a back corner and waiting, but he figured Sullivan would take one look at the dark and go and get another lantern and Buck would have lost his one chance.

He used a loose board as leverage as he pried at the boards on the crate in front of him. His stance was awkward and he pushed on his bad leg too hard and he had to stop what he was doing for a minute until he could catch his breath. He looked across the way at Vin, who was barely visible in the shadows cast against the wall of the cellar. Buck knew what he had to do. He knew what would work to get Sullivan down there and distracted. He just didn't want to do it. He took a deep breath and pried up another board. Vin would be his bait. He'd position him right out in the open where Sullivan would see him right away and be drawn to him. And, Buck hoped, for just a minute--that was all he asked, just a minute--he'd forget to look for Buck. It wasn't like Vin wasn't already bait. It wasn't like Sullivan wouldn't use him anyway. It wasn't like he had a choice. But Buck still didn't like it.

He pried up the last board and lifted his lantern to look in the crate. What he saw there almost made his heart stop--the pale shape of a person's arm. He swept the packing material away and sank to his knees in relief when he realized that it was a statue, not a person. Or pieces of a statue anyway. He pulled out two women's arms, two heads and a torso. It was too weird for him, in the dark, locked in some stranger's cellar with sightless marble heads staring at him. He left the last two boxes for later and dragged his exhausted body up and back over to where Vin lay.

With the lantern set on a crate between them, Buck studied Vin. No worse, he told himself, though he was damned if he could tell whether that was really true. He thought he wasn't any hotter, but he couldn't quite remember how hot he'd been before and he wished that Chris would hurry up and find them. And he wished that Nathan was there to take Vin's bullet out. And he wished he knew what time it was. Or at least what day.

But he didn't know any of that. So, he leaned against another packing crate and he settled himself down and he explained his entire escape plan, such as it was, to Vin. The tracker most likely couldn't hear him and if it hadn't been so deadly serious, the whole thing might have been a little silly, but you didn't send a man into danger without telling him. Or at least Buck didn't. So, he sat there in the dim lantern light and laid it all out.

Then, he leaned back with his head resting on the crate behind him and he slept.

Or, at least he thought he did.

Part 65

Come, you who pray in these pews,
Contribute something for the news,
Come all, support the enterprise,
Of church services, and prayers, and blessings,
Of gossip, and ads, and the latest Miss Molly dressings,
The Clarion News tells no lies,
Come one, come all, and advertise.

+ + + + + + +

Oh God, that's awful, Mary laughed. Mary wiped tears from her eyes as she continued to giggle. Josiah Sanchez may be a Renaissance man but he sure should never turn to verse.

Running a paper was an expensive enterprise and Mary was fortunate to have many local merchants run ads weekly realizing the importance of having a local newspaper. But for all their support, it didn't stop Mary from continuing to seek new advertisers and ways to attract them. This was Josiah's contribution to the effort to be printed in the regular Thursday feature, The Lord's House, where prayer meetings or visits from the circuit minister were advertised or just a story or lesson with a moral.

Yes, the poem was awful. Mary continued to chuckle but she was going to print it. Josiah was going to kill her, Mary thought gleefully. He'd obviously thought Mary had the refinement and taste not to print such an abomination. Well, you'd be wrong, Josiah. Josiah . . .

No, Mary cut off the thought, she was not going to worry. She needed the distraction of keeping busy so she didn't get overwhelmed with worry. Work was just the medicine for her melancholy.

Mary set the poem aside, and looked over recipes she had collected trying to decide if it was too early to be printing an apple pie recipe. Mary rejected it thinking it was another month before the apples would be ready for picking. How about . . .

The tinkle of the doorbell interrupted Mary's thoughts.

"Hello, Mrs. Travis."

Mary smiled automatically and lifted her head to see who had entered. Her smile broadened, "Mr. Roberts, it is wonderful to see you on your feet." Mr. Roberts, a local farmer, had received a serious injury when a plow became embedded in his leg. Mary had reported the severe accident in an edition of the paper earlier in the week. Nathan had said that Mr. Roberts would be very fortunate if he didn't lose his leg. It spoke to Nathan's skill he wouldn't. This town would be hard pressed to replace him. Mary startled at her moribund thought and focused on what Mr. Roberts was saying.

"Need this," Mr. Roberts tapped the cane he was using to assist him to walk, "but I'm indeed fortunate to be on my feet. I had stopped by to see Nathan and give him a token of appreciation."

Mary smiled pleasantly, "he must have stepped out." Mary was already writing in her head the medical update to be included in her regular feature 'On the Sick List.'

"Whew," Mr. Roberts wiped his brow with relief. "I had heard he was poisoned and was afraid he passed."

Mary was startled from her medical updates. He had heard that! Mary ducked her head, thinking fast how much information she should be giving out about the whereabouts of the seven.

"No, no, he is recovering," Mary quickly reassured the farmer, relieved when the farmer didn't pursue the issue.

"Mrs. Travis, if you would do me this kindness and see that Nathan receives this envelope."

"Certainly," Mary responded happily.

"Thank you. Take care now."

"You too, sir."

As Mr. Roberts was leaving the Clarion's office, he held the door for Miss Molly, the local seamstress.

"Hi, Molly."

"Hi Mary. I was looking for Mr. Standish. Have you seen him?"

Mary frowned, irritated. And you expected to find him here. "No, I haven't seen him." Mary managed to plaster a pleasant smile on her face.

"Oh, all right then. Could you pass on the message that I have his new jacket ready for fitting?"

Mary smiled weakly. "Certainly."

"Thank you."

Mary waved and as soon as Molly turned, she rolled her eyes. Oh yes, I'll write that message right down, Mary thought sarcastically.

As Molly left, she held the door open for Wyatt, the telegraph operator.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Travis. I was looking for JD to give him the latest wanted posters."

"He's not here," Mary answered shortly.

Wyatt seemed taken aback by Mary's abruptness.

Mary sighed. "I'm sorry, Wyatt. Why don't you leave them in the sheriff's office for him?"

Wyatt shrugged sheepishly. "We normally go through them together. See if either of us knows any stories about the outlaws. If you see him, could you let him know they came in."

Mary gritted her teeth, "Certainly."

"Thank you, ma'am." Wyatt turned and left.

Mary sighed deeply. She wasn't getting any work done and all these people were doing was reminding her that the seven were gone -- NOT HERE!

Don't even think it - get to work, Mary. Now where was I? Oh yes, a recipe. Apples are out. Plums are in season. Mary started to dig through her recipe collection looking for a particularly good jam recipe she had. She stamped her foot in frustration. Of course, she couldn't find it, which meant a probably fruitless search through her files. She hated when she couldn't find something she knew she had. Mary was interrupted again by the tinkle of the doorbell.

Mary looked up to see three saloon girls in her office. Mary eyes widened thinking *the ladies* had never crossed the street, never mind entered her office. In fact, Mary was fairly certain they weren't regular readers of The Clarion. What could they possibly want?

"Good afternoon," Mary almost said 'ladies' but wondered if that would be considered an insult. As if these ladies could be embarrassed. For their first sojourn across the street they hadn't dressed respectfully; their only regard for proper decorum was to have a shawl cover the neckline of their scandalous dresses.

The ladies exchanged questioning glances. One tried to push another forward but when no verbal response seemed forthcoming, Mary thought to try to draw it out. "Is there something you required?"

"Well, now that you mention it," one of the girls looked innocently at Mary, "we were wondering if you had seen Buck."

What! Mary froze in outraged shock. Nothing they could've said would have been more surprising. "Mr. Wilmington?" Mary managed to gasp out weakly.

"We were just thinking we've been having no fun," the girl pouted.

"And it occurred to us that we were missing Buck," a different one responded.

"And you thought to find him here?" Mary squeaked.

"Well, no," one girl rolled her eyes, as another laughed contemptuously.

"As if he would spend time with an uptight bi . . ." thinking better of what she was going to say, the saloon girl stopped abruptly and smiled weakly.

"Ummm, we were thinking you might know where he's been and when he's coming back?"

Mary stiffened. "Mr. Wilmington does not keep me apprized of his activities?" Mary managed to respond civilly instead of saying what she really thought - 'as if I would tell you.'

"He doesn't!" One exclaimed, "Ooomph," she exhaled painfully as another girl poked her in the ribs with her elbow.

A quiet descended on the office again. "Was there anything else?"

"Yeah," one of the girls smiled shamelessly, "Thought you might know where Vin got to."

"Vin?"

"Let me guess, he doesn't check in with you either." One sneered. "Listen lady, we know better. . ."

If she was going to say more, she was cut off by her friends dragging her out of the office. Mr. Andrews, a local farmer, held the door open and they poured out of the office. He entered and looked inquiringly at Mary. "Customers?"

"Not exactly," Mary sighed, "what can I do for you Mr. Andrews?"

"I was looking for Josiah. He offered to assist me to add space to my house before winter. With my wife back on her feet and the baby doing well, I thought I would arrange it with him."

Mary thought again about if she should say anything about what she knew, what little she knew, about the whereabouts of the seven. Thinking discretion may be appropriate, Mary decided on a benign response.

"I'm sorry, I haven't seen him today," which was technically true.

"If you do see him, could you let him know I was looking for him?"

"Of course." Mary waved weakly as Mr. Andrews left.

Mary shook her head in wonder. Yes, I will certainly write that down and make sure it's delivered, Mary thought pithily. Since when had she become the message secretary for the seven? Mary griped to herself. Did everyone think they all checked in with her? Okay_ well_ actually they did. But still, what were these people thinking? I would personally deliver their messages for them. Really, Mary huffed.

Well, look on the bright side Mary, at least you have another snippet of news for 'On the Sick List.' She had previously reported Mrs. Andrews' slow recovery from the delivery of her fifth child and the generous offer by Nettie Wells to assist during their time of need. She could now report they were doing so much better.

Mary startled as the clock chimed. Oh my, is it that late? She had meant to stop much sooner and pick up Billy and Casey. Even with his nap, he needed to go to bed early to catch up on his sleep. Plus despite the Eagle Bend deputy being here, Mary was thinking she should take action to protect them tonight. She was still considering laying a pallet behind the iron printing press and keeping a rifle at her side. If Chris had returned . . .

Mary shook her head. Well, he didn't. Mary, don't even start to think about him. Think about what needs to be done. Dinner, she decided that's what she needed to tend to and she needed to go retrieve her charges before she could feed them.

Mary grabbed her shawl to ward off the evening chill and hurried towards Potter's store.

A man across the street, who had been leaning back in a chair out front of the saloon, let his chair thunk back down onto its four legs as he saw the blonde woman leave the newspaper office. Wonder what she's up to? He thought to follow when he noted a rider coming in on a dun mare. He tracked the widow with his eyes but didn't move from his perch. He'd be having a visitor shortly.

It was nearly a fifteen-minute wait for the visitor. As the man drew near, the editor returned with her boy in tow and a teen-age girl.

"Who's that with the editor?"

"Must be the girl Belle told us about. Friend of Dunne's. Name is Casey Wells. Lives on a small farm outside of town with her aunt. She's been in town since Belle confronted her, looking like a scared little rabbit," Hammersmith chuckled, "Belle's ploy has paid off in spades. Wasn't expecting you? Why are you back?"

The red-haired man rolled his eyes. "What else? Playing the messenger. Striker sent me. We intercepted Larabee and he's now on his way to the compound."

The Sharpshooter made it obvious that messenger boy was well below his talents. You're being paid well, I wouldn't complain, Hammersmith thought.

"Anything else, Thompson?"

"Nope," was the short response. "Town seems real quiet," Thompson observed as he scanned the street.

"Too quiet. We need to do something to shake their complacency. It's crucial to our future plans. They must be afraid of the Indians on the reservation and believe the threat is real."

"How about just attacking the town?"

Hammersmith shook his head. "Won't work. Too risky."

"So we need something in the area but outside of town."

Hammersmith started chuckling menacingly. "Oh, I can think of a place outside of town."

Part 66

The moon was a hidden flame that guided the men as they continued their night ride to Apex Mining. The wind tossed branches of lodge pine and an eerie crackle was heard as hoof trod on dried needles and grass. There was a quiet urgency to the ride and a sense that time was short. There were no voices, the men absorbed in their own thoughts, their own fears, their own hopes. And living with the weight of their individual failures that abandoned these men and with the dread that whatever they did now might all be for naught.

Josiah was in the lead of a band of four men. The wise elder. The arbiter of what was right, truth, and justice. He had his dark shadows but in the band of men who called him friend; he was the one sought to counsel and lead the way, the_right_way.

The counselor was followed by the innocent. Maybe that wasn't fair now. The kid had seen a lot. He had been stabbed. He had been shot. He had killed. Sometimes I bemoan that his eyes are older now. They're always in a hurry. Such a hurry.

The kid was followed by the healer. He had a home and place. Maybe more than any of the men he rode with. He was respected for his hands, both as healer and fighter. He was the steady hand over these proceedings.

'Then there is me. The gambler and conman.' Ezra chuckled morosely. He thought the high stakes game and his big wins were the biggest game. At least this week. But the stakes got no higher now and they were betting on being right. No, not they. Buck and Vin. And their lives.

How had he missed it all? He only had an inkling that Buck and Vin were even gone. That Josiah was in his cups. And Chris deserted them. He didn't believe in luck. He believed in skill. He believed in being alert. Nobody pulled the game on him because he never let them. He had failed them. They were playing the game and the opponents were winning. Buck and Vin were losing.

And although he didn't believe in luck, he kept hoping they'd see some sign that Vin and Buck were brought this way. Because Ezra was very much afraid their luck had run out. Ezra swallowed hard on his suddenly dry mouth. Out of luck. Out of time.

+ + + + + + +

Right, truth, justice -- did you remember any of those things, Josiah? 'No, Lord no,' Josiah's heart wailed.

Right? Did you let Buck defend himself? Did you give him his say? You have killed men for less and sought those rights for the most evil of men and_not_your_friend. Josiah, you have the gall to ask to be relieved of that burden.

Truth? Have you ever, ever known Buck to lie? He is passionate. He adores women. Even worships them. He doesn't hurt them. You knew that. You knew that in your heart. But you were taken in by lavender eyes and a swish of the hips. It was all lies except for Buck. He was the truth.

Justice? You drove a man from his home. His friends. You inflicted deep pain and ne'er sought to relieve it though you knew better. You are the wise counsel, the one who is sought. You failed your brother, your friend. You might call him Brother Buck but you soon forgot when your head was turned by a calico queen who thought nothing of you, and less of your friend. But that's just it. Your friends. You forgot them.

Josiah couldn't forgive himself so how could he ever expect Buck to. He'd find Buck or die trying. If he needed saving, he would be there no matter the cost but most likely his life. Were he to die, some might call it self-sacrifice but it was payback and such an inadequate penance for what he had done.

If by some miracle, Buck survived and Josiah did too; he had decided he would leave Four Corners. Forever forsaken by this band of men. For they had sought his counsel and he had failed them in the worst, most reprehensible way.

So no matter how this played out, this would be it for him. He would be gone from Four Corners forever.

+ + + + + + +

JD wanted to push his horse. We gotta go. We gotta go. We're running out of time. But JD had this overriding belief that all could be made right.

Buck was a good man. We all know that. The charges against him are false. We all know that. There are bad men out there. And none of them are named Buck Wilmington.

In all that had happened with Casey, JD had forgotten what a true friend Buck had been. Casey sought Buck and he helped her, probably in a way he never could. And he had thought Buck was trying to steal his girl. JD shook his head at his foolishness. Hell, Buck was constantly throwing them together.

JD chuckled at the never-ending advice on woman that he would receive from Buck. While JD would say 'you are the breath of fresh air that blows the stench from a barn,' Buck had taught him 'you are the fresh air that is the gentle breeze through a field of wild flowers.' And he remembered the sweet smile Casey had given him when he delivered the line, mind you while they had been mucking out Nettie's barn. When JD had told Buck the story, he could still remember the hard rap on the side of the head he received, strong enough to knock off his beloved bowler.

That was another thing. His hat. What was it with Buck and the hat? At some level, Buck understood his attachment to that hat. He had told Buck it was because of the great lawman, Bat Masterson, he had read about in a dime-novel. He could have told him the truth. He just never had. His mother had been so proud when he presented him his suit and hat to attend college. It was the last thing she did before her health had failed so much that her last days were spent in bed. Though he was living his dream, there was a small part that was ashamed he had not fulfilled his mother's dream and gone to college.

I am happy here. I have my friends. I have a girl. Good things to be riding for. His friends at his side fighting for what was right. Seeking the truth. Finding justice for those who never would find it without them. He was one of the seven. He belonged like he never had before. He was home.

+ + + + + + +

Nathan felt his body fall forward and he jerked himself upright in the saddle. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath hoping the severe spell of dizziness would pass. He slowly opened his eyes and saw the moon mock him. Yeah, he knew -- he should ask them to stop now. But Nathan just knew they could not afford it. They didn't have the time. He'd been down for three days. They had needed him and he couldn't help. He couldn't stop now.

Damn, he hoped they were right. That is was Michaels and they found Buck and Vin at Apex Mining. Because he didn't think they had much time and it would be over a day back to where they found the coats to search again. Maybe they could go to the reservation -- get Chanu to help them search. But it would be a search for bodies. Because with a certainty that came from seeing so many broken bodies and lives lost, he knew Buck and Vin didn't have that time.

But no matter. Nathan would see them home. One way or another. He owed them that. He'd see them home.

+ + + + + + +

"Whoa, hold up," Ezra called out breaking the silence. "We need to stop and rest," Ezra had seen Nathan's near fall out of the saddle.

"We ain't got time," Nathan commented.

"We make time," Josiah counseled.

Nathan started to dismount.

"Don't even think it," Ezra stopped Nathan.

JD and Josiah dismounted. Josiah walked over to Nathan to get a good look at him. JD started to walk around looking intently at the ground. He began walking the area in slow circles of increasing diameter.

Ezra rubbed his brow in frustration. It occurred to Ezra that this was the first time he hadn't ridden with at least one of the others: Chris or Vin or Buck.

"Looks like someone's been here," JD was crouched down checking a large stain on the ground, "Three horses, three men rode in and stopped here."

Ezra startled at JD's pronouncement. And he was missing the tracker.

Josiah called out to JD, "Let's make a torch and look around."

JD popped up and restarted making a slow circle of the area, the moon shone brightly providing some light and then, Josiah joined him. JD scanned the ground, back and forth. He then started to follow the trail out of the clearing. Then he slowly returned.

"I think Buck was here -- big boot prints and blood here." JD walked several steps away looked back and then covered the ground again.

"Definitely could have been Buck, Vin, and one other man." JD walked in a slow circle. He knelt looking intently at some hoof prints. "Josiah, give me light here." JD excitedly popped up again and hurried to his horse.

Ezra rolled his eyes; he could tell Nathan was antsy and frankly so was he. Who did the think he was? -- Vin Tanner. Ezra restrained from saying anything to dissuade JD from his task.

JD pulled a horseshoe from his saddlebag. He walked backed over to Josiah and crouched down. He pressed the shoe in his hand firmly into the ground and then motioned for Josiah to bring the light closer. "See the mark here," JD then showed Josiah the mark on the shoe. "He pointed to the print he had made on the ground -- see that. Now look at these prints -- do you think they have the same mark?"

Josiah looked back at Ezra and Nathan in stunned amazement. "How did you know about this?"

"When we were back trying to figure out what was going on back in town -- I kept asking folks, if anything odd had happened. Blacksmith told me about a man insisting on having his horse reshod even though the shoes were fine complaining about . . . cheap 'marked' ones. Blacksmith pointed the mark out to me and gave me the shoe. He didn't think much of it and I'm sorry, neither did I."

Josiah clapped JD on the back. "Son, nothing to apologize for. Anything else?"

"There was a fight. . . lots of scuffling. . ."

JD paused his constant movement and looked up, all color drained from his face. "They . . " JD started, swallowed hard keeping his emotions in check, "They lost."

They all stilled at JD's pronouncement. There was the shudder of branches, the whisper of pine needles, and the light of the moon. And a chill that raced to the heart, that they indeed may be too late.

"JD, why do you think they lost?" Nathan asked.

"Three men rode in -- the stride here . . . and here," pointed back down the trail. JD pointed up the path they rode out on, "two of the horses packed out loads, not riders. The horse with the marked shoe was the one rode out."

The quiet was broken by a shrill whistle.

"We're close," Josiah broke the silence of the men.

"Okay, then," Ezra flashed his gold tooth in the moonlight, "let's go get them."

Nathan looked over at Ezra with a slight frown and then smiled broadly, "yeah, let's go get them."

Josiah mounted his horse with a quiet ease, JD jumped on his. For all their urgency, they quietly proceeded. Alert.

They topped one hill, crossed a valley, rode up a steep incline. Just beyond the tree-line, there was shadowy light cast over the valley like the rising sun. But the sun was behind them, and had yet to rise.

All four dismounted, Nathan ignoring Ezra's disapproval and they lay on their bellies at the peak of the ridge and looked over the valley.

"Jesus."

"It's huge."

"Wow."

Ezra stayed his panic. The dimensions of the complex were massive. After the quiet of the woods, Ezra's impression was they had entered a surreal arena. A veritable metropolis in the middle of the wilderness. There were men, horses, buildings, tents as far as the eye could see. Activity everywhere. They needed to make some sense of it. Get their bearings.

Ezra pointed to the northeast end of the valley. "Obviously shift change, and the mine is that way."

Nathan chuckled. "Oh yeah, real observant there," he commented sarcastically.

JD picked up on Ezra's cue. "That long building in the middle is the mess hall. See the men filing out. Miners work on their stomachs."

"Livery right below us."

"At Delano's, the other businesses were near the dining hall -- company store, saloon. Mining stuff was near the mine."

Ezra swatted Nathan, "and you complain about my insightful analysis," he muttered under his breath.

Nathan chuckled softly.

"Housing across the west-side of the valley."

"One main street ends at the big house on the south end of the valley and leaves the valley to the northwest."

"Delano had a gate and guards on the road to his mine. He also had a mounted patrol."

"Any buildings being obviously guarded?" Josiah asked.

"There are so many."

Hell, it would take them forever to check the near 100 buildings and tents in the valley. The good news was there were so many men in the mining compound, they would be able to blend in. The bad news was there were so many men in the mining compound, how were they going to find two?

JD put to words Ezra's disheartening analysis.

"How the Hell are we ever gonna' find 'em in there?"

Part 67

"How the Hell are we ever gonna' find 'em in there?"

JD's horrified words echoed in the men's minds, boring deeply into all of them as ones that voiced the very thought they'd had themselves. They rode in silence, down over the ridge and along a broad trail that had been cleared through the forest. They weren't even sure where they were going: just "away" for now. Away from the noise, the buildings, the hurrying men and horses and machines, the crash of the stamp mill; away from the impossibility of their task. Ezra reined in suddenly, though, and looked about him with the air of a waking sleep-walker.

"What is this?" he asked. The other men reined in as well and stared at Ezra as if he'd lost his mind. Josiah cleared his throat, blinking.

"What is what, Ezra?"

"This . . . apparent boulevard. Through what is an otherwise undeveloped wilderness."

The men sat up straighter on their horses then, and looked around them with new eyes. Indeed, Ezra had chosen a word that described the area well. The trees had been cut down to low stumps in a broad swath fifty feet across that ran through the forest as far as they were able to see. Deep, dry ruts furrowed the litter of pine needles, cones, and torn boughs in the cleared area. JD started nodding to himself as his eyes ran the length of it.

"Loggin'," he said. "They run big log wagons through here, to get timber for the shafts. Mines use a lot of lumber."

Nathan had furrowed his brow. "Don' look like it's been used much lately," he pointed out. "The ruts are dry."

Josiah dismounted and went to kick at one. "Hard as iron," he said. "Old. This road hasn't been used for a while."

"I bet they lay in a lot a' lumber at a time, then don't cut more 'til they run low again," offered JD. The four men looked at each other, and turned this information over in their minds.

"Where you have a logging road," said Ezra carefully, "I would think you would have some sort of camp for the lumber men."

"An' if the road ain't bein' used right now . . ." smiled Nathan.

"Neither is the camp!" finished JD.

Josiah laughed softly, and the others turned to stare at him. "I was just thinkin'," the big preacher explained, "that there'll probably even be supplies stored there. Michaels will be hostin' us an' footin' the bill for whatever we do."

"Gentlemen," said Ezra, gathering his reins, "Shall we secure our lodgings?"

"By all means," replied Josiah, legging his chestnut into a jog.

The men rode off down the logging road with a good deal more hope than they'd had several moments earlier, and ten miles farther down it they found not one but several clusters of buildings, sawmills, and cabins. The sawmills were near clear-running streams that were apparently used to turn the works, and the cabins and other buildings trailed outward from the mills into thinned forest pockmarked with stumps. They separated to explore the buildings and then came back together to compare notes, deciding that an isolated cabin nearly half a mile from the main area would best suit their purposes. There was a shed behind it where they could secure their horses from casual eyes, and enough wood laid in for the stove and fireplace to last six months. The pantry was stocked with well-sealed tins of flour and coffee, with smaller amounts of salt, sugar, dried beef and apples, and cornmeal, and there was a small stove and an assortment of pans and basins, as well as four double bunks and a chest filled with heavy blankets. Josiah threw coffee grounds into a pot of water and set it on the stove as the men drew up chairs to the cabin's table, and JD laid split sticks of wood and kindling in the firebox, lit it, then shut the firebox door and joined the others. The wood began to snap and hiss inside the stove, and Nathan looked from one to the other of the men and cleared his throat.

"OK," he said, "Now we got a place to bring 'em, far enough away that we won't be spotted. What next?"

The silence lasted long enough that the smell of coffee began to rise from the heating pot. Ezra tapped his fingers on the table surface thoughtfully.

"The issue," he said slowly, "seems to be finding out where our companions are being held. Which is something Michaels presumably knows." The others nodded, and Josiah leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs. He sniffed and laid his hands flat on the table.

"So where would we find Michaels, in all that?" he asked.

"In that big house, off on the end by itself," said JD. His eyes widened when he saw how the others were looking at him. "That's what Steve Borall said," he explained. "Delano's manager. He said that Michaels lives in a big mansion up here and acts like a plantation owner. Keeps colored servants, an' treats 'em like--" JD broke off suddenly, colored deeply, and glanced at Nathan. The healer smiled gently, sadly.

"Not your fault, JD," he said. "Tell us more a' what you learned about Michaels."

"Well," JD knit his brow as he recalled everything he'd heard. There had been so much. "Michaels wants to be a swell, cut a fine figure, you know? Maybe run for governor some day."

"Interesting." Ezra turned the ring on his finger pensively. "I wonder if the man could be tempted by a game of chance? Even if he remembers me, he is not likely to realize I am connected with our missing companions."

"Ezra, you don't know who else is in that house. If Michaels is responsible for what happened to Nathan, and . . . for what Belle did, then you'd likely run into someone there who'd know you from Four Corners." Josiah frowned slightly to himself as Belle's name passed his lips, and then he stood up and got out four cups, set them on the table, and poured out coffee for the men.

"They won't know _me_, though." Nathan was lifting a steaming cup to his lips when he said it, as calmly as if he'd said the coffee needed sugar. Ezra set his own cup down on the table with an exasperated thump.

"How do you surmise that, my friend? YOU are the one someone there tried to poison!"

"Yeah, but I'm colored," said Nathan softly. He looked up into Ezra's eyes, his face somber. "We all look alike to someone like Michaels. And to the kind a' people a man like that hires. You know that as well as I do. They even admit it."

JD leaned forward and looked from Ezra to Nathan and back again. "I don't understand," he said. "How could they not recognize you, Nathan?"

"If I was in town, they probably would. Just 'cause I'd be 'the black healer.' That don' mean they'd know my face to see it. Here . . . They ain't expectin' me. An' if I go into the house as a domestic, they'll never look past the suit."

"Are you _sure_ you want to do this, Nathan?" Josiah's eyes were heavy with concern, fixed on his friend's face. Nathan sighed and shook his head, rubbed a tired hand across his face.

"I can't think a' any other way to find Buck an' Vin. An' we're runnin' outta' time."

"It's only been two days since we nearly lost you," said Ezra softly. The others looked at the gambler in surprise, and he recoiled in affront. "You needn't be so shocked at my concern. It will hardly do our companions any good if Nathan collapses from exhaustion while he's in there."

"I'm tired," admitted Nathan, "but we're all tired. You ain't had a decent night's sleep lately, either, an' neither has Josiah. Fact is, all of us but the kid, here, look like hell."

"Hey!" JD started to protest, but Nathan kept going.

"At least I can make it, though, an' I'm not sure Buck an' Vin can. Not much longer, anyway. I just don' see where we got any choice."

JD looked around the table at the silent men, and then did the only thing he could think of. He started to draw his pistols from their holsters, to lay them on the table. "You can take my Colts with you," he said to Nathan, "for Vin an' Buck to use when you bust 'em outta' there." Nathan shook his head.

"Can't take any guns at all, JD. No knives, either. Nothin' like that."

"But--" JD half-rose from the table, and Josiah laid a broad, stilling hand over the young man's forearm.

"Servants don't carry weapons, JD," he explained. "They'd find 'em on Nathan an' know he wasn't who he was pretendin' to be. An' if Michaels is like this mine manager said he is. . . " Josiah let his words trail off. JD suddenly shivered, remembering his own life back east. How could he have forgotten, he wondered. But it seemed a long, dim lifetime ago.

Ezra leaned forward, suddenly brisk and business-like. "We'll need to figure out how to meet with you later," he said to Nathan. "What kind of signal you can give us, and when. Where we'll meet, when you do."

"Yeah." Nathan nodded. "It won' be easy. Gotta' be somethin' I can control, an' y'all will have to watch for it. Once I'm in that house, my time won't be my own any more."

The four men fell silent, regarding one another somberly as the meaning of Nathan's words sank in.

"Be careful," said Josiah softly. "Be careful in there, Nate."

Part 68

Mary tried to concentrate on the task at hand, setting type for the paper she had to publish the next day. She'd never been late, not one time since Steven had died, and it wouldn't be right to be late now. Her mind wandered, though, as she worked. Where were they, she thought. Where were they? And then--were any of them ever coming back again?

Buck was gone. Vin. Vin was gone too. And they'd been so sure he was at the reservation. Safe in a way that none of the rest of them were. Instead, he'd been injured; they'd seen his coat. And maybe Buck had been injured, too. It bothered her that they didn't know, that Vin and Buck might have been lying out there, injured, and no one had known. It felt almost like betraying them in some way, thinking they were fine when they had been pushed against a wall, fighting for their lives.

And then there was Chris. Gone without a word. Without a trace. She'd sent telegrams to a half-dozen surrounding towns yesterday but no one had seen the black-clad gunslinger. This morning, she'd followed up by sending another batch of telegrams, this time to the small, more distant towns along the Mexican border. When, and even whether she'd get an answer to any of these queries was an open question. Most of the towns had no sheriff, no law of any kind. Her telegram might sit there until someone was struck by the odd notion to answer it or until it crumpled into dust and blew away. And meanwhile, Chris Larabee was nowhere to be found.

And now, the rest of them were gone too. Mary knew it was too soon for the town to be different, but she couldn't help dwelling on the way she'd felt last night. It had affected her already, she knew that. They'd left before, all of them at the same time. But they'd left together. And this time, that much was different and the difference of it had started her remembering things she hadn't thought of in a long time, those days after Steven had died when she had been alone. She and the Potters and a few others trying to make a real town out of Four Corners, something more than just a place for drunken cowboys to fire off their rifles. Back then there had been no help at all and little hope and she had kept a loaded shotgun by her bed every night. Those times were back. She knew it. And the best she could hope today was that the bad times weren't back to stay.

She head the soft sound of a door opening quietly behind her. Despite herself she could feel her heart skip a beat and it was all the effort she could manage just to turn around slowly.

"Mrs. Travis?" Casey's uncharacteristically quiet face peeked around the corner. When she saw Mary was there, she opened the door a little wider and came into the room. She seemed so timid these days, Mary thought, so unlike her former youthful exuberance. Mary hoped there still remained a chance for it to reemerge. 'Mrs. Travis," Casey said again. "I think...I mean I should...well, I have to go out to the farm. There're the chickens and the cow and the horses. I can't just leave them. It's been, well, it's really been too long and I've got to go. I just thought I should let you know."

Mary reached back and untied the printer's apron she was wearing. "If you give me a minute," she said, "I'll go with you."

Casey startled like a green colt. "Oh, no, you don't have to. You've done enough. More than enough. It's time I was--"

"Casey," Mary put up her hand to stop further protests. "I could use the break. I like fresh air. And I want to come. So no arguments." And she smiled gently. Don't worry, she wanted to say, but there was so much to worry about. And how could she ask Casey to do what she herself could not? So, she smiled and tried to look more confident than she felt and she took Casey's arm as they walked down to the stable to get Mary's carriage. Mary could see Casey looking furtively at each of the people they passed on the boardwalk. Once or twice a man she didn't know approached them and Mary a tightness in the way she walked that persisted until the man passed them and went on.

"Good morning, Yosemite," Mary said when they reached the livery. "Could you harness my buggy? Casey and I are going out to Nettie's to check on things."

For a moment it seemed that the liveryman would say something, but he just looked at Mary with sharp eyes and went off to pull out her horse and harness him to Mary's modest rig. Mary looked at the people on the street. It was a warm day, but not as hot as it had been and there was at least as much activity as usual for the time of day, late morning. No one seemed worried. Had anyone noticed the seven were gone, she wondered. Did they take for granted the protection they received? Did they think it would last forever? What would they do when the next saloon fight broke out? When the next man broke his wrist? When the next rustler hit a ranch?

Hadn't they noticed how many odd things were happening? She mentally shook herself. Of course, they hadn't. She almost hadn't noticed herself. Might not have known at all if she hadn't seen how sick Nathan was, if she hadn't been involved in helping to sober Josiah, if she didn't know that Buck and Vin and Chris had disappeared. She'd have been worried about the Indian troubles, troubled by the bank robberies, and annoyed at the trail crews, but that would have been it. She hoped that this was all wrapped up very quickly. And, thinking of the blood stains on Vin's rawhide coat, she hoped that all of them returned.

"Mrs. Travis, your carriage awaits." Mary turned to see Yosemite studying her carefully. The reins to her buggy in his hands.

She smiled at him. "Thank you," she said. He gave her a hand up into the seat. As he handed her the reins, he laid his hand on her arm and squeezed it lightly. Mary looked at him and she could see understanding in his eyes. Maybe, she thought, some people didn't know what was going on. But, looking at Yosemite, she realized that some people certainly did. "Thank you," she said again. And this time she didn't mean thank you for hitching up my horse.

"You need anything, you let me know," Yosemite told her.

Mary felt the buggy tip slightly as Casey scrambled up beside her. "I will," she told Yosemite sincerely. "If it's anything you can help with, I certainly will." She flicked the reins across the horse's back and headed down the main street of Four Corners toward Nettie Wells's small ranch.

As they cleared the edge of town, Casey turned to Mary. "I want to thank you," she said shyly, "for everything you've done. Lettin' me stay with you..."

"It was nothing, Casey," Mary said sincerely. "I know your Aunt Nettie would want me to."

"Do you think we'll ever see them again?" Casey asked, changing the topic of conversation so abruptly that Mary had to think for a minute before she could follow the shift.

"Are you worried about JD?"

"Yes! No! I mean, I worry a little about him, but then I think he'll be all right because he always is all right and at least I got to say 'goodbye' to him."

'Aahh,' thought Mary. "Buck knows, Casey," she said. "He has to realize that you're thankful for what he did."

"But I never got to say it."

Mary barely remembered when she had been young enough to still believe that all the words that needed saying would be spoken. She knew that Casey had seen people die; no one could live in the West and not see death up close. She'd lost her parents when she was very young, but she still had boundless optimism; she still believed in the rightness of the world. "You will," she said, patting Casey lightly on the arm. "You'll get your chance."

Casey didn't look any less worried and Mary knew there was little she could say at this point to draw the girl's mind away from the thoughts that occupied her so. For the next mile they rode in silence.

The closer they got to the ranch, though, the more uneasy Mary became. 'Something's wrong,' she thought. Nothing looked out of place. The sun was overhead; the sky was clear. There was a soft breeze blowing from the west, just enough to move the tree branches above them. The road they traveled was quiet. Mary could hear Casey shift beside her in the seat, the creak and groan of the buggy wheels, the clop of the horse's hooves. It was quiet enough that she could hear water bubbling in the creek just across the way. But, and she realized abruptly what was wrong, there were no birds singing.

She took the turn into Nettie's and pulled the horse to a stop. For a moment she and Casey just sat there, both of them too shocked too move.

"NO!" Casey cried, leaping from the buggy before Mary could stop her. Mary looped the horse's reins and stepped out of the buggy herself. Feeling a lowering dread in her heart, she reached under the seat for the revolver she always kept there. Carrying the heavy weapon, she followed Casey.

There were signs of destruction everywhere. Half the upper railings of the corral were broken; the horses gone. The barn door was wide open and loose hay was scattered across the open yard. Bridles, harnesses, and broken feed sacks were also tossed and scattered, as if they'd been yanked out, considered, then tossed aside as useless. Most disturbing of all were the chickens, their dead bodies scattered like rag dolls.

"Who would do this?" cried Casey, running up to Mary.

Mary just stood there in the middle of the yard, looking at the ranch. Who _would_ do this, she wondered. Nothing that had happened so far had prepared her for this. How did this relate to mine cave-ins and Sterling Michaels and separating the seven?

"Is it because...," Casey asked in a horrified tone. "because people hate me now?"

For one quick anxious moment Mary wondered if Casey had told them everything about her encounter with the trail hands. 'Could they have--' No, she shook her head. There was no sense in that line of thinking. Best deal with the matter at hand.

"Casey," Mary said. "No one would do this because of anything that happened to you." She said it firmly and, she hoped, convincingly, though she had no idea why someone _would_ do this. "I want you to look around. Be careful!" she said sharply as Casey turned large frightened eyes to her. "I want you to see if you can find anything unusual." When Casey's eyes seemed to widen even further, she added, "I mean, anything that might tell us who did this."

The two of them spent an unpleasant half-hour sorting through the debris that had been left by the mysterious raiders. When they were through they looked at what they'd found: a half dozen arrows, the broken shaft of a spear, a piece of torn buckskin cloth, and two feathers that might have been from eagles.

"Why?" Casey asked in a broken voice. "Why would Indians attack the ranch? Aunt Nettie and me--we've never done _anything_! And why," and her voice rose as if this was the worst thing of all, "why would they kill the chickens? If they were hungry, I could understand it, but to just kill them!"

Why? That was the question. Why _would_ Indians attack the ranch? Why this ranch? Why attack? Each question led to another question. Besides, the Indian troubles were just rumors. Part of the general talk that had been circulating lately, like questions about Nathan's skills as a healer. Mary had heard of uprisings on other reservations. Horrible stories that she was never completely certain were true. But not here. Ezra had been out to the reservation. Surely he'd have gotten some sense of...

She shook her head again, this time briskly, as if putting all unproductive thoughts aside. "Casey," she said, "this is what we're going to do. We're going to clean up this mess and put things back in order. If you find anything that doesn't belong, bring it here."

Casey nodded sadly and started toward the nearest dead chicken. She'd only gone a few steps when she turned and said quietly. "But who will we tell?"

And Mary, reminded once more that the men they relied on for their strength and their strategy were no longer there, didn't have any answer for her.

Part 69

Nathan paused on the landing after he climbed the low flight of steps that led to the kitchen door. The servants' entrance. He felt the feeling again -- the one he'd thought he would never feel any more after he'd escaped all those years ago: invisibility. As if he had ceased to exist as a human being, and was pure body in one place, serving, and pure mind somewhere else, trying to not feel. He shook his head, bitter. Not this time. Not now. He had to hang on to who he was to help Buck and Vin. Not being noticable by the white people in the house could help. BECOMING truly invisible -- to himself as well as to them -- would not.

He raised his hand and knocked.

The woman who opened the door had a broad face, dark as ebony, and her grey hair was pinned up. She looked at Nathan a long moment with no expression at all on her face, then shifted her weight just a little impatiently. "Whatchy'all want, Big Man?" Her black eyes twinkled just the tiniest bit at the edges as she named him, and Nathan grinned.

"Lookin' for a job," he said. "Thought maybe a big house like this--"

The woman pulled the door opened wide and nodded to him. "C'mon in, Son," she said, "Reckon if y'all ain't worked ya' ain't et, neither." She shoved him into a small straightbacked chair and moved around the gleaming kitchen with a heavy tread, to push an enormous bowl of beans and cornbread into Nathan's hands. The smell alone nearly brought him out of the chair, and he closed his eyes tightly a moment and thought: "I am Nathan Jackson, an' I heal folks. An' Buck an' Vin are countin' on me."

"Don' y'all like beans 'n' cornbread, Boy?"

"Yes'm." Nathan opened his eyes and looked at her. "How come I've been demoted from 'Big Man' to 'Son' to 'Boy' so fast? You mad at me?"

The woman broke into a loud laugh, throwing her head back. "Lawd no," she cackled. She tucked several tight grey curls back into her bun and waved a wooden spoon at him from where she stood at the stove. "Y'all is jus' ASKIN' fer me to whup ya', though!"

"I bet you could, too." Nathan smiled and lifted a spoonful of the beans to his mouth, big broken pieces of yellow cornbread soaked nearly purple in it.

"Y'all better b'lieves it." The woman laid the spoon on a rest and opened the oven door to slide some pans out and set them on the windowsill to cool. She looked back at Nathan, stood up, and put her hands on her hips, a cloth dangling from one of them. "Y'all ever worked in a Big House b'fore?"

"Yes'm." Nathan found himself sliding into the old ways as the cornbread sank into his belly. "I worked in the Big House nigh on five years."

"Geo'gia?"

Nathan shook his head. "I don' like to think on that much," he said. "I work for wages, now. Use what I know t' make my own way." He looked up at her with an honest face, asking her to meet him halfway. She stood there a long moment, sizing him up, then nodded.

"Marse Sterlin' is lookin' to find hisself a manservant," she said. "Reckon y'all could do that?"

Nathan hadn't known a man's heart could blanch, but his did then. He swallowed hard. "Yes'm. I know all that kinda' work. Layin' out clothes. . . " he swallowed again, " . . . dressin', fetchin' things, runnin' special messages. . ."

"Yeah." The woman's voice was so flat that Nathan wasn't sure what she meant. She waved a hand suddenly in front of her face as though to shoo away a fly. "C'mon then," she said, "We'll git some a' the trail dust off'n ya', wash ya' up . . . " She looked up at him, "Y'all needs a shave," she scolded. "Shame on ya', askin' for a job needin' a shave."

"Yes'm." Nathan couldn't help but grin at the woman as she led him to a washbasin and towel on a side porch. "So what d' they call you, Ma'am?"

"They calls me MIZ Ruby, thank ya' very much." She shoved a bar of lye soap at Nathan. "Ah's the cook, an' gen'rally in charge a' the hired help inside the house here."

"Then it's lucky I met you first." Nathan smiled as he started to wash up, and Miz Ruby laughed again, full and round and sassy.

"Don' Ah know it, Boy. Don' Ah know it!" She went back to the doorway and waved her hand in front of her face again. "When ya's all fixed up nice-like, y'all come on in an' Ah'll take ya' to Marse Sterlin'." She disappeared into the kitchen, and Nathan heard her moving around, then calling for "Bitsy" and "Coco," after which there was much running of feet and "fetching" of this and that for the noon meal, which should have been ready hours ago if Bitsy and Coco weren't such lazy things.

Nathan looked at his face in the dim, cracked mirror that hung over the basin, and stropped the chipped razor on the leather strip nailed to the wall. He saw his own eyes were dark, his face the same as before. 'I'm not invisible,' he said to himself. 'I can still see me.'

Part 70

They were laying on the cot. The elements of dress that he was expected to wear lay on the cot that he'd been told was his to sleep on, on the side porch that he'd been told was comfortable for sleeping this time of year, and he stood there and stared at them like they were foreign objects. The pants were black and had a starched crease in the center that could cut glass. The coat was black, too, a cut-away with a long tail. The shirt was stiff, starched, white, the collar straight up. The vest was pearl grey, the tie black and gray. The fabric was coarse, and worn, and starched into respectability if not into comfort.

Nathan fingered the coat and wondered for a long moment if he'd really be able to go through with it. He didn't know how many men had worn the suit before it came to be laid out on this cot, but the odor of their defeat lingered, to his mind, and it made his breath come shorter just to smell it.

It wasn't going to be easy. Not at all.

The fact was that "Marse Sterling" was just the sort of man Nathan had expected him to be. His personal power had hit the healer like a thrown rock the moment he'd set foot in the same room with him, and Nathan had known right then that Buck and Vin were in serious trouble. A man like that didn't fool around. He moved, and when he moved he was fast and he was hard. Nathan sighed and started to pull off his own coat. He could hear the women in the kitchen, the women he'd told that his name was Nathaniel Lincoln for fear someone in the house would know his real name. And he just kept telling himself it wasn't him who was changing at all; it was Nathaniel. Nathaniel was going to wear this suit, not Nathan. . . Still.

He folded his soft shirt carefully and put it under his pillow, as Bitsy's voice rose in a graceful laugh from the big table where she was sitting peeling potatoes. "Oh, Coco," she was saying, "don' do that or you'll make me laugh so that I'll cut myself!" Nathan smiled and shook his head, sliding his arms into the long white sleeves. Bitsy was the color of chocolate, slender and quick and only maybe 16 years old. Maybe 17. She'd come sailing into the kitchen with a stack of dishes she was clearing from the lunch table earlier, in a way that had nearly thrown them clear across the kitchen when she collided with Nathan. He'd caught them, though, and steadied the girl as her feet slid on the slick floor and she squealed in fear.

"Whoa!" he'd said, and grinned, and the girl had turned a rosy shade of cherrywood, and dimpled her little skinny face at him, and dropped two cups to the floor with a crash that had brought Miz Ruby running from the parlor.

"Bitsy! Chil', ain't y'all NEVER gonna' learn not t' carry too much at one time?" She'd started pulling dishes from the girl's arms as she chided her, and Bitsy had thrown a shy glance at Nathan as she'd surrendered the things to the fussing woman.

"I'm sorry, Miz Ruby."

"'Sorry' ain't gonna' put new cups in the china cab'net! Now gets yo'se'f in there an' finish clearin' that table, but be mo' careful!"

"Yes'm." Bitsy had thrown a quick look at Nathan over her shoulder as she'd gone through the door back into the dining room, and he could have sworn she'd given her hips a little exaggerated sway when she did, one that had set her simple cotton shift swinging around her slender brown ankles. He chuckled again, thinking about it, and started to change his pants.

"Miz Ruby!?" It was Coco who was calling now. "Miz Ruby, esta la--" The young voice broke off in giggles and Nathan smiled again to himself. Coco was even younger than Bitsy, maybe only 13. She wore the same kind of smock as the older girl, but her long hair was done up in a single heavy braid that hung to the small of her thin back, and he'd already seen her slip out of her little sandals three times in the space of the short time he'd been there, to push them under the table and curl her bare feet around her chair legs. She'd batted the little boy Pedro so playfully that it made Nathan think maybe he was her brother. He finished fastening the black trousers and picked up the tie. He looked at it a long time before he settled it around his neck and began to loop the ends into a knot.

"Git yo' shoes on, Coco, an' git these linens up t' Marse Sterlin's rooms right quick." Miz Ruby was obviously loading the girl's arms as she spoke, and Nathan looked at his own hands in the dim mirror, watching them tie the knot, as the woman continued. "Then git them dirty things outta' the chute an' gets 'em into the pile for washin'. Ya' gots t' get up early tomorrah', chil', an' get it done an' on the line sooner than ya' did last time."

"S�, Miz Ruby." The girl's voice was cheerful if young, and Nathan could picture the way her long braid swung behind her as she hurried out of the kitchen and down the hall to the stairs with her little arms full of the linens. Fine linens. Held against her coarse cotton pullover frock. His hands fell to his sides as he looked at the knotted tie, and he reached over to pick up the vest and put it on without looking away. He began to button it.

"Pedro, y'all gots t' git one a' them big bags a' flour outta' the pantry an' bring it in, an' puts it in this bin, here. Ah's nearly out for mah bread, an' tomorrah's mah bakin' day."

"S�, Miz Ruby." Nathan had hardly seen the boy. He was a shadow, maybe 8 years old, short and stocky and quiet. Nathan heard the pantry door open and the sound of a big bag of flour being dragged across the kitchen floor. He finished buttoning the vest and smoothed it.

"Them 'taters done yet, Bitsy-chil'?"

"Yes'm."

He slid his arms into the coat.

"Git them things out an' set 'em up. Hurry up, chil', or supper'll be late an' we'll t' blame."

"Yes'm."

He pulled it square on his shoulders.

"Set the table, an' then slice up the tomatah's an' greens. An' remember Marse Sterlin's gots to have his port this even'in'. Ya' gots t' help me remember to tell-- Nathaniel! Wal, Ah'd never've knowed ya'!" Miz Ruby broke off her conversation with Bitsy to admire Nathan as he opened the door from the side porch to come into the kitchen. The woman walked all around him, pulling at seams and straightening fabric, smoothing it with her hands. "Look atcha'," she said, "y'all would think this suit was made for ya'."

Nathan looked at Miz Ruby and his eyes were suddenly so dark that she took a step back from him and shook her head.

"Ah meant," she said, "that--"

"I know." Nathan smiled sadly, then shook himself and smiled more broadly.

"No harm done."

A tiny cry of pain and the clatter of a spoon falling to the floor made Nathan and Miz Ruby both turn to see that Bitsy had jerked her arm away from a large pan on the stove and was holding it with her other hand. Her little dark face was corded in pain and she took two steps back and bent over with a gasp.

"Bitsy, chil'?" Miz Ruby was at the girl's side in a moment. "Lemme' see that."

"Oh!" Bitsy looked up with big tears standing in her eyes. "It's burnt, Miz Ruby!"

"Lemme see it." Miz Ruby pried the girl's fingers from the burn and clucked sympathetically when she saw it. "Ah, looka' there," she said. "Ah'll gets th' butter to put on it."

"Wait a minute," said Nathan. His voice was gentle but filled with calm assurance. He looked at Bitsy and smiled kindly. "Mind if I look at your arm?"

Bitsy shook her head shyly and bravely extended her arm to Nathan, although he saw that her lips were quivering. He looked down at the red blister with a small black part in the middle, and shook his head.

"That mus' hurt a lot," he said. He looked up into Bitsy's face. "You're a brave girl. You didn't do this on no pan, though."

"No sir." Bitsy's voice was small. "I touched the stove lid somehow."

"Oh, Chil'!" Miz Ruby looked at the girl and then at Nathan.

"Well, butter's not really what this needs," said Nathan. "although that's usually a good thing for burns. You need somethin' else." He looked at Miz Ruby. "You got any buttermilk? Some soda?"

Miz Ruby nodded and moved quickly to get out the items Nathan had named, and then handed him a small dish to mix up whatever concoction he had in mind.

The healer made a paste and smiled at Bitsy as he gently layered it onto the burn like a salve, and then wiped his finger on the rim of the dish. "If you've got a little bit a' clean muslin?" he looked at Miz Ruby, and the woman nodded and fetched some. Nathan tore it into a long strip and wrapped it around the treated burn. Bitsy held up her arm and studied what he'd done with amaze on her face when he finished.

"How's that feel?" asked Nathan.

"Lots better." Bitsy smiled, and then looked at Miz Ruby. "It's a LOT better," she repeated.

"What a blessin'," breathed Miz Ruby. Then she jumped. "Lawd, Ah almos' forgot Marse Sterlin'! He's waitin' on ya', Nathaniel!"

Nathan took a deep breath and closed his eyes a moment at Miz Ruby's reminder, and then opened them to see that she was holding out a small key.

"This's t' Marse Sterlin's liquor cab'net," she said. "Port's what 'e's wantin' with supper t'night. An' brandy after, Ah'm guessin'."

Nathan took the key and looked at it a moment, slipped it into his vest pocket, and went into the hallway that led to the parlor. It was time to start serving Marse Sterling.

Part 71

Chris had been on the trail for two long days, bound and blindfolded.

He was not a happy man.

He'd worked at the ropes for hours until he had hardly any feeling left in his fingers. Two days. Two days of darkness. Of travelling with a man who only spoke when he wanted to and whose face Chris never got to see. He could tell as time passed that they were climbing further and further into the mountains. Last night when they'd camped it had been downright cold and Chris had hardly even been able to sleep with his hands tied and his legs tied and the blindfold, the stinking, unchanging, goddamned blindfold, across his eyes.

The man had fed him and given him water, but there was no sense of him, no presence that Chris could grab at, no weakness to exploit, no way to see if he ever let down his guard. And Chris wanted to know this man, wanted to see him, and somehow--somehow--he wanted to destroy him.

In the darkness where he had been living for the last two days, as his headache slowly waned and he started to think more clearly, he'd built an image in his head, an image of the man who'd trapped him and who, Chris knew, sooner or later, was going to die. The man hadn't killed him. There had to be a reason for that. And it seemed like a weakness to Chris. Sure, he couldn't do anything right now, but sooner or later the blindfold would come off and the ropes would come off and then...well, then someone would certainly pay.

He'd been noticing for the last few minutes that they seemed to be travelling on a smooth fairly flat road. He could hear men's voices and the knowledge that there were _other people_ who could see him, bound to this horse and blindfolded, and did nothing made the muscles in his neck cord tight. Kill him. He would kill this man the minute he had the chance.

"Mr. Larabee." The voice, so unexpected, after so long, startled him. "I hope in the course of the days to come that you will find everything to your satisfaction." Then, he laughed, a dry chuckle, like old bones rattling. The sound made Chris strain, almost involuntarily against the ropes that bound his wrists, blood slicked the ropes and he didn't even feel it.

"Untie me, you son of a bitch," Chris said very quietly. "Let me see your face."

"All in good time, Mr. Larabee," came the slightly amused response. "All in good time."

Chris felt the horses slow and turn. There were more voices here. So many people, he thought. And none of them willing to do a damn thing. Who is this man? What does he want?

+ + + + + + +

Ezra was bored and uncomfortable and starting to get cold. He'd been perched high above the compound with binoculars for the last two hours trying to keep an eye on what was happening. Nathan had gone down to the main house to try and get a job, something Ezra did not approve of at all. The man was still recovering from his recent bout with arsenic poisoning. He'd ridden hard to get here and it would be stressful for such an essentially honest man as Nathan Jackson to carry off the dissembling and outright lying that would be required.

Of course--Ezra tilted his head to one side and tried to make out something worthwhile in the chaotic view spread out before him--it was impossible for _him_ to go. He'd actually met Sterling Michaels. Beat him handily at poker. It would be unthinkable for the man not to remember him. On the other hand, as he'd pointed out to JD and Josiah after Nathan left, that didn't mean he couldn't explore other parts of the compound. The place was huge and if he didn't want Michaels to see him, Michaels would never see him. Unlike Nathan, he _was_ actually pretty good at lying and dissembling. So, to Ezra at least, it made sense for him to go in and see what information he could find.

When he had pointed this out, however, Josiah had just looked at him, with that annoying preacherly expression. "Ezra," he'd said. "In that jacket you couldn't be inconspicuous if you tried."

Which Ezra had to concede was likely true. But there was a gambling tent down there. He fixed his binoculars on it and focused. He could see men walking in counting their days wages--actually counting it out in the open!--and he knew he could make a killing if he could just get down there. But he'd also had to agree with Josiah that they had to be conservative. They best they could figure was Vin and Buck were somewhere in the compound. And they _knew_ that Nathan was at the house. They couldn't risk any of them. But knowledge was power. That Ezra knew without doubt. And so, reluctantly, Ezra had agreed that JD would try to slip into the stables as a new hand and Josiah would go too, saying his horse had lost a shoe up the mountain and could the smithy fix it for him since there wasn't a town around for miles.

So, now, here they all were. Nathan in the house--assuming all had gone according to his risky dangerous plan. JD and Josiah at the stables and taking any opportunity that presented itself to learn more about the mining operation and the man who ran it. And Ezra, way up the mountain, cold and miserable and annoyed, trying to figure out the lay of the land.

He focused his binoculars on the gambling tent again. Well, he had to admit it was really more of a saloon with a few working girls laughing at the wide opening, trying to entice the miners in. But to Ezra it was a gambling tent because that was the only thing inside that mattered to him. He swung the binoculars up and over until he could see the stable. It was a fairly large stable and they'd figured JD could find out a lot just pretending that he wanted a job. Ezra adjusted his focus again, trying to pick JD out from this distance. There were horses coming and going, a large paddock next to the stable itself with twenty or so horses in it. Ezra saw two riders approaching and something in the odd stiffness with which the second rider sat caused him to look more closely.

His fingers froze to the binoculars. Everything froze as if an icy winter chill had just spread through and over him. Without even noticing it, his hands, holding the binoculars, fell slowly away from his face. Then, he realized he couldn't see anymore and he snapped them up again. His eyes strained through the double eyepieces. 'It couldn't be,' he breathed to himself. 'It's impossible.' But there it was and there was no denying it. The one thing they hadn't known, now known.

Finally, Ezra knew where Chris Larabee was.

+ + + + + + +

Striker smiled to himself. This was too good, he thought, it was all just too good. He rode through Michaels' mining compound with Chris Larabee on a lead rope behind him and no one looked at him.

Yes, he thought. Yes, exactly.

Occasionally someone would look up, see who it was and look away again. Being noticed by Striker was not a good thing.

He reined in his horse in front of the stable, dismounted, and handed the reins to one of the hands. He turned to another man who was trying to figure out how to fade into the background without Striker noticing.

"Do you know Sullivan?" he asked. At the man's nervous nod, he said, "Get him."

As the stable hand ran off, stumbling on the rutted road in his hurry, Striker looked over at Chris. The man sat his horse like a coiled spring and Striker knew that if he untied him now Larabee would flat explode. And if he were ever tempted to do something as unreasoned as that, he'd be tempted to do it now. 'Chris Larabee,' he thought, 'you're supposed to be a challenge.' And he was a little disappointed at how easy it had all been.

"Looking for me?"

Striker didn't even have to turn to know that the flat voice he heard behind him was Sullivan. He took a deep relaxed breath before he faced him.

Sullivan looked much the same, though Striker noticed something, a hint of angry desperation in his eye that hadn't been there a few days ago. 'Not enjoying the big house?' Striker wondered. 'Too bad,' he thought. Striker himself generally avoided Michaels and had no intention of going over there unless he absolutely had to. Sullivan would just have to buck up and deal with it.

Striker walked Sullivan ten feet away from the horses so Larabee couldn't hear what he said. "Get him down. Take him to Michaels. Make sure his horse is taken care of."

He could see the thought cross Sullivan's mind, 'Why the hell don't you do it yourself?' But the words themselves never formed and Striker was satisfied.

He left Sullivan and Chris Larabee and headed for the saloon.

+ + + + + + +

JD couldn't believe it.

He'd convinced Ezra and Josiah to let him go in first. He might not know as much as the others about some things, but he knew stables. He could fit in anywhere. Josiah had looked at him critically, but JD had beaten him to the punch. "You're thinkin' my clothes ain't right," he'd said. "But if I leave the jacket and roll up my sleeves and get rid of the hat..."

"You gotta get rid of the guns, JD," Josiah had told him reluctantly. "You can keep them in your saddlebags, but you're not going to convince anyone you're looking for any job you can get with those pistols."

It had left JD feeling really vulnerable, more vulnerable than he'd expected considering he'd spent an awful lot of years never wearing a gun belt at all. But it made him feel kind of good too, that he was risking so much to find Vin and Buck. He wondered sometimes if he could ever make a real sacrifice, could ever step in front of a bullet the way Buck had stepped in front of Anderson's sword. Maybe this wasn't that. But it was something.

JD'd talked himself into a try-out as a stable hand and he was already working, mucking out stalls when Josiah arrived.

JD could hear Josiah's deep voice buzzing in the background as he worked. It was comforting to know he was there, and JD's mind started to drift to ways he might get away from the stable and search the compound. The place was huge, but they had to be here. They had to be! They weren't any place else and they had to be somewhere. He dug the fork into the fresh straw and threw it into the stall he'd just finished cleaning out. Okay, maybe it wasn't great logic, he thought, but he sure wasn't going to give up. And if he wasn't going to give up then he had to figure that what they were doing was going to help somehow.

He suddenly noticed that the entire stable had gotten quiet. There were five or six other men working and they'd all quietly stopped what they were doing. JD looked up. Even the man that Josiah was talking to had held up his hand. And, JD looked at Josiah and felt a slight shock, Josiah had frozen and was staring at something beyond the stable door.

JD followed the line of his gaze and almost shouted out loud. Chris! My God, it was Chris! He'd come here looking for Vin and Buck and it was a minute before his mind even registered that the bound and blindfolded man on the horse outside _was_ Chris. But it was. JD stopped for a minute and tried to think. They had to get Chris out of here. And they had to get him out now. He laid the pitchfork carefully against the stable wall. Quietly, he slid back into the shadows, moving slowly to the south side of the stable where his own horse and his tack were stored. He'd get to his guns. He'd get them fastened...

He'd just turned to head straight for his saddle bags when someone grabbed him by the back of the collar. "What are you doing?" It was Josiah, his voice deep even when he was whispering.

"We gotta help him, Josiah. Did you see? It's Chris!"

"What are you planning to do, JD?"

"Cut him loose."

Josiah pulled JD with him into a shadowy corner of the stable. The rest of the men had either slipped away or were standing near the man who had brought Chris in, seemingly too frightened to move. "And then what?" Josiah asked JD calmly.

'How could he be calm?' JD thought. What he said was, "And then we get out of here."

"Past how many men?"

"But it's Chris!" JD protested. "We have to help him."

"Yeah, we do, JD. But we don't do him any good if we get ourselves killed. You know that. Just wait."

JD watched as one of the stable hands took off, returning in a few minutes with another man. The man who'd brought Chris in gave the other man some orders and left. JD saw the second man's face darken as if he didn't like what was going on, but didn't have much choice. Then, he grabbed the reins of the first man's horse from the stable hand and stalked into the stable.

Josiah grabbed JD's arm and pushed him farther back into the stable until they were standing in the deepest shadows near the last two stalls in the barn.

JD could still see Chris and he wanted to help him, felt as if he was failing him in the most basic way by hiding back here in the shadows, even though he knew Josiah was right. They didn't have a chance. 'I'm sorry, Chris,' JD thought. 'I'm sorry.'

He closed his eyes for a minute, took a deep breath, and opened them again. This was the way it was. They couldn't rescue Chris now. That was the truth of the matter. So he needed to do what he had come here to do. Gather information. Find a way to get them all out of this. He looked around him, his eyes adjusting gradually to the pervading dimness. He turned his head and almost gasped out loud.

"Josiah," he whispered urgently.

"Shhh!" Josiah warned him.

"Josiah!" His whispered voice was even more urgent, not to be ignored. Josiah looked at him. JD pointed to his left.

The horse in the stall right next to them was Buck's grey.

Part 72

"Cigar." Sterling Michaels didn't even look up from the map he was studying as he threw the words casually over his shoulder, but there was a clipped sound to them that made them into a command. Nathan stepped to a side table and lifted the rich leather humidor on it in his hands, carried it to Michaels, and came to a respectful halt just at the man's side and a step in front of him. He turned around and raised the lid to proffer the box's contents, and Michaels looked up with a swift, appraising expression.

"Good," he said. "Very good."

Reaching into the box, he selected a cigar that permeated the air with its odor even unlit, and then slid it between his lips and paused. Nathan closed the humidor and slid it beneath one arm so that he could strike a match; he leaned slightly forward into Michaels' cigar to light it, then shook out the match as a long slender tendril of smoke curled up from the end. Michaels leaned back away from Nathan, drawing on the cigar and then puffing out a cloud of blue, fragrant smoke. He smiled. Nathan returned the humidor to its place without having spoken a single word.

"You'll do well, here," said Michaels. "Tomorrow, when you-"

He was interrupted by a tap on the door to the library that made him turn with a slight frown. He glanced quickly to Nathan, and the tall man went to the door and drew it opened with a studied and gracious movement. When he did, a dark man in buckskin shoved another man through the opening with a sharp blow to his shoulders, nearly knocking him into Nathan as he did so. The healer quickly ducked his head to look at the carpet rather than let anything show on his face that Michaels might see. For he'd recognized the man in buckskin as a stranger he'd noticed around Four Corners more than once the last few weeks. And the man who'd been thrust through the doorway so forcefully ahead of him was Chris Larabee.

Michaels smiled broadly, like a greedy boy eyeing a pony in silver trappings, and pulled the cigar from his mouth with two fingers. He threw a glance to Sullivan and a shade passed over his face.

"Why are you the one bringing him, Sullivan?"

"Striker had somethin' else to do. He said bring him to you."

"I see." Michaels looked at Chris again, and then smiled with glittering eyes as he gestured to a leather chair with his free hand. "Sit down, Larabee."

Chris stood silently about five feet into the room, his hands tied in front of him and his dark clothes dusty. His hat hung behind his back, and there was a smear of dark, dried blood on his head. He eyed Nathan briefly with a flash of expression that Nathan imagined Michaels would take for envy, but that Nathan knew was deep, bone-chilling shock overlain by a mask of aloofness. Then his gaze slid slowly to Michaels and he stared at him unmoving, with eyes like pale agate. Sullivan frowned suddenly, and started to push Chris farther into the room -- clearly with intent to send him sprawling full-length on the expensive rug. Michaels raised a broad, well-manicured hand immediately and shook his head at Sullivan. His eyes snapped angrily.

"This man is my guest," he said coldly.

Sullivan froze. Chris slowly turned his head just far enough to lock his gaze with that of the man in buckskin, and hold it. Sullivan's face darkened and he jerked suddenly, gesturing at Nathan.

"Then let your trained monkey take care of 'im."

Chris looked slowly at Nathan with a sideways glance, and Michaels' eyes grew as hard and brittle as onyx buttons.

"You'll do well to remember, Sullivan," he said, stopping the man in his tracks as he stalked from the room, "that it is precisely _because_ he is so well-trained that Nathaniel is on the premises. If you are not careful, I may train him to take _your_ position next. After it's been vacated." Sullivan stared back at Michaels and his face grew even harder. "I do believe," added Michaels softly, "that he's bright enough to learn any job you might do."

Sullivan bit his lower lip ferociously, and left the room so quickly that it literally blew a draft through the library, to flutter the corners of the maps laying on the desk. Michaels stood looking at the empty doorway for a moment, then dropped his eyes to the maps, then looked up at Chris. The smile was gone now. He pressed his lips together tightly, then knocked the ashes from the end of his cigar in a sudden angry motion and indicated Chris as he spoke to Nathan.

"Cut 'im loose," he said roughly.

Nathan drew a penknife from a container upon the desk and approached Chris diffidently. The gunfighter held out his bound wrists, and kept his eyes on the ropes as Nathan sliced through them, drew the severed coils away, and removed them without dropping any of the bits on the rug. He wadded them and slipped them into a pocket, and returned the penknife to its case. Chris rubbed his wrists and turned his gaze to Michaels. He still hadn't taken a step on his own, or said a word.

"Two bourbons," said Michaels. Nathan went to the liquor cabinet as Michaels perched himself on a corner of the desk, cocking his head at Chris. "Well? Are you going to sit down so we can talk? Or will I have to call Sullivan back in here and let him convince you?"

Chris looked at the leather chair, heard the tight fury in Michaels' voice, and thought about Nathan being caught between them. He went to the chair and sat down. Michaels smiled and turned to face Chris, reaching out to accept the bourbon Nathan was serving to him on a silver tray. The healer turned then to offer the tray to Chris, and the gunslinger took the drink on it and exchanged a fleeting look with Nathan while the latter's body blocked Michaels' view of their faces. That single look was enough to convince him that he needed to proceed with even greater caution than he'd imagined. He took the bourbon and leaned back into the chair, raising it to dry lips as Nathan moved away again.

"I hear you're quite a leadership figure," smiled Michaels. Chris swallowed a sip of the bourbon. Nathan wiped the tray and returned it to its place on the shelf.

"I hear the same about you," said Chris mildly. Nathan smiled a small smile to himself. He was fairly certain Chris had no idea yet who his captor was.

Michaels stood up and walked around to stand behind the desk, his forefinger tapping against the side of the bourbon glass. He set it down on the desk suddenly and put both hands on the surface to lean his weight on them and point a suddenly hungry face towards Chris.

"I am not about leadership," he said softly. "I am about power." He straightened. "Do you know the difference, Larabee?"

Chris drank another sip of the bourbon, his steady gaze tracking Michaels' face as the other man moved around. "I have a feeling it doesn't matter if I do," he said evenly. "I think you want to explain it to me." His lips quirked at the ends. Michaels laughed.

"Listen to that, Nathaniel," he crowed. "Listen to the man!" He shook his head. Then he looked at Chris more closely again and held his cigar out towards Nathan without looking at him. The tall man in butler's livery came to him silently and took the cigar carefully between two fingers, to set it to rest several feet behind Michaels in an ornate marble ash tray. Michaels leaned even more closely to Chris, and his eyes gleamed. "You're a smart man," he said softly. "I don't think I have to explain anything like that to you. I think you know about power, too. You just," he said, leaning back, "don't know how to use it effectively."

Chris set his bourbon down on the table next to him, feeling the rush of the alcohol burning in his veins too swiftly in the absence of food or water. He remained silent. Michaels frowned slightly.

"Do you know my name?" he asked. "Do you know who it is you have the privilege of being addressed by?" He waited a moment, and then smiled as if unveiling an enormous secret of great worth. "Sterling Michaels." He laid one hand upon his breast, literally indicating his own person with pride. "I am Sterling Michaels . . . of Apex Mining."

"Should I know you?" Chris managed to look entirely innocent, although Nathan was fairly certain he not only knew who Michaels was, but had some idea of what he controlled. The name was prominent, however shockingly unexpected in the context of their own lives at Four Corners. He studied the glasses he was polishing more carefully so that his facial expression would not change. Michaels studied Chris's face a long moment, then laughed.

"Very witty," he said. He walked to the wall where a large framed map hung, and pointed to it. "This is Apex," he said. "3600 square miles. Two hundred eighty miners working shifts around the clock at this location alone. Four other shafts going full-bore, and the largest stamp mill in operation between Virginia and the Comstock."

"But . . .? " Chris paused, and again the edges of his mouth quirked upward a fraction.

"But." Michaels tossed down his bourbon suddenly, and held out the glass for Nathan to receive back. "But there is a slight . . . inconvenience." His eyes penetrated Chris with determination as Nathan took the glass away. "Apex does not seem to have . . . the apex. Funny, isn't it?"

"If you say so." Chris folded his hands in his lap.

"NO! It's a travesty!" thundered Michaels. He swept the maps on the desk to the floor in a sudden savage attack on them, and they slid in a pile that carried paperweights and several books with them. The thump and crash of their landing brought Bitsy's small face to a crack in the door, but it withdrew quickly, the door shutting again, when Michaels roared incoherently at her and threw a book at the door that rebounded from it to land in the middle of the room. The library was silent, then, but for his panting. He looked at Chris again, his eyes brittle.

"Those savages don't even care about silver. They don't need or want it. But I do. And I will have it." His voice was low and throaty. "And you and your men will not be there to stop me from getting it. Indian wars . . . happen. All the time -- if no do-gooders are around to ask too many questions of the rumor-mongers. No one will know I had anything to do with it at all."

"I'll know," said Chris simply. His own eyes had grown hard.

"Yes," said Michaels, recovering his poise and smiling again slightly. "But not for long." He nodded to Nathan. "Tell Sullivan to lock him up," he said shortly, "and then draw my bath."

"Yessir."

It was the first word Nathan had spoken all evening, the only one in Chris's presence. And it made him unaccountably shamed somehow. He averted his eyes from both men and left the library silently, walking backwards as was proper, drawing the doors closed in front of him with both hands.

Part 73

It wasn't much of a plan, even Buck had to admit that. And it involved using Vin as bait which Buck found damn near intolerable. But he didn't have a choice. No choice at all. If he didn't get Vin out of there soon, then there was no point getting out at all.

He tried to blink away the fatigue that grabbed at him every time he was still for more than a minute at a time. He stretched out his bad leg, trying to keep it from stiffening up. He had no idea what time it was, no way to tell if time was passing at all and he had to be ready when Sullivan came. He'd moved Vin so that he could be seen clearly in the lantern light by someone standing halfway down the stairs. He'd positioned himself to one side in the shadows beyond the stairs. All he needed was for Sullivan to come down the stairs and take two steps toward Vin before he realized Buck wasn't there. Two steps. That was all. If he did that then Buck had him. He hefted the statue arm that he was going to use as a weapon. Despite the stifling air in the cellar, the marble was cool and smooth. It was a woman's arm, finely carved and broken off right at the shoulder. It was heavy as an iron rod and aside from once having been a thing of beauty, it would do the job Buck needed it to do. If the whole situation hadn't been so grim, he'd have smiled, getting help from a lady one more time.

He grasped the marble limb by the hand and swung it, just to keep himself awake, just to be ready. There was no way for him to stand and take his swing at Sullivan that wouldn't make him put a lot of weight on his bad leg. There was only one chance. If he missed... well, if he missed it wouldn't be worth thinking about. Underneath his moustache, his lips were set in a thin, grim line. He had to take the one chance against the stark certainty that otherwise Vin would die.

Not knowing how long it would be or how it would all turn out, Buck settled down to do what he had never learned to do well--to wait.

+ + + + + + +

Chris couldn't remember ever being quite this angry. And for Chris Larabee that was saying a lot. Four days earlier he'd been sitting in the saloon sipping whiskey and things had seemed more or less all right. Since that moment Buck had left town and Vin had left town after him. Neither one of them had returned forcing Chris to leave town in search of them. Rape accusations. _Rape_! He couldn't ignore that. Not even for his friends. And then, he'd been kidnapped, by someone who knew who he was and what had happened in his life. By _this_ man--Sterling Michaels--who he'd just met. And why? Hell! Why?

But then, he thought, fighting hard to rein in his temper as Sullivan suddenly shoved him in the back, trying to send him sprawling down the hallway, he had so many questions that it almost didn't really matter. What the hell was _Nathan_ doing there? If he'd come there looking for Chris then that meant he knew a hell of a lot more about where they were and what was going on than Chris did. What had Michaels told him? Indian wars? Silver? What the hell had he been talking about? And he thought Chris was a threat? And what did any of this have to do with the reason Chris had ridden out of Four Corners in the first place? What did any of it have to do with anything?

Sullivan stopped abruptly, yanking at Chris as he did so. It was all Chris could do to keep from decking him, but, judging from the house they were in and Michael's talk of the kind of facility he had, Chris knew he had next to no chance to get away. Not yet. And he'd just be endangering Nathan. Or leaving him here trapped. And he had no intention of doing that.

"Stand right there," Sullivan said, pointing to a place where he could see Chris clearly. Chris looked at him with smoldering eyes, but moved to the place Sullivan had indicated. 'I could take you,' he thought, and he took some pleasure in thinking it. 'If I wanted to, you'd be finished.' He'd have been startled to learn that Sullivan was thinking the exact same thoughts about him.

Sullivan unlatched and unbarred the cellar door, swinging it wide on its hinges. He took a step back and gestured to Chris again to precede him.

+ + + + + + +

Buck heard the scraping sound of the latch on the cellar door being lifted. Adrenaline rushed through him, raising the hair on the back of his neck and heightening the sensation in his fingertips. He shrank back a little further into the darkness. He'd moved the lantern one support beam over so that, although the light was still clearly visible from the stairs, it left the stairs themselves in darkness, making it easier for him to fade into the shadows to the right of them.

He heard the bar being lifted. He looked at Vin lying in the small circle of light cast by the lantern. Even from where he stood, Buck could tell that he was fevered and in pain. 'I'm sorry, Vin,' he thought. 'I'll make it up to you.'

Then, the door was swinging open and he heard the first footstep on the stairs.

+ + + + + + +

Chris looked down into the darkness of the cellar opened up before him. He cast a brief glance back at Sullivan. 'You've got to be kidding me,' he thought. But of course, Sullivan wasn't. He gestured harshly toward the stairs, indicating that Chris should proceed. Once more the thought flickered across Chris's mind--'I could take you.' And he wanted it so badly he could taste it, like a bitterness in the back of his throat. 'No,' he thought. 'Wait. I can wait.' So, with a sharp, smoldering look at Sullivan he turned and started down the stairs. The steps themselves were dark--really dark and Chris had to grab at the rickety railing to keep from stumbling. But there was a lantern already lit, below. And...he paused for a moment, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. A man lying on the packed earth floor. A man...oh my god, Vin!

Chris practically leaped down the stairs. He was within half a step of Vin when he heard a sound behind him. He turned and saw something big and unidentifiable rushing at him. He threw up his arms, bracing for a blow that didn't come. Instead he heard a choked-off gasp, the rush of air past his face, and a sharp hiss as someone stumbled. He took a step back and braced himself and only then did he see who had tried to attack him.

It was Buck.

+ + + + + + +

Buck had waited as he heard the first foot step on the stairs. From where he stood, he couldn't see Sullivan, except for the silhouette of his boots between the risers on the stairs. He heard a second step. And then another. Then, a pause. 'Yeah, you bastard,' Buck thought. 'Just do it.' And his lip curled back at the thought of Sullivan, looking at Vin and thinking about what he would do to the injured and nearly helpless man. And in turn that thought sent strength rushing through Buck's arms, strength that made the heavy marble arm feel feather light in his hands. He heard Sullivan's step quicken, heard the impact of his boots soften as they hit the cellar floor. 'One more step,' Buck thought. 'Just one more.'

Sullivan took one more step. Buck moved out of the shadows, raising the arm to swing it, all his weight behind it, all the frustration of the uncountable days he'd been locked in here. The man in front of Vin turned toward him as he drew back the arm and, as he had already started to swing, as the muscles in his arm were already tightening and pulling back and getting ready for the impact of the arm on Sullivan's exposed head, Buck realized with horror that the man he was swinging at was Chris.

He changed the arc of his swing and pulled back, leaning heavily on his bad leg to compensate and causing him to suck in his breath sharply at the pain that rushed up through him. 'Jesus!' he thought. 'Hell!'

"Chris!" he said. "What are you doing here?"

And above him, at the top of the stairs, like Cerberus at the gates of hell, he could hear Sullivan laughing.

+ + + + + + +

The cellar door slammed shut above them. They could hear the sound of the heavy bar dropping back into place. Chris looked at Buck. He looked down at Vin, who lay nearly still, his face flushed with fever, a large hole in his right shoulder. Chris's eyes glittered as he looked at Buck again. He'd used Vin. Used him as a distraction to get himself out of the cellar. Of all the miserable, low-down things...

Buck lowered the marble arm he'd been using as a club. The expression on his face flickered from shock to remembered anger to despair and finally settled on tired relief. He began to speak, "Chris, I sure am g--"

Chris exploded. He hit Buck in the chest with both his hands, sending him stumbling backward. "What the hell were you thinking, Buck? What the HELL were you thinking?"

Buck struggled to keep his balance without putting too much weight on his bad leg. Chris hit him again with the flat of both hands square in the chest, sending him into the back wall. His fingers dug into Buck's shirt and twisted it up into two tight handfuls of fabric, and he slammed the man against the wall so hard that it drove the breath out of him audibly. "Damn you!" he said. "What the hell were you thinking?" He slammed Buck again. And again. "Damn you! DAMN YOU!!"

A growl started rising low in Buck's throat and Chris pushed him hard against the wall, holding him with one arm across his chest and the other pressing against his throat. "This is your mess, isn't it?" he hissed. Images flashed across his mind--Buck facing off against Josiah, laughing with a dark-haired senorita while Chris's family was dying, leaving Vin to lie on a cellar floor while he looked for his own way out.

"Vin came looking for you. And now look at him," Chris said. "LOOK AT HIM!" Buck pushed Chris back hard in the chest, but it barely moved him. The arm on his throat released slightly and then was back, pressing harder. "You never think, Buck. That's your problem. You got Vin into this. You! You got me into this. You've got Nathan upstairs now trying to do God knows what!"

From the first moment Chris hit him, Buck's expression had grown darker and darker, but when Chris mentioned Nathan, he frowned. "Nathan? Here? What--"

Chris shoved against Buck's chest, pushing him back tighter against the cold damp dirt wall. "Don't! Say anything until I'm finished." His voice sank down and when he spoke again, it carried a cool, flat tone. "You ran out on me. You couldn't even stay and face up. I guess I was wrong about you."

"I guess you were," Buck whispered, a thin deadly edge to the words. His eyes bored straight into Chris's.

Chris looked at him. He looked back at Vin, who had barely moved since Chris had been in the cellar. "Were you going to just leave him?"

Buck didn't answer and it would have been clear to anyone but Chris at that moment that he wasn't going to answer. His face was terrifically still as if he'd removed himself completely. Chris didn't even notice. His voice was silky with a threat he wanted more than anything to carry out. "I'd really like to know, Buck. What you were thinking? Tell me. Were you going to leave him?" He shoved Buck in the chest again, pressing him harder up against the cellar wall. "Tell me!"

"Back off, Chris," Buck said in a low brittle voice.

"Tell me!"

"BACK OFF!" Buck pushed back at Chris with a full measure of strength that used his last remaining reserves, not even knowing that he did it, just knowing that he wouldn't take any more. He grabbed Chris by the front of his shirt and slammed him into a wooden support post, surprising Chris and shaking dirt loose from the cross beams to rain softly down on their heads.

"You don't know anything," Buck said. And he held Chris there for a minute, the way Chris had held him. Chris felt his own fury building again. 'Damn you, Buck!' he thought. 'Damn you!' Then, something shifted in Buck's face. Chris could see desperation and defeat chase away the anger, leaving behind only a bone-weary look of fatigue in the depths of his eyes.

His arm dropped away from Chris's throat. "The hell with this," he said. He walked away from Chris and sat down heavily on the cellar steps, his face half-hidden in a shifting sea of shadows.

Chris looked at him for a minute, unwilling to let things drop. Vin shifted again and this time he moaned slightly. Chris looked away from Buck toward the wounded man lying on the packed earth floor. He knelt beside him and put his hand on Vin's arm. It was hot and dry to the touch. "Vin. It's okay," he whispered. "I'll help you." He found the bucket of water and tried to get Vin to drink. He managed to get a little bit of water past his lips without spilling too much and Vin seemed to ease a bit. Chris carefully pulled back Vin's shirt to get a look at the wound. Big slug he thought with a sour tight look on his face. What the hell had happened to him? The flesh around the wound was angry and red. Did Nathan know Vin was down here? Why hadn't he done something? And how was Chris going to get him down here? Because it was clear Vin needed help as quickly as possible.

Vin shifted again and Chris looked around the small pool of light from the lantern for something he could use as a sponge cloth to cool Vin's fever. He heard movement behind him. Buck came across the cellar and without a word handed Chris the damp bandanna that had been sitting out of sight on one of the boxes. He turned back toward the stairs and for the first time Chris noticed Buck was limping heavily.

"You hurt?" he asked abruptly.

Buck stopped, turned back, and just looked at him for a minute. "Yeah."

Chris started to rise. "Let me look at it."

"Go to hell."

The two men stood and looked at each other for a full minute. Buck's eyes looked almost black in the unrevealing light, but there was something there, some spark of truth or integrity or...something that made Chris suddenly uncomfortable.

"Take care of Vin," Buck told him. Then he walked away.

Part 74

Dusk was approaching as a subdued Mary Travis and an uncharacteristically silent Casey Wells rode slowly back into the town of Four Corners. They'd spent the afternoon cleaning up the ranch. Casey had been determined that things be back in order, or at least as close to order as was possible, before her Aunt Nettie returned. They'd raked up the hay and untangled the tack and burned the chicken carcasses.

The two women had said very little as they worked, though once Casey had turned to Mary and said, "Do you think they're all right?" For a moment Mary had thought Casey was asking about Vin and Buck and Chris again. Then, she'd looked at the corral and she'd realized that in this moment at least Casey was thinking about the missing horses.

"It if was Indians who took them," Mary said carefully. "And there's no reason to think it wasn't. Then there's a good chance they can be recovered."

"But why would they do it? If they're just going to get caught anyway? Why?"

"Sometimes," Mary had told her, "people carry so much anger around inside that they have to do something with it. So they lash out at the nearest thing."

"But," Casey had protested. "That doesn't make any sense. We've never done anything, me and Aunt Nettie! Why would they do this to us?"

"They aren't seeing you or your Aunt Nettie," Mary had said. "They're seeing something that they can never have and that takes away from what they used to have. Do you understand?"

Casey had nodded, though it had been clear to Mary that she hadn't understood. Not surprising, Mary thought now as she flicked the reins at her tired horse, she didn't always understand herself.

Since that conversation, Casey hadn't spoken, but as they neared the lantern-lit livery, she sat up straight and looked intently down the darkening street. "Do you--" she began and when her voice trembled, she stopped and tried again. "Do you think there's any hope?"

The question made Mary's heart leap because she'd had the same thought herself and hadn't wanted to think it. Was there any hope? Had everything finally fallen irrevocably apart? "I think there's always hope, Casey," she finally said, not entirely certain that she really believed it herself.

Yosemite came out of the livery to greet them. "Mrs. Travis," he said quietly as he took the reins of her horse. "Is everything all right?"

Mary climbed slowly our of the buggy feeling a stiffness in her joints that was not entirely a product of fatigue. "Thank you," she said, aware of Casey still sitting silently in the buggy. "We're fine." She had thought the whole way back to town about whether to tell anyone what she and Casey had seen at the ranch. If there were really renegade Indian raiders operating out of the reservations then it was essential to do something immediately. No one had been hurt, but someone could be. And yet, she found it so difficult to believe. Ezra had just been out to the reservation and he hadn't seen anything, he hadn't been attacked. She didn't want to get the townsfolk worked up for nothing. She remembered all too well how close they had come to avenging Claire Mosley's death and how tragic that would have been. And yet, to say nothing...

"...a little worried about you, Mrs. Travis."

Mary realized that Yosemite had been talking to her and she shook her head slightly and turned toward him. "I'm sorry," she tried to smile and brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. "I didn't hear you. What were you saying?"

Yosemite looked at her closely, his grey eyes winking in the lantern light. "I said there was talk of Indians off the reservation. I was a little worried about you, Mrs. Travis."

"Indians?" Casey spoke up sharply from the buggy. "Who said so?"

Yosemite stepped a little closer to her as Casey scrambled down and into the pool of light cast by the two lanterns on either side of the stable door. "Clarence Solomon. Isn't he a neighbor of yours?"

Casey looked at Mary with troubled eyes. "He's just one property over to the west," she told Yosemite.

"Well, he was in town today, complaining to that deputy from Eagle Bend. Said he saw a whole pack of Indians riding across his property early this morning. Said they were wearing buckskins and warpaint."

"Is he sure they were Indians?" Mary asked.

"Now, I'm never one to jump to a conclusion, ma'am," Yosemite said in his deep and quiet voice. "And I don't like what's bein' said anymore than you do. But who else would be ridin' out that way dressed in buckskins and feathers and war paint."

"And they stole our horses," Casey said quietly.

"What?" Yosemite looked at her sharply. "They raided your ranch? Stole your property?"

"Yosemite," Mary said urgently, laying her hand on his arm. "We need to proceed cautiously here. We don't know that everything is what it appears."

The liveryman took a deep breath. "Mrs. Travis," he said. "You know I respect you. You've made this town a place that someone can think about settling down in. And I am not a man who thinks the worst of others. Especially Indians." He looked at her carefully for a moment before proceeding. "It's not something I talk about much, but my wife was a member of the Sioux Indian tribe. We lived with them for quite a long time before she....passed on."

"I'm so sorry," Mary said, thinking that it was possible to see someone every day and never really know them.

"What I'm saying is I know Indians get blamed for a lotta things they don't do. But that doesn't mean I'm stupid. And it sure doesn't mean I'm going to stand around and watch you or Miss Wells there get hurt."

This time it was Mary who paused for a minute. "Yosemite," she finally said. "There are some things going on that you don't understand. Actually, I'm not sure _I_ understand them either. But, I have reason to believe that in some things at least we are being manipulated. And until I understand what's manipulation and what's real...well, it makes it difficult to decide what to do." She studied him for a moment to see how he would react to this information. When he didn't say anything, but just continued to look at her steadily, she went on. "Perhaps we should talk more about this," she said. "Would you join Casey and me for dinner?" she said. "I don't want to involve too many people, but I'll invite Mrs. Potter too. Maybe together we can figure out what to do next."

He didn't ask her about inviting any of the seven, but Mary figured if anyone knew that they had all left town, Yosemite would since they all stabled their horses there. "Around seven?" she asked.

"Make it seven-thirty and I'll be there, ma'am," Yosemite said. "My night hand comes on at seven and I need some time to clean up."

"Yes." Mary said briskly. "Seven-thirty." She felt better just talking to him, felt as if she were doing something again instead of just waiting in dread. She still didn't know if the Indian threat was real or imagined, but she did know that in the current environment, acting too quickly could be just what someone wanted.

Yosemite walked into the stable to find a red-haired man with a close-cut beard waiting for him. "Yes sir?" he said, turning to unhitch the harness on Mary's buggy.

"You the liveryman?" the red-haired man asked.

"That'd be me." Yosemite had seen this man in and out of town several times in the last couple of days.

"You buy horses?"

"When I need them. You wanting to sell me yours?" Yosemite nodded toward a tie stall housing a dun-colored mare. He couldn't always remember people's names or even whether he'd met them before or not, but he always remembered a horse.

The man grinned at him. "Naw," he drawled. "That little gal there's not for sale. She's gotten me through a lot of rough situations. I'm just thinkin' I might be picking up a few extra horses in the next couple of days and I'm looking for a place to sell them."

Yosemite studied the man for a minute. There was something about him that he didn't quite like though he couldn't put his finger on it. Usually he judged a man by the horse he rode, but the dun was a fine specimen, obviously well cared for. And yet, there was something that made him uneasy.

"You ever have a horse for sale as nice as the one you've got," Yosemite said. "I'll be happy to buy him from you."

The man smiled at him. "I'll remember that." He walked by Yosemite toward the door.

"Mister?" Yosemite called after him. The man turned with a question in his eyes. Yosemite pointed to the side of his neck. "You got some mud or somethin' there. Might want to wipe it off."

Thompson slapped his hand to his neck and looked at the dark substance that came off on his hand. He looked sharply at Yosemite, but when he saw the man looking back at him with nothing but a friendly expression he smiled. "Thanks," he said. "I'm sure any ladies I meet this evening will appreciate it."

Yosemite watched him go, then shrugged and turned back to the task at hand.

Part 75

"Blast that Thomas." Miz Ruby stood in the darkened kitchen and looked at the kettle of soup. She'd left it on the table for the old man who did odd jobs and ran errands to take to the men Marse Sterling'd had to lock up in the cellar. Mister Sullivan had told her to feed them, and although he gave her the creeps, that Mister Sullivan, he worked for Marse Sterling same as she did, so what he said went and she'd set up the kettle and some bread and bowls. But here it sat, still on the table, and it nigh on to 10 o'clock p.m. at night. She shook her head and sighed. Want a thing done, gotta' do it your own self, she thought. Never any different, no matter what.

Miz Ruby slipped the wooden bowls and spoons into several pockets of her huge house apron, slid the handle of the covered kettle over her arm, and then picked up the loaf of bread. She pulled out a ring of keys with her other hand as she headed for the cellar door with a tired tread. Not for one minute did Miz Ruby worry about what kind of threat the men in the basement might pose to her. She was 64 years old and had faced down everything from raiding carpetbaggers to robbers and Yankees. God help anyone who crossed her when she was this tired. She'd smack 'em and toss their suppers on their heads to boot. Blast that Thomas.

She fumbled with the key in the lock a moment, then swung up the heavy bar that lay in place across the doorway and pushed the door opened. She could see they had a little light down there at least, so she wouldn't have to balance a lantern, too. All right. Miz Ruby pulled the door shut behind her and stuffed the keys in her apron, then started down the steps, calling to the unseen men as she went.

"Marse Sterlin' has sent ya' gent'men supper," she said. She still couldn't see anything of them, but she could hear at least one or two of them stand up at the sound of her voice. She went down a couple more steps and stopped to peer into the dim light so she could make out their features. A slender man all in black, but dusty as a hot day, was standing in an alert posture not far from the bottom of the stairs. She didn't like the way his eyes looked at all, no sir.

"Y'all back up," she said shortly, "if'n ya' wants any a' this. Ah ain't no fool."

The man backed away from the foot of the stairs, casting a quick glance to his left as he did so. Miz Ruby saw then that a second man stood a little farther off, more in the darkness, and he looked a lot less commanding than the first one did. He backed away, too, though, and Miz Ruby went on down the stairs and set the things she'd brought on one of the crates without taking her eyes off the two men.

"Y'all still gots water?"

"Yes ma'am." It was the man who was farther off who answered, and his voice made Miz Ruby's dark face crease into a smile.

"Y'all sounds like a nice enough fellah," she said, "Shame on ya', whatever you done to make Marse Sterlin' lock y'up down here." She paused, then indicated the food. "Wal, don' jus' stands there; eat up. It ain't gonna' get no warmer sittin' on that crate."

The farther-away man exchanged glances with the one closer to her, and then he nodded and limped heavily towards the crate. Miz Ruby bent down a bit to look at him more closely, and then slapped one broad hand to her breast.

"Lawd! What'd y'all do t'ya'self!? Heah now! Cain't you see this'n needs t' sit down?" She was waving one finger in the closer man's face, sternly. "How kin ya' stands there an' let this poor hurted fellah' go walkin' aroun' like--"

"It's all right, Ma'am." The man whose leg was all bloody smiled very tiredly at her and then took the hand she'd been remonstrating with into his own. "Thank you for bringin' us food."

Miz Ruby looked at him, speechless, as he limped past her to sit down heavily by the crate and lay his face in his hand for a long moment before he looked back up at the man in black, who hadn't moved a muscle in all this time. There was a tension here that the woman couldn't understand, and it made her knit her brows. She scowled at the man in black, then.

"Don't do t' waste good food," she said, and then she turned to go back up the stairs.

"Ma'am?" It was the one with the moustache, the one whose leg was hurt, who called to her, and Miz Ruby turned back to look at him with one hand on the stair railing. She waited while he obviously fought something inside himself, and then sighed heavily. "I don't know," he said softly, "if you can--"

"Shut up, Buck." The other man's voice carried a threat that made Miz Ruby bristle.

"Y'all kin let 'im talk," she said to that man. "He gots a right."

The one called Buck nodded thoughtfully to himself, stole a quick and bitter glance at Chris, then licked his lips. "We need some help," he said. He looked right into her eyes, and Miz Ruby blinked. She didn't see a bad fellah there at all, God bless her. Just one with his back to the wall and not much left in him. She leaned closer to him over the railing.

"Ah's listenin'," she said simply. Buck ran a shaking hand through his hair.

"My friend," he said. Miz Ruby looked over at the man in black and then back to the one called Buck. She narrowed her eyes.

"What about yo' frien'?" Her voice was suspicious, but Buck didn't hear it. He was way beyond subtlety by now.

"I think he might be dyin'."

Miz Ruby snorted. "Shoot! He ain't no closer to dyin' than Ah is," she said. She started up the stairs again. "Enjoy the soup."

"No! Please!" Something in the man's voice, some note of desperation made Miz Ruby turn back once more, and she crossed her arms over her ample chest.

"What IS y'all's trouble?" she said. "Ah don' see nothin' wrong down here 'ceptin' yo' laig. What's so all-fired important that--"

"He's not saying that _I'm_ his friend," said Chris dryly.

"No, not him." Buck shook his head. "The man back there . . . " He nodded towards the dark, farther beyond where he had been standing when she came down the stairs. He looked again at Chris, who still looked like he'd sat on a spider but remained silent this time. "If there's anything you can do, or bring us . . ."

"What?" Miz Ruby looked quickly towards the dark area the man had pointed to, and she suddenly thought maybe they were both dangerous after all. "How many a' y'all is down here?"

"Three." Buck stood up and limped heavily towards the darkness, where he sat down and turned his pale face to look at Miz Ruby.

The woman stood on the bottom step several long minutes. It had to be getting close to 10:30 by now, and she had to get up at 4:00 to start the bread. No tellin' what these two were up to. Still. She looked at the untouched soup and bread. They had to be hungry, but they had ignored the food she'd brought like it wasn't all that important right now. So maybe something else was. She studied the man closest to her one more time, then shook her head.

"Ah'll warn ya' both," she said, "that if ya' tries any fancy tricks on me, Ah'll clobber ya' good. An' Ah means it." Then she walked heavily over to where the moustached man was sitting on the floor. As she got closer, she bent down, then drew in her breath.

"Lawd," she said softly. "Ah's sorry Ah disbelieved ya'." She knelt next to the young man who lay insensible on the cold cellar floor, and touched the back of his wrist with a practiced hand. She looked then at Buck's wrists, quickly appraising the similarity of the marks on them, then into the gunman's dark eyes. "How long's he been fevered like this?" she asked.

"Two days," said Buck softly. "Have you got any herbs or anythin' that might--"

Miz Ruby stood up suddenly, and Buck looked up at her. She sighed heavily.

"Ah'll go see what Ah gots," she said firmly. "Ah'll be back direc'ly." She was halfway up the stairs before she stopped and bent down to look at the two men again. "Y'all eats while ya' waits for me," she said. "Looks to me like ya' kin both use it. Ah'll bring y'all some coffee when Ah comes back."

Part 76

Nathan couldn't sleep, even though he was so tired he'd thought several times during the day that he was going to fall right to the floor. He rolled onto his side on the little cot that Miz Ruby had set up for him on the side porch, and wondered for the hundredth time where Chris was right now. In the house, most likely, but where? And if he was here, then why hadn't Nathan seen Buck and Vin if they were here, too? Maybe he was too late, and they were both dead already. Nathan squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make sense of what he'd been able to learn.

Then he heard a stealthy tread come through the kitchen doorway and out onto the porch where he was laying. Nathan lay perfectly still, but looked with opened eyes at the farther edge of the room. Someone's arm reached out to a shelf there, and drew something from it. He heard a rustling sound, then soft breathing. Nathan thrust himself up off the cot on one arm.

"Miz Ruby?"

"GAWD!!!" Miz Ruby fell back against the wall with her hand to her breast in such horrific fright that Nathan leaped to his feet and went to grab her arms.

"It's just me, Miz Ruby. Nathaniel. Take it easy." He lowered her to an old wicker chair and knelt down by her, looking at her closely to see if she was maybe having an apoplexy. The woman lowered her head and closed her eyes for some moments as her breathing stabilized, and then she raised the hand that had been on her breast and smacked Nathan across the arm with it.

"Ya' scared the LIFE outta' me, boy! Whatcha' go an' do a thing like that for!?"

"I'm sorry, Miz Ruby." Nathan smiled when he saw the return of her normal personality and realized she'd be all right. "I thought you remembered I was sleepin' out here."

"Oh." Miz Ruby looked over at the cot and then at Nathan.

"You all right, Ma'am?" Nathan saw that there was still something wrong, and he couldn't keep the concern out of his voice. He looked at what she'd taken from the shelf and then pulled it from her fingers.

"Feverfew?" He waited for her to say something.

"Ah keeps the herbs out here, where it's dry." The woman's voice was almost shaking. Nathan shook his head.

"But why feverfew," he asked.

"It's for fevers," said Miz Ruby simply.

"I know that." Nathan smiled. All the old people thought that, because of its name, but it really worked better on headaches without fever. He made his voice more gentle. "I'm askin' who's got the fever. Do you need any help?"

Miz Ruby paused a moment, then remembered how Nathan had put that stuff on Bitsy's burn and made it so much better. She looked at him quizzically. "Ya' knows some about healin', doncha'?"

"Yes'm." Nathan lay a reassuring hand on the woman's arm. "I'd be glad to help you. I wasn't asleep anyway."

Miz Ruby stood up and laughed. "Wal, ya' owes me at least. Seein' as how now Ah gots one foot in mah grave, thanks to y'all scarin' the livin' dogsbreath outta' me."

"Yes, ma'am." Nathan stood up as the woman did, and then was surprised when she suddenly fixed him with a penetrating look.

"One thing," she said.

"Yes'm?"

"This's a favor for ME. Ain't got nothin' t' do with no one else here. Mah bidness. Ah'll ask ya' t' remember that, an' keep all of it t'yerse'f. No matter what." Nathan was about to reply when she added. "Ah gots t' make ya' swear it to me, Nathaniel."

"I swear," he said solemnly. "I won't say a word to a soul. No matter what."

"Good." Miz Ruby turned and headed back into the kitchen, then out the other side and into a long hallway. "Ah ain't got t' be this old without Ah learned how t' keep outta' trouble." She pulled out a ring of keys and opened a heavy door, and a cool earthy smell rolled out of the opening when she did. Nathan's heart leaped as he realized it led to a cellar.

Chris.

But how or why would Chris be sick with a fever, especially when he'd been fine before? Miz Ruby bustled past Nathan even as he was turning it all over in his mind, then pulled the door shut behind them as he followed her in, and down the rickety steps into the dimness below. Nathan had to bend low to keep from hitting his head on the beams, and all he could see until he reached the bottom was the back of Miz Ruby's ample person. But suddenly and to his immense relief he saw that it _was_ Chris who was there, and he seemed as fine as he could be under the circumstances. Immediately, though, Chris's eyes shot him a warning look, so Nathan braced himself thoroughly enough not to react when he turned a little farther and saw Buck. He swallowed, and nodded towards the man's bloodied leg as if he'd never seen him before.

"Is this the--"

"No, no," said Miz Ruby. She was bustling off farther into the dark. "Over here. This'n, on the floor here."

Suddenly Nathan realized who it was who had a fever, and he knew by the cautious looks that Buck and Chris gave him that he was right. And that it was bad. When he got to Vin, he knelt down already having a good idea of what he might find; Buck had obviously been hurt and not received any medical care, and Nathan remembered all too well the bullet hole he'd seen in the tracker's coat. So Vin . . . He felt his heart sink as he ran practiced eyes over his friend's still form, and then started to examine him.

"How long ago was this man shot?" Nathan didn't even look up, and it was Buck's voice that answered him.

"Four days. I think."

"Anybody get the bullet out?" Nathan had carefully and gently rolled Vin to his side and pulled off his shirt to look for an exit wound.

"No."

Nathan shook his head at the angry appearance of the wound, and sat back on his heels. He looked up at Miz Ruby.

"He needs a lot more'n feverfew, Ma'am, if he's gonna' live."

Miz Ruby looked into Nathan's face very carefully. She licked her lips. "Is that somethin' y'all knows how t' do, Nathaniel? Fix 'im up, as bad as 'e is?"

"I can try." Nathan regarded the woman steadily, trying not to let her see the desperation he was feeling. He didn't know what he'd do if she told him to leave it be at this point. By the time he could slip down here on his own without her knowing it, Vin would likely be dead.

Miz Ruby looked at Buck and Chris and then back at Vin. She looked at Nathan, then. "Ah cain't stan' by an' watch a man die jus' 'cause no one done nothin' to help 'im," she said. "See what y'all kin do for 'im, Son. Jes' don' tell Marse Sterlin' or . . . that Sullivan fellah a' his."

"Yes'm." Nathan felt nearly dizzy with relief. He took one of the woman's work-worn hands in his own. "Miz Ruby, I need some things down here to help this fellah. Can you get 'em for me?"

"Why not," she said. "Looks like we ain't none of us sleepin' tonight nohow."

"Thank you, ma'am." Nathan released her. "I need hot water, boiled. A real sharp knife. Cloths I can use to press on that wound, an' some to tear into bandages. Soap, a coupla' clean basins."

"No feverfew?"

"Yeah, feverfew." Nathan smiled at the woman. "You were right about that. It was a good idea. An' if you've got any willa' bark, bring that, too."

He watched her as she went heavily up the stairs, his hand on Vin's arm, then waited as they all heard the door shut and lock. Nathan leaned quickly over Vin and touched his face lightly, as Buck and Chris joined him.

"Boy am I glad to see you," said Buck softly.

Nathan was prodding at the wound with his fingertips, and Vin moaned very softly and turned his head, then shuddered deeply. "That's a hell of a big slug in there," said Nathan.

"Yeah. He's been in a lotta' pain from it." Nathan looked up at Buck sharply, to see a wrenching look of guilt and fury flash across his face.

"He ride all the way up here like this?"

"Yeah." Buck looked down at his own hands, and Nathan started to say something reassuring, then realized he couldn't. Not yet. He looked at Chris instead.

"I'm gonna need better light here."

Chris stood up without a word and pulled the oil lamp down off the hook on the beam, then carried it over carefully to Nathan and set it on the crate above Vin's head. "Will that work?"

"It's better." Nathan pulled the edges of the wound apart to break the yellow crust over it and start it draining, and Vin jerked sharply when he did. "Y'all are gonna' have to hold 'im for me when I start workin' on this," he said. He looked quickly over his shoulder as the cellar door opened, and all three men held their breaths for fear it wasn't Miz Ruby coming down.

But it was.

"See if these'll work," she puffed. "They's ol' but clean." She set a stack of cloths in Nathan's hands, and the healer smiled at her.

"They'll do fine, Miz Ruby."

She reached into an ample pocket. "An' here's two knives. Take whatever works. Ah gots to go back up an' git the water; ain't quite boilin' yet." She rose and went to the stairs again, then looked back at Nathan as she pointed to Chris.

"Watch out for that'n," she warned him. "Th' fellah' with the moustache is nice enough, but Ah don' trust this'n here nohow."

Part 77

They had a second lamp now, that cast enough light for Nathan to see what he was doing. He'd laid the knives in a shallow basin of boiling water, and torn bandages from strips of the cloth. He sat back on his heels and looked at Miz Ruby, who was standing bent over with her hands on her knees looking down at Vin.

"I think you outta' leave now, Miz Ruby," he said seriously.

The woman turned her head slightly to regard Nathan with a long, thoughtful look. "An' jes' why is that?"

"Two reasons." Nathan stood up. "There's no tellin' who might come down here before I'm done, an' no reason for you t' get caught if that happens."

Miz Ruby stood up, too, and folded her arms across her bosom. "That's one. What's two?"

Nathan bit his lips, glanced at Vin's flushed face, then looked back at Miz Ruby. "I gotta' go get some whiskey to clean out that wound."

The woman's face went slack for a moment, and then her eyes flashed. "T' think! Ah stood up for y'all to gets a job here, mahse'f."

"I ain't askin' you--"

"Ah know." Miz Ruby threw one hand up towards Nathan and shook it as her eyes snapped. "Y'all gots a key to Marse Sterlin's liquor cabinet, same as Ah does. An' ya' knows what happens t' folks like us what lifts so much as one sip outta' one a' those bottles in a rich white man's house."

"Yes'm." Nathan put one hand on the woman's shoulder and looked into her eyes. "That's why I don' want you to stay here, or for them to know you had anythin' to do with this. If it gets found out."

Miz Ruby returned Nathan's gaze steadily for a long moment, then shook her shoulder out from beneath his hand and looked pointedly at Chris and Buck. She looked Nathan up and down and cocked her head. "It's nigh ont' midnight," she said, "but when ya' finish up here, come 'n' talk t' me on the side porch about all these doin's. Ah may have to close mah eyes to some things, but that' don't mean Ah'm blind." She looked at Buck again, and then Vin, and turned and went up the stairs without a backward look. They could tell that she'd only shut the upstairs door this time instead of locking it. Nathan looked at Chris and Buck and sighed.

"I'm goin' to get some whiskey," he said. "I'll only be a minute, an' then we'll do this."

"Nathan?" Chris's voice brought Nathan to a halt. "What _does_ happen to folks like you an' her if you take liquor from the cabinet?"

Nathan looked at the floor between Chris's feet a minute, then looked up and met his eyes. "Man, woman, or child -- we get beat," he said simply. He turned and went up the stairs.

He had the little key to the liquor cabinet in the pocket of his waistcoat, and his finger rested on it all the way up the stairs and down the long hallways that led to the library. Nathan couldn't remember his heart ever pounding like this in all the years he'd been free, not even when he and the others had gone up against impossible odds in a gunfight. But this -- the admonitions all little slave children heard rang in his ears. Stealing liquor was the worst and lowest thing there was. Anybody that did it deserved the beating he got, and probably worse. Couldn't NO body trust a darkie who'd--

Nathan brought his thoughts up short, and frowned. I ain't a slave no more, he said to himself silently. And this ain't to drown my grief or sorrow. It's to save a life, an' the one in the wrong is Michaels. Not me.

But even as he forced the words into his mind, he felt the guilt of believing them to be false. He would just have to do it anyway, he realized. Some things were too ingrained to change them; you just had to act against them and let it go.

Five minutes later he had a tall bottle of whiskey in his hand and was headed back down the stairs in the cellar, his heart pounding so hard that he was light-headed and had to sit down for a moment when he got to the bottom. Chris squatted down in front of him and laid one hand on Nathan's knee, quietly.

"Thank you," he said softly, when Nathan looked up and met his eyes. "for all of us."

Nathan swallowed. How Chris knew what he was going through, feeling, remembering -- he wasn't sure. But it was there, in the gunman's still, clear eyes, and Nathan felt a warmth grow in his being and spread out like a clear light, to ease the guilt and shame he'd been getting more and more tangled up in all day. His dizziness receded, and he handed Chris the whiskey and cleared his throat.

"Let's get 'im fixed up," he said.

"All right," Chris breathed.

It took nearly an hour for Nathan to remove the bullet from Vin's shoulder, clean the wound, pack it with a cloth strip soaked in the whiskey, and then bandage it tightly enough to hold the packing in place. He'd been pleased when the wound had finally begun to bleed enough to push out the pus that had collected in it, and he'd had Buck and Chris turn Vin on his side for a while to help all the infection possible drain out on the tide of fresh blood. Now, sitting back with his fingers on Vin's throat feeling of his pulse, he wondered if it would be enough. He shook his head at the count he got, felt the fever again, and looked at Chris.

"We'll see," he said. "Not much more I can do right now. He should rest better now, anyway. Not be in so much pain if he comes 'roun'."

Buck sighed and rubbed his face with a tired hand, and Nathan studied him a long moment.

"Buck," he said, "I need to look at that leg a'--"

They heard the door open.

"Marse Sterlin's callin' ya'!" It was Miz Ruby's voice in a savage whisper, and Nathan leaped to his feet and began to roll down his sleeves.

"Hide all this stuff," he said in a quick, low voice. "I'll get word to the others somehow tomorrow -- today -- whatever it is. We'll get you outta' here tonight." He turned around and gave a final tug to his vest, then sprinted up the stairs. Buck and Chris heard the door shut, and locked, then looked at each other in the dim light.

"I'm gonna' look around in these crates an' see if I can find something to put under Vin, maybe wrap him in so he's not layin' on this cold floor," said Chris.

"Be my guest," said Buck, "I'm gonna' eat."

"No surprise to me." Chris turned to start going through the crates Buck had already been through, and Buck thought for a brief moment of telling the gunman there wasn't anything there. Then he scowled.

"Hell," he muttered. "Never mind." He stood up stiffly and started dragging himself over to the crate where Miz Ruby had put out food so long before. He dropped heavily to the ground beside it, and started ladling out a bowl of the cold soup even as he was chewing on a piece of bread. That was where Chris found him twenty minutes later after he'd given up finding any blankets. Buck's face was on the crate, and a spoon was in his hand, and he was asleep with his head against the side of the kettle.

Part 78

The first thing Nathan saw as he grabbed his coat from the kitchen chair he'd hung it over was Bitsy racing frantically through the kitchen. Her face wore a look of deep terror, and Nathan reached out a quick hand to catch her by the arm and pull her up.

"What's wrong, Bitsy?"

"Th' Mistress is back!" The girl leaned away from Nathan trying to draw her arm from his hand. "I gotta' go turn down her bed quick-like, or she'll be riled!"

"Does it matter that your dress is backside-to?" Nathan chuckled, releasing Bitsy's arm as the girl looked down at herself and threw up her hands in dismay. "Don' worry. I'll stall 'em," smiled Nathan. He hurried from the kitchen into the hall as he shrugged his arms into the coat sleeves, and headed for the front parlor. There was no question that it was there his services were required. He could hear the woman's voice three rooms before he got there.

"STERling!" she was crying, "STERling! For GOD's sake, get me a drink!"

"NATHANIEL!!"

"Yessir. What can I do for you, sir." Nathan had moved smartly around the corner into the room just as Michaels bellowed, with the result that he seemed to appear almost magically in response to the summons.

"Where were you?"

Nathan laid a hand casually upon his coat. "Proper attire, sir."

"Ah. Yes."

Belle peered at Nathan and walked closer to him. "Oh Sterling," she cooed, "what a perfectly lovely gentleman's gentleman you've gotten." She looked at the master of the house with her happy features restored. "Can he fix me a drink? Oh do say yes."

Michaels nodded slightly to Nathan, who turned immediately to Belle and inclined his head to her respectfully. "What would you like me to get you, Ma'am?"

Belle clapped her hands gaily. "Oh!" she cried. "Oh! Whatever I want?" She looked at Michaels and he nodded silently, a pleased smile on his face. The woman cocked her head to one side and looked back at Nathan. Her eyes sparkled in a way he remembered only too well from his days serving other women who had enjoyed the same sense of power. Suddenly she lay a single gloved forefinger lightly on his vest and smiled. "Cocoa," she said.

"Cocoa!" Michaels laughed. "It's AUGUST!"

Belle pouted. "You said ANYthing, Sterling."

The man sighed and looked at Nathan. "This is Miss Belle," he said. "She is mistress whenever she is here, and you will serve her as you do me. Cocoa it is."

"Yessir." Nathan nodded to Belle and to Sterling, and then backed from the room and hurried to the kitchen again. Damn! COCOA! How the hell was he going to--

"Here, here . . .already gots it on." Miz Ruby was at the stove, a little pan hissing over the flame.

"How you . . ." Nathan broke off and came over to peer into the pan. He looked up at the woman and she cackled lightly.

"Little Pedro." She pointed to a boy who was even then slipping out of the kitchen like a tiny shadow, his face sleepy. "We has him hang close an' listen at doors an' such-like when that Belle's in the house. He kin run fas' enough to git things goin' b'fore that woman gits all riled."

"She get riled often?" Nathan thought about Bitsy and shook his head.

"Ohhhh, she do indeed." Miz Ruby wagged her head and swirled the cocoa in the pan so it wouldn't burn, looking up at Nathan as she did so. "Y'all saved Bitsy gitten' herse'f slapped but good, ya' know that? Ah'm thankin' ya', Nathaniel."

"Bitsy. Slapped? Why?"

"For havin' her dress backside front. If'n Miss Belle'd seed 'er that a-away . . .mmmm. BAD bidness." She poured the cocoa into a rose-painted china teacup edged in gold, set the cup on a saucer, and the saucer on an elegant silver teatray. "Napkin," she said, pointing. Nathan took a square of the Irish linen off the shelf and folded it into a point, then set it next to the cup and saucer. Miz Ruby looked up at him and made a shooing motion with her two hands. "Now git it in to 'er. Hurry up!"

Nathan hurried.

He kept on hurrying for nearly two hours. Belle had to have a hot bath. With lavender. But that was TOO hot. And the towel really wasn't soft enough, and what had happened to the sachet she'd left in the linen drawer with it? Bitsy ran in and out of the boudoir with the same look of terror Nathan had seen on her face in the kitchen, and he did his best to back her up every step of the way as the lilting voice was raised for first one thing and then another. She had to have a soft bed, of course. That _dreadful_ man who'd driven her here after she'd gone to her little house and packed all her things had kept trying to go so fast that it would have raised endless dust that just totally destroyed all her laces and satins. Three days they'd been on that miserable road, and two nights. IMAGINE! But she'd made him listen to her, and here they were at last with all her precious things intact. But not another night in a hotel. Not her, no. She'd insisted, as any lady would, that even if they had to drive all night this night, they get to the manor without stopping for anything less than a down mattress and silk sheets. Ooooh, Bitsy-dear! Do see if my rose damask dressing gown is still hanging in the closet. And I need my nails buffed, don't you think?

Dreadful cowtown. Dreadful gunslingers.

Nathan stopped hurrying. He stood in the hallway outside the boudoir's closed door, his arms filled with a silk comforter he'd been taking to air, and listened as Belle's melodious voice filled in Bitsy-darling-Bitsy with all the horrid details of the absolutely _enormous_ ox of a man she'd had to seduce with her considerable charms. A preacher, of all things! Who was a GUNslinger! Fortunately, she was a consummate actress, so the part had been well-done and she'd claimed her victory. Fancy me being ruined, Bitsy! Isn't that ridiculous? I am PERFECTION!! Her laugh sent a shiver down Nathan's spine, and he thought for a moment he might stop breathing altogether.

One day. A single day. And already he'd slipped into a place where having been caught off-duty and potentially "in trouble" had knocked him so far off his center that the name he'd heard hadn't even registered. Miss _Belle_. My God.

Later, he wasn't at all sure what he did after that point in the long night, except that Nathan knew he somehow fulfilled all his duties and that Belle and Sterling had both been fully and amply tucked into their respective bedchambers before he was permitted, finally, to drag himself to the kitchen and drop into a chair at the table. The old clock was chiming three as he pulled his arms out of the sleeves of his coat, and he wondered tiredly if he could even make it to the cot without passing out. A soft hand on his shoulder made him turn his head wearily, knowing already that it was Miz Ruby. The woman pulled out a chair across from him and sat down heavily, to regard Nathan with serious eyes that were dark as deep ponds in the unlit kitchen.

"Ya' knows 'em," she said softly. Just like that. No preamble, no reference, no recrimination. Just a statement. Nathan looked down at his hands and then back at the woman. He was so tired.

"Yes," he said.

Miz Ruby took a deep breath and rubbed a tired hand across her eyes. "Lawd, Ah was hopin' Ah was wrong," she muttered sadly.

"I won't lie to you, Miz Ruby." Nathan looked at the woman and lay his large hand over her worn one where it lay on the table. "You're too good a woman."

"What Ah is, is a LIVE woman," said Miz Ruby. Her voice sounded almost angry, but still soft in the silent kitchen. "An' Ah didn' live this long by gettin' int' such as this!"

"I didn't know it would involve you," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Ah kin see that." The woman shook her head and pulled the skirt of her apron up over her head suddenly in a gesture Nathan had not seen in many years -- not since the days when he'd lived with women whose only chance of privacy was to cover their heads, women who'd wept alone beneath their aprons in little one-room shacks full of too many people. He stood up and went to stand with his arms around her shoulders and waited while she got her composure back together. Finally she lowered the apron far enough to wipe at the tears that were streaming down her dark face. "Nathaniel, what's Ah gon' do? Ah cain't let y'all jus' walk outta' here. But if'n Ah was t' tell Marse Sterlin', he'd tell that Sullivan fellah, an--"

"Miz Ruby." Nathan's voice took on a serious tone that made the woman look up at him. He squatted down in front of her, so that his face was nearly at the same level hers was as she sat in the chair. "Sullivan is responsible for that man bein' hurt to start with. If he finds out any a' this, he'll kill him. An' the others, too. An' . . . me."

"But why?" Miz Ruby's face worked as she looked into Nathan's for an answer, and the healer found he wasn't sure he could give her one. He had only suspicions about Michaels. Maybe Sullivan had acted on his own. Maybe Belle had . . . his thoughts trailed off and he rubbed his face wearily. God, when had it gotten so complicated! He realized Miz Ruby had put a hand on his arm, then, and looked up at her.

"Miz Ruby, one thing I gotta' tell ya': my name ain't Nathaniel Lincoln. It's Nathan Jackson. But I was afraid someone here would know that name, so . . . " His voice trailed off and he sighed.

"What's 'is name, that one that's fevered?" she asked softly.

"Vin."

"What kinda' man is 'e?"

"A good one, Miz Ruby. I met 'im 'cause some cowboys was fixin' t' lynch me, an' he stopped 'em. Him an' the fellah in the black."

"Him!?" Miz Ruby scowled. " Ah never figgered that'n for nothin' good. Ya' tellin' me true? He saved yo' life?"

"Yes'm. It's God's truth."

"Why was them cowboys gonna' hang ya'?"

"'Cause I ain't white." Nathan said it softly, knowing that she knew it already, anyway. The woman frowned slightly.

"So why'd them two save ya'?"

"'Cause I'm a man."

Miz Ruby pulled back from Nathan and put her hands on his arms and looked deeply into his eyes. "Y'all ain't lyin' to me."

"No, ma'am."

Miz Ruby was silent a long while, her eyes distant. Nathan waited, listening to the heavy beat of the clock echoing through the still house. Finally she sighed, a long shuddering sigh that Nathan swore he could hear plantation field songs in, and she laid one hand on the side of Nathan's face and spoke to him in a steady voice even as tears welled up in her eyes to spill down her cheeks unheeded.

"Ah be sixty-fo' years ol'," she said, "an' Ah ain't never done nothin' wrong that Ah knowed it in all those years. Ah'll admit, they's been times Ah've hadta' work kinda' hard not to know certain things, but they wasn't big ones." She patted Nathan's face and lowered her hand. "Ah cain't find it in me to turn y'all over t' that Sullivan fellah. Ah knows he'd kill y'all. No doubt atall. Ya' kin see killin' in the man's eyes. But . . . " she hesitated, and bit her lip, then went on, "Ah don' know what'll happen, rightly. When y'all have got away. Maybe 'fore ya' go, ya' kin help me figger what to do, so's Bitsy 'n' Coco 'n' Pedro 'n' me don' wind up on the wrong side a' that man's temper neither. Ah'd hate like sixty t' see them young 'uns --" Her voice broke suddenly, and she put her face in her hands and bowed her head and began to rock back and forth. Nathan drew her into his arms and simply held her. He bowed his own head over hers as a mockingbird called from outside, and the night began to fade into morning.

Part 79

JD extended his hands to the stove, trying to warm them up while he waited for the coffee to brew. It was about three hours before sunrise. He'd need to be at work at The Compound at dawn. Who knew it would be so cold? Of course, JD was used to the cold in Boston but he'd never expected to feel this cold in August for pete's sake. JD huddled his arms close to his body and tried to generate some body heat.

"Feeling the heat there, JD?" Josiah walked in with an armload of chopped wood.

JD shuddered and smiled wryly, "there's heat?" JD questioned skeptically.

Josiah chuckled deeply. "Coffee should be ready. Let me have a cup while I pack some food. Need to get out there and relieve Ezra. Bet he's really feeling the cold."

JD sobered, "what about the guys?"

Josiah pursed his lips considering JD's question. "Well, we saw them take Chris to the big house. If they're not being held there, you can pretty much depend it's inside somewhere. So I expect they're not as bad off."

JD cocked his head and looked skeptically at Josiah.

Josiah laughed again. "Not as bad off if they were outside in the elements." Josiah sobered and made eye contact with JD and nodded his head firmly. "We'll get 'em, JD."

"How can you be so sure?"

Josiah winced hoping he wasn't lifting the boy's spirits too high. "No crows," Josiah flashed his broad smile and looked up.

JD grinned for a brief moment. "Josiah," he asked seriously, "do crows even live here?"

Josiah just chuckled.

"Come on, we gotta get moving?"

"Thanks, Josiah."

Josiah paused. 'For what, son? For what?' Damn, he couldn't forgive himself that at least half the problems they now had were due to his hateful tongue. A weapon he used so effectively that it might now cost Buck and Vin their lives. He might not have fired the gun but he delivered the first shot, maybe the fatal one. Josiah ran a hand raggedly through his hair, 'shit,' and he'd run off at the mouth to JD. Raised his hopes, probably should have prepared him that they might not all survive this. Hell, they just knew Buck and Vin were brought here. Nobody said anything about alive.

+ + + + + + +

Ezra rocked back and forth. He was in a low squat hunkered down trying to stay warm and watching the big house and compound. He'd been reduced to stealing his foul-smelling saddle blanket to wrap around him in a desperate effort to stave off hypothermia. God damn, it's August. Ezra looked up beseechingly and just a tad bit annoyed, 'you do realize it's August?' A gust blew up and Ezra shuddered. 'I take it that's a no,' Ezra frowned, 'maybe a yes,' he did realize.

Ezra was just a tad bit cranky and he wasn't sure he was thinking clearly; he hadn't gotten any sleep. Not that he was supposed to, but if it had been quiet down there he could have closed his eyes, any change in rhythm of the normal noise of the compound would have jerked them open. The thing was the lights were never doused in the big house and the compound never quieted to that rhythm which every town and establishment inevitably did in the middle of the night. What did it mean?

He had seen the lights doused upstairs and assumed the big man had retired for the night. Next, he had seen the front rooms of the house go dark. It should have been a matter of at most an hour for the kitchen lights to go down but they never had. He'd seen the shadows move continuously, he'd seen light on the back porch and another figure rise up, and more movement. They'd disappear for awhile and then come back many minutes later. Where would they go? One time he had seen a light toward the front, maybe the library? Liquor cabinet? Why do you need liquor in the middle of the night, Ezra mused. To relax? To drown in? To treat the injured? -- treat the injured! He'd never saw Chris leave the house -- so where would they keep him. Where were those people in kitchen going? A cellar? Did that mean that Vin and Buck were there too? Ezra chewed his lip worriedly, 'shit, pure speculation.'

Ezra had seen the people again in the kitchen. A broad figure with a big bosom -- the cook? A much taller, leaner figure -- Nathan? Ezra half-considered sneaking into the back porch to see if he could get information from Nathan but he quickly rejected it. 'Don't let impatience draw you into a stupid mistake. Wait for Nathan. He'll come to you.'

In what was clearly the middle of the night a carriage arrived -- one man and a petite woman aboard. The man was obviously a lackey -- Ezra smiled with grim empathy -- the woman was a shrew. Ezra had seen the lady hit the man with some implement, probably an umbrella, and he could see the lights of the house come up as the whole household was roused by her arrival. It was several hours later before the lights were doused upstairs. The back of the house lights never dimmed. Her arrival interrupted any sleep the household staff could possibly have gotten. 'Selfish bitch,' Ezra thought cynically and he'd never met the woman, but he didn't doubt his assessment was accurate.

Ezra heard Josiah and JD draw up in the woods behind him and walk towards him. He smiled. He prided himself on knowing it was them and not having to move from his huddled position.

"Ezra," Josiah greeted.

Ezra nodded, his teeth chattering. Josiah poured coffee into a cup and offered it to Ezra. Ezra looked over at JD who was staring at the ground and idly kicking his foot, then he peered up at Josiah. A shudder raked Ezra's body and not from cold. "What?" Ezra asked Josiah in a flat voice.

"Rode by their cemetery. Two, fresh unmarked graves," Josiah's voice fully conveyed defeat.

'Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.' Ezra's mind screamed and he valiantly held his composure. "Might not be them," Ezra forced out passed his clogged throat, desperately searching for hope.

"Might not," Josiah affirmed, but his heart clearly was not in it.

Ezra looked up at Josiah. "No matter what. We know we have two men alive in that house. Maybe more. . ."

Josiah's head swiftly turned to Ezra and he frowned at him. Ezra nodded in return. "JD," he quietly called the young man over.

"No, I don't know if they are alive. But there has been a lot of activity in the house and not related to servicing Mr. Michaels. I saw activity in the kitchen well into the early morning. They would be in the kitchen then leave it but no light shone in other parts of the house. I speculate they went to the cellar. Might be where the men are?"

"Good, good." Josiah was talking himself into this being good news -- Ezra knew it. "JD, keep your ears open. Also see if you can move Chris, Buck and Vin's horse to a corral that we can claim them if we need to. Look for their saddle bags, they might have dumped them in the tack room and we grab them when we get them out of there."

"If we get them out of there," JD acknowledged.

Josiah grabbed JD's arm as he started to walk down the steep incline to the stables. "No, JD - when." Josiah smiled slightly and released JD's arm. "JD watch for Nathan's signal. If you have to, slip out and meet him. Then meet at the lumber camp. Do not go back to the livery. Understand?"

"Yup," JD responded shortly. "See ya later."

Josiah and Ezra didn't say anything as they watched JD approach the mining compound's livery. When they saw him safely in, they both visibly relaxed.

"Let's get you back to the cabin and warm you up."

"Will he be all right?" Ezra had not taken his eyes off the livery.

"Only *if* we get Buck and Vin out of there."

'If, not when.' Yes, Ezra did notice.

Part 80

Nettie Wells loved this country. Always had. Since she'd arrived in the territory when she was young bride, she had loved it. She had found her home. Wasn't quite the same for her husband, he'd been gone a long time now. But Nettie had not once considered going back east -- this was it for her. When her young niece came to live with her after the death of her parents, well that just made it that much more certain. She had found her home. And Nettie was returning to it after a long week away.

Nettie had been at the Andrews' ranch this past week caring for a new baby and her recovering mother. With four children already in the household and a difficult delivery, she had needed the help. She was now back on her feet for several days

And Nettie was coming home. She felt like dancing a jig as much as you could in a buggy. She wanted to see Casey, putter in her vegetable garden, can some preserves, sleep in her own bed -- the things you did at your own home.

Nettie felt fear as she approached her little ranch and just knew something was wrong. There was a heaviness to her arms as she lifted the reins and a dread that she didn't want to go there - to her_own_home. Evil had visited here.

Nettie drew the reins and stopped the horse. She scanned her small homestead. No fire in the fireplace or stove, but it was warm and that wasn't so surprising. Plus very likely Casey was in town. She spent a lot of time around that young man, JD Dunne. Nettie rolled her eyes thinking she just needed to bonk their heads together to get them see what a treasure they had found in each other.

Nettie was startled from her thoughts realizing what was wrong - it_was_too_quiet. Where are my chickens? The rooster always crowed when a horse pulled in. Her very own guard dog. But there was no welcoming crow. And where were her horses? The bay, the sorrel, the mares - all gone.

With trepidation, Nettie urged the horse forward. She had assumed Casey was fine. Casey was always fine. Nettie climbed down from the buggy and hurried into the cabin. On the table was a note.

Dear Aunt Nettie,
Staying in town with Mrs. Travis. Indians came in and killed the chickens, stole the horses.
I'm sorry, my fault,
Casey

Nettie's hand fluttered to cover her mouth and tears pricked her eyes. For a moment, she had thought . . . Oh dear Lord, she is safe. That is all that matters. Thank you, Lord.

Nettie rushed out and quickly mounted the buggy urging the horse into a brisk canter to get her to Four Corners.

+ + + + + + +

Mary Travis had not missed a day publishing The Clarion News and today was no different. She walked through the town making deliveries. Folks who knew her well were taken back by the editor's appearance. Not that she wasn't perfectly coifed, appropriately attired, and a pleasant smile on her face; but her porcelain skin had an almost a blue cast and the dark circles under her eyes were pronounced.

Mary stopped by the jail to leave a paper for the visiting deputy. As she stepped out, he walked toward her from the boarding house. He sure did not cut an impressive figure. He was extremely lean, some might say skinny, about six feet tall, his face was thin and gaunt, his clothes hung from his frame, and he wore a badge - bright as day, over his heart.

Mary couldn't remember the last time she'd seen a badge in this town. JD had worn one for about two hours until Buck Wilmington had chased him down at the jail as the newly-pinned sheriff and made him hide it under his lapel. By the end of the week, he had tossed it in a drawer. Before that there had been a sheriff and deputy but they ran the day they tried to hang Nathan Jackson. The day Chris Larabee had come to town.

Chris Larabee could be a show-of-force just by his presence. The deputy from Eagle Bend wouldn't intimidate anyone with his presence. Mary, you know you're not being fair. Yeah, well I don't feel very fair today.

"Ma'am, I would like to talk to you about the incident with the Indians."

Mary stiffened, her dander already up. "_If_ it was an Indian incident. I'm not convinced it is."

"An eye-witness places a band of renegades in the area that morning."

Mary gritted her teeth. "Renegade - what?"

The deputy sputtered, "Why Indians, of course."

"I didn't see them."

"Did you talk to the eye-witness?" Mary let an element of derision enter her voice.

"Yes, certainly."

"Did he see Indians?"

"Well, of course."

Mary looked at the deputy skeptically.

The deputy quickly dissembled. "He saw men in buckskins, whoopin' and hollerin' as they rode through his ranch."

"He was positive they were actually from Kojay's tribe. Sure they were Indians?"

"How could he know that?"

"My point exactly. He doesn't. So might I suggest you alert farmers and ranchers to be cautious? No person has been hurt. Let's be sure it stays that way."

"Ma'am, I know you are a respected community leader. I think we should get a posse and ride out to the reservation in a show-of-force."

"I respectfully disagree, deputy." Mary's voiced hardened. "You cannot be sure who is responsible for this. I will not support you in this."

"As you wish, ma'am. But I'm going to organize the men."

"Good luck, deputy." The deputy walked off. Mary knew folks would be upset. But riding in a posse to the reservation, Mary doubted there would be many volunteers -- yet. There was only property damage thus far. She knew she needed to keep tensions in check. Mary sure hoped she was right dissuading the deputy to form a posse. Without her, he wouldn't be able to do it. If lives were lost, there would be no stopping a posse, or worse, a vigilante gang.

+ + + + + + +

Yosemite was busy tendin' the bowed tendon of a drummer's horse. At least he hoped that's all it was. Yosemite shook his head sorrowfully; damn fool, kept ridin' lot longer than he should. Horse could barely stand to put weight on it now. Yosemite added liniment to his rag and in a steady, firm massage he continued to work the sore leg.

The owner of the dun mare came into the barn. He'd been in and out of town all week. He nodded at Yosemite and then looked around the barn almost furtively to see if anyone was about. Apparently satisfied, he approached Yosemite.

Tipping his hat in greeting, "Got some horses out back want to sell."

"Always interested in good flesh. Let's go take a look?" Yosemite straightened slowly from his task, never limber it took a long minute before he was straight and start movin' to the back of the barn.

"Name's Yosemite," Yosemite stuck out a hand.

The other man didn't take it immediately, "Thompson," he said finally as he grasped Yosemite's hand in a quick handshake.

Yosemite smiled ruefully, not a right friendly sort. Yosemite stopped up short when he got a look at the horses tied to the rail of the corral. He might not remember the owner but he knew horses and he knew these ones. Yosemite's mind raced at what to do. He decided to play it out for now.

Yosemite looked carefully at all the horses in the line. The bay and sorrel were particularly fine. "What were you thinking on price?"

"$400 for the four of them?" Thompson spoke firmly.

But before the words were even out, Yosemite was shaking his head. "Bay and sorrel are fine, the mares are over 10 years old. I'll give you $200."

Thompson reached for the lead. "Forget it."

"$250," Yosemite stopped him.

Thompson looked assessingly at Yosemite. "Cash now."

"In five minutes, need to get it from the bank."

"Do that -- I'll be here."

Yosemite nodded shortly and with a nonchalance he was far from feeling strode out of the barn. As he looked for that dang deputy from Eagle Bend -- he saw Miss Nettie hurry into town. Yosemite saw her pull up at the newspaper office and sprightly jump down from the buggy hurrying into the office. He could understand her apparent distress; he'd tend the horse for her as soon as he found that deputy -- sheesh, never a lawman around when you need 'em.

+ + + + + + +

"Nettie!" Mary startled as Nettie bustled through the door, obviously agitated. Mary just pointed to the back of the building.

Nettie gave a brief nod of acknowledgement and hurried through the office to the quarters at the back of the building.

"Casey, girl." Nettie called out as she entered the kitchen. Casey had been at the stove preparing stew when her aunt called. The spoon dropped with a clatter and she rushed into her aunt's arms.

"Oh, Aunt Nettie, I'm so glad you're back," Casey exclaimed fervently as she held her aunt in a tight hug.

Nettie kissed Casey's forehead as she looked up into her face. A frown crossed Nettie's face -- what happened to my little girl? Her face was an unhealthy pale, her hair listless, dark circles framed her eyes, and her cheeks were hollowed attesting to great weight loss from her already small frame. Nettie pulled her into arms again.

"Have you been sick Casey?"

Casey just burrowed her head into her aunt's breast, refusing to speak. Nettie just held Casey till some of the tension eased from her body.

Once Casey calmed, Nettie tried to pull Casey up, "Casey, now, what's happened? I was at the farm?"

"They killed the chickens and stole the horses. Pulled down the corral fences and generally made a mess," Casey told her aunt.

"You were there?"

"Oh no, no, no. I'd been staying in town."

Nettie frowned. "Why was that?"

"Well, when JD had to come back to town, I just thought . . ." Casey's explanation was halted by the thundercloud expression on her aunt's face.

"JD Dunne was at the farm without me there?" Nettie's words were very measured and her anger apparent. Mary came into the kitchen.

"I . . . well, I asked him to stay." Casey explained weakly, she looked beseechingly over at Mary.

"How long did he stay, Casey?" Nettie asked gravely.

"Two nights," Casey admitted quietly.

"You gave no thought to how inappropriate that was. It was improper and you've shamed us," Nettie could not hide her disappointment in her niece.

"Shamed us . . . oh, oh, oh," whatever Casey was going to say went unsaid as she started to sob and her breaths came as gasping wheezes.

Mary rushed over to calm Casey. "Shush Casey, come on, calm down." Mary rocked her in her arms, trying to reassure Casey.

Mary looked up at Nettie with glistening eyes. "Obviously, there is so much more to this story." Mary continued to rock Casey in her arms till she calmed down.

Her aunt remained unwavered by Casey's emotional display, her anger was simmering and looking for some outlet. Her foot tapped a steady rhythm.

As Casey calmed, Nettie looked to Mary for answers. "Were you aware that JD stayed out at the farm?"

Mary shook her head. "Nettie, please have a seat at the table, you too, Casey. A lot has happened." Mary pulled a chair out for Casey who had stopped crying but was looking intently at the table. Nettie sat with an upright posture so stiff and gentle breeze would crack it, by the thinnest thread she was keeping a hold on her temper.

"Mary, please tell me what has happened," Nettie managed to ask calmly.

"Two men from the trail crews cornered and tried to have their way with Casey. Casey fought them off and hid until she could get help." Nettie reached her hand out to Casey. Casey clasped it.

With that the thread of Nettie's anger broke with the realization that Casey has been attacked. "Oh Casey, I'm so sorry that happened to you," it was Nettie who was feeling ashamed of her reaction.

"No, you were right. I shouldn't have been in town. If I had listened to you, I wouldn't have been. No, it was my fault," Casey was calm and looked up at her aunt, giving her hand a squeeze. "I'm sorry."

"Buck Wilmington escorted Casey home," Mary continued. Nettie smiled at that, Buck Wilmington was quite the rogue but he was a good man. "That, in fact, became very important. Mr. Wilmington was accused of raping a woman, Miss Belle Corydon. Casey cleared his name by providing an alibi. Unfortunately, he's left town. Vin Tanner is with him and apparently shot and seriously injured. The others are looking for them."

Nettie frowned, "Did Buck shoot Vin?"

"Oh no. It seems there might be a plan to separate the seven and drive them from town. There have been four incidents with Indians. Mr. Delano believes he's having problems with sabotage at the mine. Nathan Jackson was poisoned and almost died." Nettie's eyes widened.

"Is he alive?"

"Ezra Standish saved him. He's riding with them now."

"The gambler?" Nettie asked skeptically. Mary laughed softly as much as the grave situation would allow. Maybe Nettie shouldn't have been surprised -- Vin Tanner wasn't the only Robin Hood in that group.

"He was actually quite good as a healer," Mary defended Ezra.

Nettie smiled but when the implications of what Mary told her, she looked over at her niece. "And Casey," Nettie asked with a calm dread.

"I cannot be sure that she isn't now a target," Mary stated slightly confused, like she had just come to that realization herself.

"What?" Casey's head bobbed up, shocked at Mary's pronouncement.

"The attack. Miss Corydon confronting you. The attack at the ranch when you weren't present. All in one week. It seems to stretch credibility that your luck is that bad."

"Gee, thanks Mary," Casey commented, disgruntled but with a slight smile.

"Nettie?"

Nettie nodded her head. "Think it might be best if we stayed in town."

Mary smiled at that pronouncement. "Please stay with me, I would appreciate the company and your counsel, Nettie."

"That's settled then." Nettie pulled Casey to her side and kissed her forehead. "I'm sorry I wasn't here for you. I love you, girl. And nothing and no one can change that."

"I love you, Aunt Nettie." Nettie looked up to see Mary smile as aunt and niece embraced.

Mary sighed deeply. "Think I need to talk this over with the deputy."

Nettie frowned, "Deputy?"

"All the seven are gone. Ezra wired Eagle Bend and they sent a deputy. He's trying to form a posse to ride on the reservation. I tried to dissuade him but I think I need to talk to him more about what's going on."

"Do you want us to come with you?"

"No, no, you two catch up. Casey can give you a lot more information on what's been going on -- she did the research." Mary smiled as Casey ducked her head at the complement. "I'll be back in a bit."

+ + + + + + +

Thompson wanted to close the deal. Easy money. Hammersmith was a fool for not taking advantage of such an opportunity. That liveryman had been gone a good five minutes. Come on, old man.

A man entered the barn, real skinny with a bright shiny star. He nodded at Thompson. "You have horses for sale."

Thompson relaxed his face, damn. The seven regulators were gone. Shit deputy, why the hell did you decide to be a hero today? It ain't your town.

The lawman's hand was wavering around the handle of his gun. "Just got, just got a few questions," the deputy half-tripped over the words. "Understood those horses were stolen by Indians."

Thompson eyes narrowed. "Are you accusing me of something?"

The deputy's hand rested on his gun. He looked Thompson in the eye.

Thompson didn't wait to hear more; he drew and shot the deputy down. The deputy didn't even have an opportunity to grasp his gun, never mind drawing it.

Thompson's instinct was to flee the barn. He could hear voices; it was only a matter of time before they checked the livery. Thompson looked at the fallen body and started to chuckle. He pulled a knife from his boot and slammed into the deputy's chest at the point he took the bullet. The lawman's body jackknifed at the impact then collapsed down. Guess, he's really dead now, thought Thompson.

Thompson pulled the deputy's gun and pulled the trigger once into a saddle blanket and then placed the gun in the deputy's hand. He pulled a feather from his jacket pocket and let it drift to the floor. He then started to sprint from the barn.

Thompson slammed into Hammersmith.

Hammersmith quickly surveyed the scene, "What the f*ck were you thinking? Huh?" Hammersmith grabbed Thompson's lapels and slammed him against a stall door. He slammed him back a second time the air exhaling from Thompson in a whoosh.

Thompson forcefully pushed Hammersmith back. "It was easy money."

"Easy money. You're an idiot," Hammersmith spit out disgusted. "With the bonuses Michaels is paying, why take a stupid chance?"

"You sanctimonious bastard. What's the harm in a little side money? Don't tell me you weren't pocketing the profits from the poker table."

"That was different," Hammersmith responded grimly.

"Why are you so worried? They'll think the Indians have gotten even bolder -- attacking in town, killing a lawman."

Hammersmith looked back over the scene. "You have a point," he grudgingly conceded. "Get out of here and go to the rendezvous. We'll settle this later."

+ + + + + + +

"Here, everybody in here," came the urgent cry from the livery.

As Mary arrived, a crowd had gathered around the livery. Mary entered to see a blanket pulled over the face of the deputy.

"How did he die?" Mary asked.

"Stabbed. He tried to shoot but missed."

"Looky here," as a man picked up a feather from the livery floor.

"Indians." The crowd that quickly turned ugly with vows to hang the red bastards.

"Please everyone, let's just stay calm," Mary pleaded to the crowd.

"Our only law is dead here. What are we going to do?"

"We'll wire the fort at Yuma for troops. They are much better equipped than we are to handle this. Please everyone, let's just stay calm and get the help we need," Mary searched the crowd for support of her plan.

"I agree with, Miz Travis," one rancher concurred and several men nodded.

"I'll send a wire right now," Mary started to leave the barn.

"You do that, Miz Travis." One of the local ranchers called out. "Much rather troops handle this. But if they don't come, well then, we'll just have to take care of it ourselves."

Yosemite entered the barn and saw the deputy, 'Aw hell.'

Part 81

Nathan stepped back from having set a neat four-in-hand in Marse Sterling's cravat, and picked up the grey cutaway coat the man had decided to change into for the formal luncheon. It had been moved up from one p.m. to noon so that Michaels could take a visiting business man on a tour of the mine facilities later, but the change had pressed a bit closely on his preparations. Nathan tried not to think about how much it reminded him of Ezra as he held the expensive fabric for Michaels to put his arms into, and then slid the well-tailored garment onto the man's powerful shoulders.

"What time is it?" Michaels was straightening his cuffs.

"Nearly noon, Sir."

"Very well. Please inform Miss Belle of the approaching hour," said Michaels. He started for the door and hesitated a beat, to indicate that Nathan should open it for him. The healer did just that, then pressed his lips together and went down the hall to the door of Miss Belle's suite. He rapped very lightly, and was enveloped by lavender when the door opened and the petite woman looked at him.

"Marse Sterlin' wishes me to inform you that it's nearly noon," said Nathan. He was careful to look slightly away rather than into the woman's eyes.

"Thank you, Nathaniel." Miss Belle reached out quickly to catch the edge of his coat sleeve in one of her small white hands. "Just a moment, however."

The healer lifted his eyes to regard hers with trepidation. She smiled disingenuously and turned around so that he saw the top row of pearl buttons on her dress was still undone, her white back laying exposed beneath it like a satin pillow, and her dark hair swept up above it in a glistening pile of curls and pins.

"Please do me up," the woman simpered, "I can't find that lazy Bitsy anywhere."

Nathan thought about the way Bitsy was at that very moment flying from kitchen to dining room and back again, and sighed as he came close enough to the woman to fasten the buttons into their loops. He bit the inside of his cheek and made his fingers stay steady even though he feared the woman would suddenly spin around beneath his hands and confront him in a more brazen fashion. But he finished without incident and was able to take a good step away and put space between her and himself by the time she did turn around. Belle cocked her head to one side and looked up at Nathan languidly from beneath long eyelashes.

"I am ready," she said. "You may go for now."

"Yes'm." Nathan started breathing again and took another step backward.

"But. . ." added Belle. She raised a small fan that Nathan had not seen in her hand and lifted it towards his face, coming forward to tap him lightly on the chin with it. ". . . you will, perhaps, see to it that I am not wanting for something sweet and warm tonight, at bed time. You know . . . to help me sleep well."

Nathan remained silent, and somehow he kept his hands from making fists. Belle looked at him another long moment, then laughed lightly and turned away to bustle across the sitting room, flashing a quick and appraising glance over her shoulder at him as she did so.

"Sterling will be delighted by your loyalty," she said. "Both his last two 'boys' failed that particular little test."

Nathan inclined his head to the woman very slightly, backed farther into the hall, and took his leave. He doubted very much that Michaels had ever known of the "failures" of the two previous men who'd served him. Nathan had known too many women like Belle to think her words meant anything more than an effort to recover her superior position when faced with even the slight hint of rejection he'd posed by not responding to her comment. He cleared his throat softly and hurried to the kitchen. Pedro ran past him on determined feet as he got to the doorway, the boy's arms loaded with cut flowers. Miz Ruby's voice trailed out of the kitchen behind him.

"Get 'em in that vase QUICK, Pedro! They's gonna' be down any minute!"

"What can I do to help?" The steamy heat of the kitchen engulfed Nathan in air too thick to breathe as he walked in. Pedro raced past him going the other way, snatched a silver basket of bread from the table, and turned to race out again.

"Wait!" called Miz Ruby after him. "Fol' shut that linen cov-" She threw her hands up in the air when she saw the boy was already gone, and turned back to the oven. "Help me git this roast on that platter, Nathaniel," she grunted. She had lowered the cast iron and silver door, and was tugging out a roasting pan the size of a hog's head. Nathan grabbed several cloths and bent next to the woman to grab the pan's other side, and then lifted it by himself as she saw he had it and stepped aside to give him room for leverage. She pointed to the top of the stove. "Right there," she said. "Set it there quick, Nathaniel."

Bitsy ran in and slid across the tiled floor on sandaled feet as Nathan lifted the lid on the roaster and set it aside. He glanced over to see the girl snatch up a tall water pitcher and dart out the other doorway, into the dining room.

"Here. Here." Miz Ruby was lifting a platter towards him. "Set that roast here."

Nathan obliged, his mind spinning and the air growing even thicker with the scent of the beef and the herbs it has been roasted in rising to cloud his nostrils. His stomach squeezed suddenly with hunger as he lowered the meat to the platter carefully and then put the lid back on the roasting pan.

"No," chided Miz Ruby, "gots t' make gravy outta that." She took the lid back off and began to sprinkle in flour with one hand as she stirred the drippings with a broad wooden spoon. Pedro flashed past again, grabbed a covered china dish from the table, and was gone before Nathan could even move. Coco ran in from the back porch through the wooden door, banging it behind her, her hands full of fresh aprons she'd just taken from the line. She stuffed one into Bitsy's hands as the girl ran in again from the dining room, and Bitsy quickly fastened it over her smock. Another went to Miz Ruby, who lifted her arms so Coco could reach around her waist from behind to tie it around over the top of the larger house-apron the woman wore. Nathan took a cue from this to pick up the fresh apron Coco had thrown over her own shoulder, to slip it around her waist and tie it from behind as she did Miz Ruby's. The clock began to strike twelve.

"Oh Gawd!" cried Miz Ruby. She shoved the meat platter into Nathan's hands. "Set this on quick, an' announce supper's done. Ah means, 'dinner's served.' Wal, ya' knows. But RUN!"

The clock was measuring out the third beat as Nathan set the platter on the loaded sideboard and straightened his cuffs and jacket. He arrived at the study and opened the door just as the final stroke died away in the silence of this end of the house. Six pairs of eyes looked up at him as he entered the room, and one of the pairs was sharp with irritation.

"Luncheon is served," announced Nathan.

Sterling Michaels rose and offered his arm to Belle, who wrapped a gloved hand through it and threw a disdainful look at Nathan as he held the door for the party to go through. They were followed by a couple Nathan had not see before, the woman clearly a "new money" extravagance for the well-heeled "old money" man she hung against. Behind them strolled Sullivan and . . . Nathan's heart skipped as he recognized yet another person he'd seen in town recently. What was it he'd heard the man say his name was? He'd introduced himself to Mrs. Potter when Nathan was in her store, maybe a week ago. Yeah: Bland. He drew the doors closed as the last person left the room, still turning the man's name over in his mind, then darted through a side passage so he could arrive at the dining room only a fraction of a moment after Michaels and Belle did. He drew out Belle's chair for her just as the woman reached it, and she threw him an appraising glance that mixed coquetry and archness in equal measures. Nathan moved silently to do the same office for the other woman present, and she giggled and blushed, then laid a jeweled hand on her companion's arm.

"I'd like me one a' them someday, Charlie," she whispered. Her voice was loud enough that everyone overheard her, though, and Michaels leaned towards her across the snow-white table linen and smiled graciously.

"You would have to look a long time to find a boy as well trained as Nathaniel," he said. "But perhaps when you are ready, Rosie, I can send him to train someone for you. Briefly, of course."

"Of course," said the woman breathlessly. She looked at Nathan again as the man moved to a position between Michaels' and Belle's seats and two steps behind. "I can see where you wouldn't wanta' be without 'im very long."

"It is the finer things in life that make hard work worthwhile." Michaels nodded to the woman and inclined his head almost imperceptibly towards the linen napkin in a silver ring on his plate. Nathan leaned forward to slide it free, shook the napkin opened, and laid it on Michaels' lap. Then he did the same for Belle, being exceedingly careful not to touch her in any way as he did so. The napkin practically floated the last few inches to the red brocade fabric of the woman's dress, and she looked up at Nathan again with a look of slight and hidden petulance.

The kitchen door had swung opened silently during this exchange, and Bitsy had entered with noble carriage and bearing, and an enormous tray in her hands on which were six china bowls swimming with soup. She approached the master's seat, and Nathan smiled covertly at the girl and leaned in to take a bowl of soup from the tray and set it in front of Michaels, on top of his dinner plate. He did the same at every other place as Bitsy moved slowly around the table from one to another of the people, and when the tray was emptied she flashed a grateful look to the healer and stepped backwards and through the doorway, to vanish.

"Go on with your story about the poison thing," said Charlie to Bland. "I'd like to hear the end of that."

Belle made a face, and lifted her soup spoon. "Just don't be too graphic, John," she cautioned.

Bland beamed. He looked around the table at the circle of faces that were all regarding him and listening to him with interest, and felt his chest rising with pride. He laid his soup spoon back down, dinner suddenly forgotten. "Well," he said, "the idea was to make enough people sick that it would cause real trouble for the darkie that parades around there, pretending he's some kinda' doctor or somethin'."

"Imagine!" Rosie sipped soup from her spoon and looked rewardingly enthralled.

"I've heard a' him," said Charlie, dabbing at his lips with his napkin. "Fact is, people like that need a comeuppance. Need to learn their place."

"Damn straight!" Bland nodded vigorously, then looked up sharply at Michaels as the latter coughed and eyed him with a warning look. Bland looked at the two women present and colored. "Sorry," he said. "I mean 'darned' straight."

"Go on," said Michaels shortly.

"So I had this pretty little vial a' stuff I put in a pot a' fancy stew at a restaurant. Only the chef tasted a bit of it an' threw it out for some reason. I don't know why; you can't taste this stuff. And so only one person ate it and got sick." He looked around the table triumphantly. "But you want to guess who it was?"

"No!" Rosie laughed and clapped her hands together, squealing, and Bland nodded proudly as Michaels beamed genially on the proceedings. "I got the phony doctor himself. He's probably dead by now, I bet! Did you ever hear anything so perfect?"

The men's heavy laughing rumbled beneath the lighter rippling of the women's soft chuckling, and Nathan set one hand on the very edge of the sideboard to steady himself. It wouldn't do at all for him to collapse just at this moment, he told himself. Not at all.

"So how'd you get rid a' the gambler, then? I take it he's still playing cards with Vincent?" Charlie lifted his water glass towards Nathan, who suddenly realized he hadn't completed his duties. It was with a flush of sudden and long-forgotten fear that he picked up the pitcher and refilled the glasses to their tops again.

"Naw," said Bland. He waved his hand dismissively, and Belle interrupted.

"Oh, _do_ let me tell this part," she said. "Please."

Bland scowled, but picked up his soup spoon and attacked the meal's first course. He exchanged an angry glance with Sullivan, who had not even unrolled his napkin.

"The gambler, who I will remind you is from the Ol' Dominion," she said, and at this point she began to laugh in a way that choked her voice, "ended up . . . " She wiped tears from her eyes and looked merrily around the table. "NURSING the darkie!"

At this revelation, the entire table burst into ribald laughter that shook the crystal and made the candle flames dance.

"I heard he scrubbed floors and gave him a bath and EVERYTHING!" crowed Belle.

They all dabbed at their eyes with their forefingers and the corners of their napkins as the kitchen door opened again and Bitsy came back in. She slipped carefully around the places taking up the soup bowls, glancing once at Nathan when she sensed his well-contained anger, and then went back into the kitchen. She returned in another moment with carving utensils, which she handed to Nathan. He understood by this that he was to carve the beef, and did so. Bitsy took up the master's plate and came to stand next to him, then ladled vegetables and gravy onto the plate after Nathan set several slices of beef on it, and set it in front of Michaels. She picked up Belle's plate and came back.

"I've never met anyone who has as much fun doing business as you do, Michaels," said Charlie. He was shaking his head and still laughing from time to time. "You manage to strike so many important blows at once."

Michaels exchanged a sly glance with Belle, and then folded his fingers together and rested his hands on the edge of the table as he waited for the others to be served. "Well," he said softly. "Would you like to hear the latest?"

A chorus of answering "oh do, Sterling!" rose from Belle, Rosie, and Charlie, and Michaels smiled indulgently. If he noticed the dark look exchanged by Sullivan and Bland, he showed no sign.

"You know, of course, that all this was to get these men out of my way so we could . . . well, create a small conflagration between the town yokels and the redskins. Now the match that will set it off is--"

Sullivan suddenly leaned forward and looked hard at Michaels. "What are you doing?" he said. His voice was low but harsh, and every face at the table turned to his in shock at the rough intrusion into the gay atmosphere. Michaels' eyes hardened into dark, brittle diamonds.

"I am entertaining my guests," he said evenly. The silence in the room was heavy, as the air before a thunderstorm. Nathan saw Bitsy's hands shake as she held Bland's plate for filling.

"I don't know this man." Sullivan gestured dismissively at Charlie without looking at him, his eyes fixed on Michaels'. "Why the hell should I sit here and let you spill--"

"That's enough." Michaels' voice cut off Sullivan's words like a meat cleaver. Bland's plate clattered to the table as Bitsy set it in front of him and reached around for Sullivan's. The man shoved his chair back instead, slapping the girl's hand away from him. Bitsy took in her breath in a frightened gasp, and stepped back. Sullivan rose to his feet. Michaels watched him rise. "You can be served later, in the kitchen," he said coldly.

"I can find grub down at the mine kitchen," corrected Sullivan. "I don't need this." He stalked to the doorway.

"Hold it." Michaels had stood up, too, and set his napkin on the table. He was staring at Sullivan's back. The man in buckskin turned around slowly. Charlie put his hand over Rosie's, and shook his head very slightly to her to stay still. "You have not been excused," said Michaels.

Sullivan's frame jerked, and Nathan surreptitiously reached to take Bitsy's slender arm and pull her back so that she was partially behind him. The man in buckskin locked eyes with Michaels for a long, tense moment, and then shuddered. He took half a step back.

"I have the power here," said Michaels, "and you would do well to remember that. You work for _me_."

Sullivan's eyes flashed with anger and resentment, and he vanished from the dining room in a single movement. The silence he left behind him hung over the group several moments, and then was broken by Bitsy leaning in to lift Sullivan's service and remove it from the table. Michaels smiled, and raised his fork and knife to his plate.

"So!" he said heartily, "As I was saying before that little interruption, I have learned that redskins plan to attack the stage between Eagle Bend and Four Corners, day after tomorrow. I imagine one passenger will survive, of course, since they always do . . . to inform the town in complete horror about who attacked them."

"Indians?" Rosie looked confused, and Charlie patted her hand.

"Rosie dear, you are so sweet but your mind is so feminine." Charlie exchanged an expression of amusement with Michaels. "The Indians will be people Sterling _knows_. Men who are perhaps savages otherwise, but not redskins. You understand?"

"Ohhhhhh." Rosie's eyes lit up as realization dawned on her, and then she laughed. "Oh _I_ see! Like the Boston tea party!"

"Yes!" Michaels nodded towards the wine on the sideboard and Nathan began to uncork it to pour. "Exactly!" He looked around the table. "I always did say I was patriotic!"

"That's the slogan you can use when you run for governor, after we're a state," said Belle. She lifted her glass of wine as Nathan poured it, and the others raised theirs as well. "To the future Governor Michaels," she said.

"And _Missus_ Governor Michaels," added Rosie, blushing and looking at Belle with envy.

The men laughed again, and Nathan refilled their plates.

Sullivan stood in the hallway long enough to hear the return of festivity to the meal, and felt a surge of hot fury race through his veins. How DARE Michaels?! How DARE he treat Sullivan that way! To risk everything just to impress some little nothing of a business associate. He balled one hand into a fist and thought for a long moment -- a very long moment full of enticing images -- of returning to the dining room and exacting the sort of respect from the people there that was due him. He could do it, too. He slid the enormous bowie knife from the sheath at his waist and touched a finger to its tip. Michaels wasn't even armed.

But Michaels was paying him. Or would, when the job was done. If he killed Michaels now. . . Sullivan's eyes darkened as he let the hate twist idly in his gut, looking for a way out. Then he remembered.

Those men in the cellar. Michaels wanted them alive, but he didn't much care what Michaels wanted right now. And he could kill that one real easy at this point. He smirked, thinking about how close that bullet hole was to some major blood vessels a person might just "accidentally" nick if they were to try to remove the slug buried in the man's upper chest. Of course, he thought, turning his steps towards the cellar door, that probably wouldn't happen until the man had screamed and writhed and finally passed out from the agony of what Sullivan would do to him in the meantime. And the one with the moustache would finally lose his head when that happened, and let the hate consume him like it had been threatening to all along. And then he'd attack Sullivan in a way that would require Sullivan to kill him . . . in self defense, of course. Yes.

"We'll see who has the power, Michaels," Sullivan thought. He opened the door to the cellar and felt the hate and fury and hunger surge through him like a black tornado wind. "We'll just see."

Part 82

Night? Vin blinked slowly, his mind unable to catch any recent memory to grab hold of. Maybe day, he thought. His head ached, and his legs. And his chest and shoulder throbbed. Why? He was so thirsty. And hot. His eyes drifted closed again, and he lay still listening to the silence around him, wondering why it seemed like he was cut off from himself, unable to connect to anything but right here and right now: a place that he'd really like to find his way out of. He felt something move next to him, a coolness on his forehead, and he dragged his eyes opened just a little bit again. Someone or something was moving above him, maybe hands, he wasn't sure, and he squinted trying to see better. A voice spoke, then, low and reassuring, and it was a voice Vin thought he knew somehow, from somewhere. Almost he could catch it, hold it, use it as a rope to pull himself from wherever he was drifting. But then he was sinking backwards into the dimness again, and the voice got farther away, and the feeling of the coolness on his face disappeared.

Chris sighed, and frowned. "I don't think he heard me," he said softly.

"He will." Buck leaned back against the crate behind him again, and studied Chris's face in the semi-darkness. The man had been trying to bring Vin's fever down since Nathan had left the night before, and it was starting to look like it might be working. Vin had seemed to come to twice, but each time he'd drifted back into whatever it was that was more than sleep but less than unconsciousness.

The heavy sound of the door being unlocked at the top of the stairs made both men look up suddenly. Maybe Nathan, they thought . . . But it was Sullivan who sauntered to the foot of the staircase to lean against the railing and stare at Buck. He had a bowie knife in one hand, and he was turning the blade of it back and forth so it caught the light from the oil lamp in various ways and threw flame-colored reflections on the walls of the cellar.

"Afternoon, Wilmington," he said. He ran his gaze over to Chris and his sharp eyes narrowed. "You," he said, "get over there." He pointed with the tip of the knife to a far corner of the cellar, and Chris exchanged a quick glance with Buck before he stood up.

"You got a problem with me sittin' here?" he asked.

"Yeah." Sullivan tipped his head back so he was looking at Chris from beneath hooded lids. "I got a problem with anyone who doesn't do what I tell 'em to do. And you can ask your friend what happens when I got a problem. And who it happens to." His voice was smooth and slick with threat, and Chris drew himself together. Buck stood up and put a hand on Chris's arm.

"Do what he says," he said softly.

Chris threw a surprised look at Buck.

"You don't understand," said Buck in a low voice. "You don't know what he'll do." He was shaking his head, and Chris frowned slightly.

"Tell 'im," said Sullivan. "Tell Larabee what I do." He turned the knife against the tip of his index finger, and shifted his weight to push one hip against the wall beside the stairs.

"Go t' hell," growled Buck. He curled his hands into fists, and thought for a brief moment about throwing himself across the space between himself and Sullivan, but the man seemingly read the idea as it formed in his mind. He leaped erect on the instant and snatched up the water pail that was sitting close by, took the ladle out and threw it to the floor, then looked at Buck. And then at Vin.

"Go where he told you to go, Chris." Buck's voice was low.

"Oh, not just him," said Sullivan smoothly. He took a casual step closer to Vin, the pail in his hands. "You, too."

"You bas--"

"You know, Wilmington." Sullivan paused, swirling the water gently in the pail. "Tanner still looks pretty feverish to me. Maybe he needs some coolin' off, eh?" His eyes were hard, almost brittle. Buck stayed where he was. "'Course," said Sullivan, it's kinda' cold down here. Damp. A man with a fever whose clothes got all wet, he'd probably catch pneumonia. Especially if he was weak to begin with." He took another step closer, still swirling the water in the pail, and Buck swallowed. He started edging away from Vin and Sullivan, pushing Chris as he did so.

Sullivan stepped closer to Vin, glanced down at him disdainfully, and continued to swirl the water in the pail. A feral light grew in his eyes, and he looked up at Buck. The tall man felt a shock of fury leap through his system when he saw that gleam. Over and over he'd seen it, and this time by God his hands weren't tied.

"You wanna' fight?" His voice was low and deadly. "You come on and fight _me_, you bastard. Leave him out of it."

"Ah." Sullivan's voice was soft, almost a whisper. "Finally. You hate me."

"Yeah. Yeah, if that's what you want, you've _got_ it." Buck felt like he was being shaken by rage, trying to hold it down, trying to keep it from exploding.

"It's not him I want to fight with anyway. You know that." Sullivan set down the bucket and raised the bowie knife towards Buck. Buck took a step forward, felt himself starting to sink into a crouch to receive the blow Sullivan was obviously going to launch at him . . . And then Sullivan laughed. He knelt in a single swift move and set the tip of the knife against Vin's throat, the tracker between him and the other two men, and flipped opened the man's shirt with his eyes locked on Buck's.

"I changed my mind," he said. "I'm gonna' fix your friend first, before I give you that fight you want. You're gonna' thank me. I'm gonna' dig out that slug Thompson put in 'im." But the gloat on Sullivan's face rewrote itself into shock and then rage when he glanced down and saw the neat bandages Nathan had wrapped in place. His free hand flashed out to jerk the bandages aside so he could see the wound, and Vin groaned at the rough contact. Chris and Buck both started towards Sullivan immediately, but the man was standing over Vin with his boot on the reopened and bleeding wound before they could do anything. Sullivan leveled the bowie knife at them.

"Who did this?" His voice was hoarse with hatred and rage. Neither of the other men spoke, and Sullivan ground his heel down harder on Vin's shoulder, causing the tracker to cry out hoarsely and try to shift out from under him. "Who did this!!? Who was down here?!?! ANSWER ME!!"

Vin was aware of one thing, and one thing only: the bright flame of agony that suddenly exploded in his shoulder. He felt himself trying to struggle away from it, but pinned somehow. Heard a hoarse yelling, then what sounded like Buck's voice far away. He wasn't sure, gasped as he tried to pull himself up out of the pain enough to figure it out, heard himself groan sharply as a fresh burst of fire blew through his shoulder and chest, and struggled high enough finally to open his eyes and look up. He couldn't figure out what he was looking at, it didn't make sense. But he could hear a voice, and it was coming from a man who seemed to be standing over him, and now the man was doing something again that made everything turn inside out somehow and crash against Vin so hard that he couldn't catch his breath and could only hold himself tighter, try to keep from being torn into long shreds that were red and black and trailing out into the air somehow . . . Vin felt himself sliding suddenly, another burst of pain crashing over him and pulling him even farther away, making it harder to breathe. He felt himself starting to come apart, spreading out into long streamers, unraveling, the pain like a filet knife slicing him into long thin strips that were dissipating, evaporating . . . With his last ounce of strength, Vin raised one hand blindly, desperately, struck out at whatever was killing him, found something, and grabbed onto it.

Sullivan felt the light tug on the fringe of his buckskin pants, a tug that threatened to unbalance him because of his precarious stance with one foot on the body of man who was thrashing involuntarily in pain. He looked down briefly, just for a fraction of a second, to make sure that it was the accidental contact he assumed it was, rather than Tanner coming to and making a real effort to pull him down. Even as he looked down, the tracker's hand released the fringe and fell limply to the floor. At the same instant, Sullivan felt, rather than heard, the rush of a presence as he started to look up again, bringing up the bowie knife that had lowered automatically when he'd looked down and behind him.

He wasn't fast enough.

Buck drove the little knife Nathan had left behind into Sullivan's chest with every last ounce of his 190 pounds behind it, as hard as he could. He hit Sullivan with such force that it drove the knife in past the hilt, and Sullivan's eyes widened as the the impact shoved him back from Buck, off of Vin. He looked down to see the little knife handle sticking out of the center of his chest and looked back at Buck even as he was still falling from the momentum of Buck's impact, and then he dropped to hit the edge of a crate and rolled off it heavily to the floor, and lay still.

Buck stood panting in the sudden silence. He looked down at Vin, and knelt to make sure he was still alive. He was. Buck closed his eyes, still having a hard time getting enough air in his lungs, as if they wouldn't open enough or something.

Chris was there, then. He looked at Buck a moment, then silently went over to Vin, washed off the wounded man's injury and rebound it. He stood up and began moving things around, and there were scraping sounds as he dragged Sullivan's body behind the crates and restacked them, and then Chris was back and facing Buck.

"Well, you got your way," he said in a tight voice. Buck looked up, puzzled. Chris's eyes snapped like hot embers in the low light. "You used Vin as bait after all, and killed Sullivan. And damn near got Vin killed in the process. But the door is unlocked now." He gestured angrily towards the stairs. "You can just walk on outta' here."

Buck squeezed his eyes shut. Damn. He shuddered and thought for a moment he might pass out, but put his head down a little instead and then shivered. "It's not like that," he whispered.

"That's what it looked like to me." Chris stood up, and Buck felt the man's hard eyes boring into him, but he couldn't look up just yet. He'd thought it would feel better than this, killing Sullivan. But he hadn't expected the man to be trying to crush the life out of Vin at the time, either. Maybe Chris was right. Maybe that's what _would_ have happened if his plan hadn't been broken up by Chris coming down the stairs. But Chris didn't know what it had been like all this time, what Sullivan was capable of doing. Finally he shook his head, and looked up into Chris's face with a sudden feeling of deep weariness.

"It's been a long five days," he said bitterly, "An' you ain't been here for the half of it." He stood up, shaky, went over to the steps, and started to sit down on them. But he laid his head down, instead, on the step above the one he sat on, and closed his eyes, and tried to just get his breath to work right again.

Chris stood looking at Buck, who seemed to have fallen asleep, and then at Vin. He felt how tightly he was clenching his teeth and his hands, and tried to relax. He sat down and leaned back against the crate next to Vin and closed his eyes. They _had_ to leave now, he thought, and soon. It wouldn't be long until Sullivan was missed, and even in a cool basement he would start to make his presence known in a few days. And once Michaels found out what had happened to Sullivan, the game was over.

Part 83

"Jus' me, Boys." Miz Ruby's tired voice floated down hollowly from the darkness at the top of the stairs as she shut the door behind her and started down with a heavy tread. Chris looked up from where he sat next to Vin, and then rose to his feet to go help her when he saw that her hands were as full this trip as they had been the night before. He took the small, hot kettle that was wrapped in several cloths and set it on the crate they'd been using as a makeshift table, and Buck grabbed the pot of hot coffee that both men had been able to smell the moment she'd opened the door. She hadn't needed to announce who it was; the aroma of the food and coffee she'd brought had beaten her to it. As the two men emptied Miz Ruby's hands, she began to reach into her apron pockets to pull out cups, spoons, and large parcels of food wrapped in heavy paper. These proved to be cold roast beef sandwiches on thick slices of bread, and two enormous wedges of apple pie.

"Y'all sit down an' eat," she said. "Nathan said Ah's t' tell ya' it's 'doctor's orders.'" She grinned at the two men and then peered into the darkness where Vin was, craning her neck to see if she could see how he was doing. "He had me bring some broth for that'n," she added, "if'n he's awake." She looked back at Chris, who continued to stand by the crate with his hands loosely at his sides. "Wal?" she asked. "Is he?"

Chris blinked slowly, and rubbed his face as he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the crate, near the things Miz Ruby had set there. "Sort of," he said.

"Sorta!?" Miz Ruby snorted. "Men jus' ain't all that good at carin' for sick folk. 'Ceptin' Nathan. He's a reg'lar saint, that'n is."

Buck smiled tiredly from the step he'd dropped onto as soon as he'd discovered the enormous sandwiches that were in the paper parcels she'd brought. He'd never tasted anything so good in his life, and it was written all over his face. "The saint is you," he corrected her. "This is . . . unbelievable."

"Wal, y'all kin thank Nathan for it," she said. "He tol' me ya' gots t' get some meat an' bread in ya'." She bent to pick up one of the cups she'd brought down, and took the lid off the little pot. "Ah'm gonna' see if'n Ah kin get some broth inta' that'n over there," she added, "'cause Nathan said he gots t' get his stren'th up, too, b'fore y'all tries t' . . . y'know." She cast a furtive glance at Chris and then looked him up and down. "Nathan said y'all's to eat. So EAT." Her eyes snapped suddenly, and Chris lowered his face as a twinge of a smile played at the edges of his lips. He picked up the parcel that was the twin of Buck's and began to unwrap it. Miz Ruby nodded, satisfied, spooned some broth into the cup she held, then bustled over to where Vin lay on the floor and lowered herself with a sigh. She saw that his eyes were opened but dull and expressionless. She felt of his fever with her palm to his face, and then smiled kindly at him.

"Wal, boy," she said softly, "Ah's ol' enough mah joints don' bend like they use t', but ah's gots some good beef broth here for ya', that yo' frien' Nathan done sent." She set the cup on the floor, the spoon inside it, and scooted around so that she could draw Vin's head and shoulders onto her ample lap and up against her bosom. He tipped his head back slightly to look up at her face without saying a word, and she smiled down at him reassuringly. "Ah knows y'all cain't rightly figger out what's goin' on yet," she said, "but all ya' gots to do right this minute is take some a' this broth."

Pulling the cup of broth closer to her, Miz Ruby wrapped one arm firmly around Vin's chest, and carefully lifted a half a spoon of broth to his mouth. He didn't look at it, though, but instead seemed to tire and laid his head back so that it fell against her chest, and he closed his eyes.

"Now, now; cain't letcha' go back asleep jus' yet, young fellah." Miz Ruby touched the spoon to Vin's lips and pushed gently against the space between them. "Jus' open up a little bit an' let Miz Ruby slip this in. Jus' a little bit, now. C'mon." Prodding and coaxing, she finally got the man to open his lips very slightly, upon which she immediately tipped the spoon to run the broth into his mouth. Vin rolled his head to one side when she did, and she put her hand quickly on his chin and shut his mouth so the broth would stay in. "Swallah' that, honey-chil'," she murmured. "C'mon. Swallah that for Miz Ruby."

"Looks like you've done that a lot," observed Chris. Miz Ruby looked up from putting more broth in the spoon, and then started coaxing the second bit into the semi-conscious man's mouth. She replied as she was looking at Vin's face.

"Raised six chil'ren," she said, "none of 'em mah own. An' took care a' lotsa' sick folk in mah day. Open up agin' for Miz Ruby, now Vin. C'mon honey-chil'. Open up 'n' take this nice broth yo' frien' Nathan done sent ya'." She got it in, gently pressed his lips shut, and glanced again at Chris as she refilled the spoon.

"Ah owes y'an apology, Ah does. Here's some more broth, Vin. C'mon now an' take this so's ya' kin git y'all's stren'th back an' git on outta' this place." She sighed as Vin's head rolled farther to one side and he slid slightly from her grasp, then grunted as she repositioned him and refilled the spoon that had spilled in the process. "Ah thought," she said to Chris again, her eyes on Vin's mouth and the spoon, "that y'all weren't no good. Ah's sorry t'admit that, but it's so. Nathan done put me straight on the matter, though. Ah, _that's_ it, honey-chil'. That'll put cha' right." Patiently she dipped up yet another spoon of the broth and lifted it to the sick man's mouth as Chris watched. "He done tol' me how y'all kep' 'im from bein' lynched. Dad-blast them nohow, lynchin' a fine man like that'n." She looked up at Chris and fixed him with dark eyes that had seen far too much, for far too long. "Ah'm beholden to ya' for it."

Chris shook his head gently. "You've got it wrong," he said. "It's us who are beholden to Nathan. All the time."

"Wal, a man's frien's says lots 'bout the man. Ya' gots t' take this broth, though, Vin honey. C'mon an' swallah that for Miz Ruby. Git yo' stren'th up, chil'." Her dark eyes flitted quickly to Buck's face as Vin passively let her slide another sip of the broth into his mouth. "That how y'all met these fellahs?" she asked him. "Was ya' there that day, too?"

"No." Buck's voice was soft, and almost sad. He looked sideways at Chris, then away from him. "Chris an' I know each other from way back," he said.

"Frien's a long time, eh?" Miz Ruby sighed as Vin slid silently from consciousness, going completely limp in her arms as he did so. Chris rose to help her lower him back to the floor. "Ah didn' get much broth in 'im a-tall," she said in a worried voice. "An' he's still _so_ fevered." She was looking down at Vin's face as Chris gently slid him from her lap. The gunman pressed his lips together, and then glanced at Buck, who was sitting on the step, his sandwich eaten, his elbows on his knees and his eyes set deeply with fatigue. He had been quiet, watching the woman as she tried to get some nourishment into Vin, and worrying about how in the world they would ever get him out of the house like he was. But now he spoke in a weary voice.

"Miz Ruby, did Nathan say anything about . . . anything we need to know?"

The woman picked up the little cup of broth and Chris helped her stand. She dusted off the back of her skirt and hobbled stiffly to the crate to set down the cup, picked up a parcel of pie, and unwrapped it. Thrusting it into Buck's hands, she smiled. "He said t' be sure an' tell y'all t' eat up, 'cause it might be nigh ont' mornin' but he's gonna' gitcha'll out." She picked up the other parcel and unwrapped it to hand to Chris. "Ya' gots t' eat," she said. "He was real partic'lar about it. He's worried 'bout y'all down here. Worried that he ain't been able to 'scape from Marse Sterlin' or that Miss Belle long enough today t'--"

"Miss Belle." Chris's eyes sharpened in a way that reminded Miz Ruby of why she hadn't trusted him at first.

"Yessir." Miz Ruby sat on the bottom step next to Buck and smiled at him, patting his good knee. "Now," she said, "lemme tell y'all what Nathan done tol' me Ah was t' say." She knew she was ignoring Chris, and frankly she wasn't the least bit concerned about it. Friend of Nathan's or not, he seemed really not as nice as this man, Buck, who was clearly a good boy and loved his mother. Chris scowled when he saw that Buck had pulled his charms on another woman, and went to sit down on the crate to eat his piece of pie while he listened.

"He tol' me t' tell y'all that soon's he kin git away by hisself -- an' that'll be in a hour 'r so -- he's got a signal he'll use t' meet with yo' other frien's. They's got that set up already."

"What time is it now?" Chris was chewing on pie, and Miz Ruby looked over at him.

"'Twas about 7 o'clock when Ah come down," she replied. She looked back at Buck. "At any rate, he said they'll make 'rrangements an' then he'll come down an' git y'all 'long 'bout 2 o'clock in th' mornin' or so, to leave outta' here. He said t' tell ya' that y'all are gonna' hafta' walk a ways, an' that's why he wants y'all t' eat good. He said if'n anythin' goes wrong, he'll make it so it happens t'morrah night, but he wants t' get Mister Vin--"

"That won't work," Chris interrupted, shortly. "You need to tell Nathan something's changed."

"What?" The woman looked from one man to the other with a worried expression as she felt both men grow suddenly tense.

"Sullivan," said Buck softly.

"What 'bout 'im?"

"He tried to kill Vin a few hours ago. I killed him, instead."

Miz Ruby rubbed her face and shook her head. "Wal, that do put a crimp in the pie crust," she said. "Where is 'e?"

"Behind the crate over there." Buck pointed and Miz Ruby got up to walk there slowly and peer over the edge of the crate Buck had indicated. She looked at the dead man for a long time, then said without turning away, "Ah shore am hopin' that's not mah good kitchen knife Ah sees stickin' outta' that evil man."

"Yes ma'am, I'm afraid it is." Buck thought it should have seemed funny to him somehow, but it didn't. He couldn't remember the last time something had been funny. Maybe when Vin had threatened to "force" him to lay down. Miz Ruby turned around and came back to the stairway, pausing to look at Vin for a moment as she did.

"Wal, Ah ain't gonna' use it no more, nohow." She didn't add that it was because she wouldn't be at the big house much longer. She didn't know where she'd be, but not here. Not this kitchen, not that knife. Not any more.

Miz Ruby put her hand on the stair railing and looked at Buck and then Chris very steadily. "Ah'll make shore Nathan un'erstands how things've got," she said. "Y'all rest. Ain't gonna' be easy." She patted Buck a final time, on the back, as she went past him on her way up the stairs. "An' finish up the broth that po' fellah Vin cain't eat," she said. "Y'all's jus' too skinny for such doin's as what'll be goin' on t'night."

Chris and Buck watched as the darkness swallowed the woman from the top down, until only her slippered feet could be seen dragging slowly up the steps. And then she vanished, and the door opened and shut once more, and they sat down in the dim light of the cellar to wait.

Part 84

Nathan shook out the match and looked around the otherwise dark parlor to make sure no one had seen him light the candle in the window. It was full dark outside, and he knew that whoever was on watch for the signal should be able to see it clearly. Nathan closed his eyes for a moment and told himself that nothing could have happened since he'd separated from his friends to prevent their meeting him now. He'd have heard about it, he was sure, if they'd been discovered. They had to be all right. They had to.

He'd told Marse Sterling that he had to look over some account books for Miz Ruby and that he'd be back in later to check on things before the Master and Missus turned in for the night. The man had smiled a gratified smile, surprised around the edges, and readily agreed. Check for any signs of missing funds, he'd admonished Nathan. You never knew who might be stealing from the household accounts. Nathan had nodded his agreement and taken his leave, finding it hard to keep contempt from showing on his face. He'd lit the candle, then, and waited for a long five minutes before gently blowing it out so that the hot wax wouldn't go onto the sill. Setting the candle back on the mantle, he slipped into his room on the side porch and quickly removed jacket and vest, and put on his own coat and boots. He rolled up his pants enough to keep the brush from tearing them, and slipped out into the cool night, standing in the dark that was noisy with distant sounds of mining for a long moment more, as he got his bearings.

He was so damned tired.

He started trudging up the long hill north of the house, head down. That he had been in the big house only a little over 30 hours was almost inconceivable. Such a short space of time, such a rapid journey back down the long road to his previous life. The memories had reached out to snatch him short by the collar with unexpected force, and Nathan shivered at the thought of all that had happened. Then he shook himself roughly. What was important was _now_, was Vin and Buck and Chris in that cellar, Sullivan's body somewhere down there with them. Michaels would never let them live if he knew they'd killed Sullivan; they would be dead within minutes of the discovery. Nathan had felt his blood run cold when Miz Ruby had whispered the word to him from Chris and Buck, and known that time had indeed run out for all of them, not just for Vin.

The healer looked up as he slowed on the steep uphill grade, approaching the grove of trees at the base of a sandstone cliff where they'd agreed to meet at his signal. No one was visible in the darkness, and Nathan's heart leaped up to hammer in his throat. Perhaps something HAD happened. If so, then how would he get the others out of the cellar safely? How long would it be until Vin died of blood poisoning even with the slug removed? What would happen when Michaels realized Sullivan was missing, and had been going down to the cellar? Then a soft voice floated to him on the night breeze, saying his name, and he closed his eyes and thought it was a miracle he didn't just fall flat down in his relief.

"Who is it?" He opened his eyes and looked around cautiously, still seeing no one.

"Only a day and a half, and you've forgotten me already? Tsk, tsk, Mr. Jackson."

"Ezra!" Nathan relaxed and grinned. He felt more than saw the gambler's dim form step out from the trees towards him, and saw his eyes gleam in the starlight.

"Indeed. I seem to be the one designated to communicate with you. What word do you bring us?" Ezra drew close enough to Nathan to take his arm and gently propel him to a seat on the rough stone where they could not be easily seen. His voice remained low.

"They're in the big house," said Nathan, "jus' like JD figured. In the cellar. An' Chris--"

"We saw him arrive earlier today," cut in Ezra, shaking his head sharply. "But you said 'they' -- that 'they're' in the big house. Dare I ask . . . "

Nathan was nodding. "Yeah," he said, "both of 'em. Buck an' Vin. They're alive."

"Thank God!" Even in the dark, Nathan could sense Ezra's overwhelming joy at that news. He frowned, suddenly worried.

"Somethin' happen I don' know about?"

"We'd found . . ." Ezra breathed out suddenly, shaking, and then continued. ". . . two unmarked graves in the mine's cemetery. We were tryin' not to believe it, but . . . well . . ." His voice trailed off and he regarded Nathan with an expression that made the healer's blood chill.

"God," said Nathan softly, his eyes filling with regret, "If I coulda' got word to y'all sooner. . ." Then he suddenly drew himself up, and glanced over his shoulder down the slope towards the house. A furtive look ran across his face, and he shuddered and then looked back at Ezra. "Well, they're all three in there," he repeated. "But we gotta' get 'em out tonight. No delay." He paused again, and Ezra was silent, waiting for him to continue. He realized suddenly that Nathan was lacing and unlacing his fingers, and that he had glanced down the slope behind him again, unsettled. Ezra reached out abruptly and laid a reassuring hand on his friend's forearm. Nathan looked up, startled, his eyes shining in the low light. He swallowed, then, and continued.

"First, if anythin' happens tonight, tell the others there's some kinda' attack planned on the stage into Four Corners, for day after tomorra'. White men, dressed up like Indians." He looked at Ezra's face to see what his reaction would be, but the Southerner just sat there looking back at Nathan with his best poker face.

"Now," said Nathan, his voice shifting into a more brusque cadence, "Buck's been hurt like we thought, but seems to be doin' more or less all right now." He paused a moment, an image of Buck flashing through his mind as he'd seen him in the cellar: pale, limping, one pants' leg soaked with old blood. Then he shook his head to himself; he had to be all right. Had to be. There was no way he and Chris could get two men out of that house who needed help. Vin was going to be hard enough to transport; Buck hadn't said a word, and if he hadn't recovered enough to at least walk outta' there he would've let them know. Nathan nodded to himself and went on. "We got a problem with Vin, though; he's in a bad way. I got the slug out last night, but he's runnin' a high fever an' needs t' get outta' there. The worst thing is they killed a fella' today, one a' Michaels' men, an' hid his body in the cellar."

"Great." Ezra withdrew his hand and shook his head. "How long do we have until this is discovered?"

"Hard t' say." Nathan squinted up at the sky, looking at the stars. "I doubt anyone'll go down there before mornin', but I don' know. There's some pretty sharp folks aroun' that house. They're liable to realize this fella' Sullivan is missin'." He looked back at Ezra. "Fixin' to storm, it looks like."

"Could be." Ezra was thinking, slapping one hand idly against his thigh and not listening to Nathan's weather report very closely. "So what do you want to do?"

Nathan stood up. "I'll get 'em outta' the cellar at about 2 in the mornin', head 'em up here."

Ezra rose as well. "About 5 or 6 hours from now?"

"Close as I can get it, yeah."

"We'll be here, with the horses. JD has located those of our companions and he and Josiah will liberate them from their own incarceration in time to ferry their owners to safety."

"I hope so." Nathan looked back down the long slope through the dark trees to the tiny squares of light that marked the location of the house. The patchwork of lights that was the mine operation spread down the slope beyond it, shining almost as brightly as the stars themselves. He looked back at Ezra. "Tell 'em to be careful," he said softly. "I'm countin' on y'all. We're gonna' have a hard time gettin' Vin even this far."

Ezra placed his hand on Nathan's shoulder.

"We'll be here. You have my word on it, as a gentleman."

"Your word as a frien' will do it."

"As a friend then. As _your_ friend." Ezra let go of Nathan's shoulder and shook his hand solemnly. "In four and a half hours we will be here waitin', in case you have to leave sooner than you've planned. We will not leave without you four, even if we have to ride down into that house through the God-damned front door, and rip the cellar apart with our bare hands. I swear it."

Then as Ezra's words hung in the air between the two men, he heard them echo and felt suddenly embarrassed by the bravado of what he'd said. For a long and miserable moment he thought Nathan was going to laugh at him, despite the earnestness with which he'd spoken. But instead the healer grasped Ezra's hands tightly in his own, made a deep choking sound, and then took one step back.

"I'll light the candle again, to let you know we're leavin'," he said in a husky, broken voice. "Hasta luego."

"Soon, indeed," said Ezra softly.

Nathan turned and vanished into the darkness, and Ezra stood watching the long slope for several moments to make sure that no alarm was raised. Finally he turned and climbed the slope to his horse, mounted up, and legged the animal into a lope.

He was in a hurry to deliver some damned good news: There were four in the house, not two. Buck and Vin were alive!

Part 85

Night was falling. It surprised JD after the heat of the days how cold the desert mountain nights were. But there was no warming JD, he was in mourning. Two of his friends were dead, his best friends. Josiah had kept saying it might not be them and throughout the day, JD had looked over and over again for some sign that he was right. There was none. No sighting. No loose talk. Nothing.

JD had arrived for his job at the livery in the Apex Mining Compound before daylight. No one had been around so JD started to muck out the stalls. He knew the routine by rout. He had been a stablehand when just a small boy. So JD had worked using the routine to just cope.

Shortly after dawn when the livery manager had walked up from dining hall with the rest of the workers, JD had almost finished cleaning the barn. He barely acknowledged the liveryman as he rolled a wheelbarrow of muck out of the barn.

"Good work, John." The liveryman praised JD as he returned to the barn. JD didn't care what the liveryman thought of his work. He cared about Mr. Larabee's opinion -- it only mattered if he thought JD did good work.

JD was set to grooming horses the rest of the morning. Fortunately, it provided an opportunity to get a good look at Chris's, Buck's, and Vin's horses to see if they had any problems that would prevent their use in any escape attempt. JD was pleased to see they were in good shape. There would be an escape for Chris and Nathan. It was just a matter of time and no matter what, Buck's and Vin's horses would come with them. JD would see to that.

Shortly after high noon, a little Mexican boy scampered into the barns. He moved so stealthily that he would have surprised JD if he hadn't been alert. Even though the boy's breaths came in short pants, the boy tried to immediately relay his message to the livery boss, "Senor Sterling going riding with a guest. The men will ride those two horses," -- the boy nodded his head to Buck's grey and Vin's gelding.

JD froze. The bastard was going to ride Buck's and Vin's horses. JD felt the livery boss look at him and JD controlled his emotions.

The livery boss turned his attention back to the little boy. "You sure, boy?" yanking at the boy's ear.

JD stepped between them forcing the livery boss to release the boy. "No need for that," JD commented quietly.

The boy was nodding his head frantically, "si, si." Before the livery boss could grab him again, the boy ran from the barn giving JD a quick look of thanks as he left the barn.

"John, get those horses ready. Just in case, also saddle Mr. Michael's black."

JD nodded his head and turned to carry out the liveryman's orders only to find himself brought up short when his ear was yanked. The livery boss wagged his finger at JD, "don't ever get between me and any other worker again," he ordered JD tightly.

JD looked up into the liveryman's eyes and held the boss's gaze with bitter eyes for a long moment, before jerking his head in acknowledgement.

The livery boss was startled by the bitterness reflected back. Good worker but he'd be one to watch.

+ + + + + + +

Josiah had returned to the cabin with Ezra. Ezra was so exhausted that after he pulled the saddle from his horse, he just stopped and dropped his head right there to fall asleep leaning against the wall. Josiah dragged him into the cabin and saw him fed and put to bed before he hurried back to keep watch over The Compound. Ezra would relieve him at nightfall. They had decided on 12-hour shifts with JD working the stables.

Josiah picked up the binoculars to survey the mining compound. He systematically surveyed every building in the valley cataloging their apparent function and looking for any sign of posting of guards. None was apparent. That confirmed Ezra's finding from the night before, that Chris was being held at the big house and that was probably where Buck and Vin were.

Buck and Vin.

Josiah carefully withdrew the glasses from his eyes. Two graves. He had stopped with Ezra at the cemetery. Ezra didn't dismount. He had glanced at them and rode on. Ezra had been deeply shaken from the sight. Josiah refrained from talking to him about it. Ezra had been right, at the very least, they had two men to back up in the big house. There would be plenty of time to mourn, so by mutual consent, the loss was not discussed.

Josiah had returned by noon to see the workers marching to the dining hall. A short while later they exited, obviously not having the opportunity to savor the meal served. As opposed to Ezra's report of unusual activity during the night, the day seemed to have settled into a regular work routine that ended up being shattered when the boss man stepped out the front door. The whole atmosphere of the compound changed. There seemed a tenseness to the men. As Sterling Michaels passed by his workers, most made a point to avoid contact or kept their eyes deferentially down. Josiah reflected on his visits to the Delano Mine and the obvious differences between the two boss men. JD had mentioned Delano was finding it tough to hire men, Josiah couldn't imagine why after this display.

Josiah raised the binoculars again to monitor Sterling Michaels. There were actually two men. Both obviously wealthy by the fine cut and material of their clothes. Sterling Michaels was a big man, tall and husky. He exuded strength and power in his carriage and seemed to take pleasure at his hold over the men and women in the mining compound. The other man was much slighter in build and he obviously deferred to Michaels. Josiah had no doubt that Michaels was a formidable enemy.

Josiah's breath held as he noticed JD was holding Buck's and Vin's horses for the two men. There was apparent ribald laughter as the men mounted and Josiah could feel JD's furor from his perch. 'Take it easy, son. Take it easy.'

Josiah felt relief as he saw the two dandies ride off with JD apparently causing no problem. Josiah let a shuddering breath out. It was a dangerous game they were playing and not only Nathan, but also JD right in the middle of it. The margin for safety was almost nil. They needed to get Chris and Nathan out of there. And soon.

Ezra relieved Josiah at dusk. Josiah waited on JD and rode back to the lumber camp, neither had much to say -- be time for that when they got home. Hmmm, what home? Josiah had forsaken that place -- he doubted he could stay in Four Corners when this was all done. Josiah felt it would have to be Chris that saw JD through this and wondered if their leader would realize that. It would be on him to tell him that. He wondered if Chris would listen.

+ + + + + + +

Ezra mounted his horse with alacrity. When he saw the candle Nathan had lit, it was like a beacon proclaiming the news -- they were alive, they were alive.

The distance eating pace back to the lumber camp could not be fast enough. Josiah was out front when he pulled up.

"They're alive," Ezra choked out, "Alive."

"JD," Josiah called out.

JD came to the door, guns drawn. Upon seeing Ezra, he quickly lowered his weapons. "Vin and Buck are alive," Ezra repeated.

JD clapped Josiah on the back in obvious joy and relief. The celebration was short-lived when Ezra conveyed the seriousness of their situation.

"They're hurt bad and Nathan says we've got to get them out of there tonight. It has to be tonight. They killed a man. We must prepare quickly, I told Nathan we would be on station standing by with the horses in four and a half hours."

Josiah assumed control. "Ezra get off that horse. JD walk him out, then get our horses ready to go, including Nathan's. Ezra help me get the supplies we need and bank the fire." No one needed to be told twice to hurry.

Ezra rode Nathan's horse to the rendezvous, letting his horse rest up as much as possible for the coming action. As the men returned to their perch above the compound, it had been about four hours since Ezra had met up with Nathan. It was a relief to find the compound relatively quiet and obviously operating in normal fashion.

"I'll get the horses," JD had started to hurry toward the stables when Josiah held him up.

"I'll back you up. Ezra if it goes bad down there -- well, you need to stay out of it," Josiah paused and could sense the protest welling in Ezra, "you must. We have to have one man on the outside. You are that man."

Ezra started at Josiah's words. The man. I'm the one you will all have to depend on. Ezra felt panic well and a stunning sense of inadequacy having these six men depending on him. He wondered if Josiah remembered the last time they had all depended on him -- he had failed them. Ezra looked hard at Josiah who conveyed utter confidence in his ability to do this job. That was even more stunning to Ezra -- utter confidence.

Josiah didn't say anything more. He would have laughed out loud because he knew exactly what Ezra was thinking but then Ezra would run -- not from fear, or selfishness, but from embarrassment. Josiah nodded at Ezra firmly -- confidently.

Ezra touched two fingers to the brim of his hat in acknowledgement. The gesture lacked its usual jaunty flourish.

JD sprinted down the hill to the corral. Fortunately, with Michaels riding Buck's and Vin's horses earlier in the afternoon, it wasn't considered unusual that JD put them out after brushing them down. Just short of the compound, JD drew up with Josiah beside him. "Josiah you lead the horses to that treeline." JD pointed to where he meant. "I'll go into the barn and get the tack and the boys' saddlebags."

Josiah didn't say anything but he couldn't help but be impressed with JD's confidence and planning.

Josiah approached the horses as JD soundlessly slipped away. JD had been there one moment, gone the next. The horses obviously recognized Josiah pressing their heads against his palm as he grabbed their halters and led them away from the compound one at a time. Each horse's familiarity with Josiah worked in his favor because not once did the horses snort or whinny announcing their departure from the compound. As he drew up with the final horse into the treeline, Josiah noted two saddles tucked by a bush. If he didn't know this was the meeting spot, he would have never seen them, but the silver conchos from Chris's saddle were so briefly lit by a streak of lightning. Josiah started to saddle the horses impressed with their discipline despite the wind gusting and lightning streaking the sky to the west followed by ever increasing rumbles of thunder.

He had saddled Buck's and Chris's horses and realized JD had yet to return. Where the hell was he?

JD had slipped in and out of the livery barn carrying the saddles to the treeline. He hadn't seen Josiah but their paths were on different tangents. After his second trip, he saw Chris's horse in the shadows and knew Josiah had been there. It couldn't be going better.

JD bent over for Vin's saddle -- the last to be carried out when a hand clamped down on his shoulder. "What 'er doin' boy?" The livery boss's voice rasped in JD's ear, low and quiet.

JD straightened slowly and turned to face the livery boss. JD looked the man over slowly, almost insolently.

The liveryman startled at JD's bravado and backed up two steps. He was unarmed and he noted the Colt's slung low on the boy's hips. 'No, not a boy, a man.' There was no doubt in the liveryman's mind that John could use them guns -- would use those guns if he gave him cause to.

The liveryman raised his hands in surrender.

JD didn't say a word, didn't draw a gun. He grabbed a rope and secured one wrist and brought it behind the liveryman's back and then pulled the other hand down and tightly secured it. JD used the liveryman's bandana to gag him and then led him deep into the tack room before assisting him to seat before tying his ankles with rope also. JD then stacked boxes and saddles to hide the liveryman from view. He'd be found. Just not soon.

JD picked up Vin's saddle and quickly exited the barn.

JD slung the saddle onto Vin's horse.

Josiah touched JD's arm. "Trouble?"

"A little. I took care of it." JD continued quickly with his task.

Josiah retrieved the reins from Buck's and Chris's horses.

Josiah and JD guided the horses back up the hill to where Ezra was watching and waiting.

Lightning flashed across the sky, the wind howled, and rain started to spot. Josiah couldn't figure if that was good or bad. Provided great cover but it'd be hard on the injured men.

It'd be hard on the men who were anxiously waiting.

And waiting.

Part 86

Chris sat on the dank dirt floor of the cellar next to Vin and tried to figure out how everything had gotten so out of hand. He looked over at Buck who was sitting a little way away on a packing crate. His head was buried in his hands and he hadn't even looked over at Chris in the last twenty minutes. 'Damn you, Buck,' Chris thought, but there wasn't much heat behind the words. He had to save his energy for what lay ahead yet tonight. And he had to figure that there would be time afterward to get to the bottom of things.

He watched Buck stretch his right leg out in front of him and even in the dim light from the lantern hanging overhead, Chris could see him grimace at the pain the movement caused him. Chris watched him and looked at Vin, resting easier since last night when the slug had been removed, but still weak and pretty much out of it. Chris hadn't gotten any kind of look at the mining facility when he'd been brought in, but he had to figure, thinking about what Michaels had said and what Miz Ruby had told them, that they were going to have to travel on foot for a ways to get to their horses. It would take both him and Nathan to help Vin. And if Buck couldn't make it...

Chris had offered twice more to look at Buck's leg after Nathan had been called away. The last time Buck hadn't even answered him, just looked at him through eyes gone narrow, clearly warning him without a single spoken word to back off. And Chris had, though he had to admit he'd mostly done it out of anger at Buck's stubbornness. And now, he was left wondering just how bad off Buck was. Chris had seen him walk and he knew that he was limping badly and there was a tightness in him that Chris could spot even in the darkness. His pant leg was covered with blood where it had spread and dried and spread again. He'd rested some while he'd been locked up in the cellar, Chris figured, but still....Maybe he should offer--

Just then, Buck looked up and over at Vin and Chris's lips tightened as he watched the line of his gaze. 'Damn you, Buck,' he thought. 'Somehow this is your fault.' His thoughts turned to the people in the house above them. Miss Belle. Miss Belle was right here in this house. And the only thing Chris could figure was that everything was connected. That somehow they were trapped here and Vin was injured because Buck hadn't been able to keep his hands off a woman. Maybe he hadn't raped her. Angry as he was, Chris still couldn't quite make sense of that, but something had gone on. That much was just so clear to him. And then, when he'd arrived, when he'd clearly interrupted Buck doing whatever fool thing he'd decided to do....he'd laid Vin's life right out, like it didn't mean much. And why? Nathan had already been just a floor away. If Buck had waited...But then, that was always it, Chris thought. Buck could never wait. Not for a woman, not for a fight. Nothing. There was a lot for the two of them to settle. But now was not the place or time. All that Chris could do right now was worry about Vin and about Nathan in the house above them engaged in a dangerous, precarious masquerade and wait.

+ + + + + + +

All Buck wanted in the world at that moment was a warm clean bed that he could sink into and close his eyes and never have to open them again.

...and he wanted Vin safe. And he wanted Nathan out of whatever mess he was in upstairs. And he even...he opened his eyes and looked down at the dark dirt floor, he even wanted Chris to come out of this intact.

Buck stretched out his injured leg, trying to keep it from stiffening up too much. It ached constantly now, something he was more or less used to, but when he moved it this time a sharp flash of pain arrowed up it and stabbed him square in the chest. Blue sparks danced across his vision. Damn! He'd figured it would be better by now. It'd been...hell! He didn't know how long it'd been, but it'd been a damned long time locked up in this cellar. And in all that time he hadn't been doing a damned thing--if you didn't count doctoring Vin, fighting with Chris, and killing Sullivan--which, of course, Buck didn't. It'd be all right, though. Had to be. He'd been walking on it every day and he hadn't lost any blood in a couple of days. If all it did was hurt, well, he could handle that.

He thought about what might likely lie ahead tonight. He had no idea what this place they were trapped in might look like outside the cellar. It was all a dark mystery to him. He'd been in a sunlit meadow one minute, desperately trying to escape and the next minute he'd been here, in this dark cold cellar. He lifted his head and looked over at Vin. Chris noticed him and as Buck watched him, Chris's face took on a hard, tight cast and his eyes narrowed and grew cold. Buck straightened unconsciously and looked straight back at him for a minute before slowly turning away. He thought about all the years he'd stood up for Chris, backed him in one fight after another, not even asking Chris to do the same for him--not every time anyway--just when it was important.

And now, here they were, and it was as if they'd never been friends at all. It had started, maybe, when Chris hadn't backed him with Josiah. But it had ended right here in this cellar when Chris accused him of using Vin to buy his own freedom. As if he would. As if Chris shouldn't damn well know. But Chris hadn't known. And he hadn't known what was important back in Four Corners either. And if he didn't know those things, then Buck had to figure that he didn't know anything at all.

He rubbed a tired hand across his face. He'd lost weight in the last week and his face was thinner and still really pale. There were dark smudges etched almost permanently under his eyes, eyes that had long ago lost their spark. The way Buck figured it, he'd help get Vin out of here tonight. And he'd hang with the others until they got to the bottom of this and stopped it. But after that...well, nothing had changed. The reason he'd left town in the first place was still right there, same as it had been. When this was all over, no matter how it turned out, there would be no place for Buck back in Four Corners. And that was something, things being how they were, that was important to know.

+ + + + + + +

Vin kept thinking there was something important he'd forgotten. As a matter of fact, he'd forgotten just what it was he was doing. On his horse? Just outside town? And something didn't look right. Didn't feel right. But he couldn't figure it. Like his brain wasn't quite working and it took a really long time before anything made sense.

Evening was approaching as he rode into town, that much seemed clear. And it was like he'd been away a long time, but he couldn't remember why. Then, he looked down at the horse he was riding and realized it wasn't his horse at all. It was Buck's. That didn't make any sense. Why was he riding Buck's horse? Where was Buck? Where was anyone, come to that? The streets of Four Corners were deserted. Vin saw no one. There were no lanterns in windows. A few street fires were lit, but not all of them by any means. And the night darkness had come on fast, almost unbelievably fast. In the length of one footstep it had barely been dusk, and in the next full night was upon him.

Vin didn't even see Chris stride out of the darkened saloon until he'd grabbed him by the front of his coat and dragged him off Buck's horse. "Where is he?" Chris demanded. "You were supposed to bring him back with you. Son of a whore." And he said it like he was swearing. "Where is he?"

Vin tried to speak, tried to tell Chris that it wasn't right to say that about a man, not about a friend, but the words wouldn't come out. He opened his mouth and he tried to speak, but there was no sound.

Chris shook him. "Tell me!" he said, practically spitting the words. "Tell me! Tell me where he is!"

Vin opened his mouth again and this time the words came. "He's gone," Vin said.

For a moment, everything seemed to freeze. Chris stopped shaking him and there was only dead silence, like a wall surrounding them. Then, as if none of it mattered or was quite real anyway, the whole town started to shimmer and slowly it all began to fade. When, after what seemed like a very long time, Vin finally stood all alone in a kind of faded-blue darkness, he heard Chris's voice coming to him from someplace really far away. "Take it easy, Vin," Chris said softly. "It's all right."

But Vin knew it wasn't all right at all.

Part 87

Striker was a man who enjoyed sitting silently in the dark, watching, every sense alert. He'd let himself into the big house shortly after midnight and thought briefly of slipping up the stairs to see if Belle had any visitors it might suit him to know about, but then opted instead for a seat deep in shadows in a far corner of the library. Michaels kept important papers there, and maps. And he had a house full of people right now. It was as good, thought Striker, as sitting at a water hole to wait for prey. Sure enough, not two hours had passed before he heard the knob to the library door turning slowly and saw the tall shadow of a man slip quietly into the room.

Striker smiled very, very slightly to himself, watching, enjoying the sense of power from seeing but being, himself, unseen. Hearing, but being unheard. Only his eyes moved, tracking the stealthy figure as the man moved cautiously to the cabinets beneath the book shelves and opened one after another of them with care. Striker saw a flash of white cuff as the man ran a searching hand in the darkness of the cabinets, and then caught another flash of white at the collar as the man moved from the cabinets to the desk and began to quietly open the drawers and search through them. A distant flare of silent lightning from outside provided just enough light for a fraction of a moment that Striker saw his guess was correct: judging by the uniform, it was Michaels' new colored boy who was searching the library with such care.

And skill.

Striker frowned very slightly. The man he was watching moved with way too much confidence for a colored butler going through his master's belongings. This wasn't just a dishonest domestic looking for something easy to pawn. He felt his muscles cord into taut readiness when a soft, sharp intake of breath from the man was followed by the muffled thump of heavy guns being set on Michaels' desk. Striker saw silver conchos gleam briefly in another dim and distant flash of lightning, and knew exactly whose rigs had been lifted from the desk. The question was: why?

+ + + + + + +

Voices. They'd woven in and out of his awareness in broken threads for -- well, he wasn't sure how long. The words had been isolated and distant and hadn't made much sense. They'd swirled like a cloud of barn swallows around sensations of touch to his face, his chest, his shoulder. He'd lain in it inert, let it all go past. But this time, something was different. The voices wouldn't stop. They kept darting and swooping closer, and the touching was more insistent, and he started to feel annoyed by it.

"Go 'way," he said finally, his own voice thick and slurred and rough. But the voice nearest him just grew more insistent.

"Can't do that, Vin," it said. "Sorry. You need to wake up now. Come on."

Vin sighed and felt cross. He didn't want to wake up. He wanted to be left alone. He was so tired. And everything hurt so damned bad. Why couldn't they leave him alone? Why not?

"No," he mumbled. "No." He felt himself relax as he started sliding again into the dark place he'd been before, the annoying voices receeding. Suddenly there was something cold on his face, and it jerked him back from the place he was sinking into, and he struggled his eyes opened, mad this time.

"I'm sorry, Vin." It was Chris. Good God. Chris. "I know you need to rest. But we gotta' get you out of here."

Vin sighed and felt part of himself shove the rest of him physically up out of his dark refuge, and groaned as its support fell away from him and left him stranded and panting on a beach that was a dim basement and a deep ache in every inch of his body.

"Hell," he complained softly.

"No doubt," said Chris. Vin's eyes began to bring his friend's face into focus as he blinked and squinted. The man in black looked tired. Really tired. "How about a little water?" he asked Vin.

Vin shook his head silently, very slightly, but Chris seemed to understand. "In a few more minutes, then." His face got a tight, pinched look to it and he leaned a little closer. "I'm still not sure you're awake, Vin. Can you hear me?"

"Yeah." It was a breath more than a spoken word, but Chris heard it and sat back on his heels, satisfied. Vin swallowed against the dryness in his throat several times as he struggled up a little higher into consciousness. Damn, he felt bad. He heard his own breathing change, grow heavier and rougher as he saw more and heard more and felt more. Shit. _Really_ bad. He looked at Chris, unable to speak but wanting that water now, and his friend read it somehow in his eyes and lifted a dipper to his lips and oh my it was good, sliding down his throat. It made him want to close his eyes and drift away again, but he didn't. He couldn't.

+ + + + + + +

Nathan thought briefly, seriously, of taking the suit with him so he could burn it. But instead he laid it back over the cot as it had been laid out for him to begin with. His own clothes felt so good against his skin that it made him almost dizzy -- and then suddenly he _was_ dizzy, and he sat down for a moment and put his head between his knees, and focused on his breathing. Too many hours working, not enough hours sleeping -- at least, not enough to finish getting his strength back from having been so sick. And all of it was catching up with him in a deep bone-weary sort of way. He sat up slowly again as his head stopped spinning, and rubbed a hand across his face and wished this whole nightmare could just come to a screeching halt. At least for one, long, uninterrupted night of sound sleep.

"Nathan?" Miz Ruby's soft whisper at the porch door made the healer get up and open it. He drew the woman out onto the porch and sat her in the wicker chair, then knelt in front of her and took her hands in his, to study her face in silence. The woman returned his gaze, and then looked down at Nathan's hands. "Y'all 'bouts t' leave?"

"Yes'm." Nathan felt the woman tremble at his word, and then she sighed heavily.

"Ah hopes y'all makes it, Son. Ah hopes yo' frien' gits well agin, too. Here." She reached into one of her enormous apron pockets and pulled out a worn napkin that was tied together at the corners. "Ah putsed a bunch a' slipp'ry-root leaf an' willa' bark in this here. An' some feverfew, too. Ah hopes it'll--" The woman broke off as her voice caught.

"I'll be back for ya', Miz Ruby. An' for Bitsy an' Coco an' Pedro."

The woman shook her head slowly, sadly, pressing the packet into Nathan's hands. "Cain't takes a chance like that'n, Son. We be fine here. Ah's always fine."

"I'll be back," repeated Nathan. "I'm not leavin' you here. Michaels will figure it was me that got Buck an' Vin out, but he might suspect you a' helpin' me an' watch ya' more closely now. I'm not gonna' let 'im do anythin' to hurt you or the others. I'm comin' back for ya' just as soon as I get Vin squared away an' safe." Miz Ruby's eyes grew dark with fear, and she clutched Nathan's hands at his words.

"He'd likely kill ya', Nathan. Please, please don' do that. Don' come back never. Ah cain't bear it if--"

"I don't think you understand." Nathan was shaking his head, smiling slightly, sadly. "I heal folks, but I've done my share a' killin', too. I ain't proud of it, but he won't be able to just come at me like he thinks he can. An' if he tries, I'll teach 'im otherwise. I _am_ comin' back for you an' the others. Soon." The man stood up, drawing Miz Ruby with him, and she suddenly grabbed him around the waist and pressed him to her in a tight embrace, then turned and fled silently. Nathan stood in the darkness, heard the hall clock strike two, and shook himself all over lightly. Time to go.

He picked up the three gun rigs, that he'd located an hour earlier in a bottom drawer of the oversized desk in Michaels' library, and headed for the cellar door. He heard thunder rumble distantly from one side of the sky to the other as he did.

+ + + + + + +

Striker was outside, walking a circuit around the house. The wind was rising, carrying rain smell, and it blew up puffs of dust as he came to a halt in the deep shadows near the linden trees on the north side of the structure, beneath the parlor windows. There was a single candle set there, its flame visible a long way in the expanse of open country that lay in that direction, with no other buildings to block it. The light would be visible for a very long way, indeed. A slight creak from farther around the house caused him to move that direction cautiously, and he caught a glimpse of the woman Miz Ruby as she tossed out a pan of wash water and went back into the kitchen, letting the door bang softly behind her. Striker leaned back. Nearly two am. The woman got up at 4:00 on baking days, but he'd never seen her working at this hour. Could be coincidence, but . . . He leaned against the wall in the dark, and started trying to remember where he'd seen Michaels' butler before tonight.

Because he was certain he had.

Part 88

"You think if we help you, you can sit up a little bit, against this crate behind you?" Chris was pushing him again, and Vin knew there had to be a reason. He nodded, deciding not to spend any energy on talking if he was going to have to sit up. They were careful, and the slug in his shoulder didn't move as they lifted him up at least, but the room still spun and black spots danced at the edge of his vision, and he heard himself panting and thought for a long minute that he wasn't going to have any say in the matter of staying with it or not. But slowly things settled down again, and Chris gave him a little more water, and someone touched a cool cloth to his face again. He realized his eyes were closed, and reopened them wearily. He saw Buck this time, regarding him with a somber face, and Vin smiled weakly.

"Y'ok, Bucklin?" he whispered.

"Better'n you." Buck's face relaxed at Vin's words, and he put one hand on the tracker's knee. "Nathan's been down here an' got the bullet out. Did it help with the pain? Is it any better?"

Oh. That explained it. Vin nodded. "Yeah," he rasped. "I wondered . . ." He broke off as his mind started to drift and knit his brows.

"Don't try to go too fast, Vin," said Chris. "Take it slow. That's why we woke you up now, is so you'd have time."

"Time?" His voice was soft and almost hollow, but he slid his gaze to Chris's face, asking a question.

"Nathan got into the house, here. Without them knowing who he is." Chris's voice was too gentle, Vin thought. It had the reassuring quality it got sometimes when things were really bad and he didn't want someone to know it. What was going on? "He's coming down soon to help us get out. The others will be waiting outside with the horses."

Vin thought a moment, his mind turning the information over far too slowly. He looked at Buck, who hadn't moved and who was still looking steadily and with some concern at Vin.

"How'd . . . you . . .?" Vin licked his lips, suddenly realizing how hot he was, how thirsty. Chris gave him more water, and then he realized that someone was wiping his face with a wet cloth again. When had that happened? He must have drifted. Open eyes again, he thought. Ah. It's Buck. Vin sighed, swallowed. He felt so tired. He just wanted to sleep, suddenly. Please. Just let me sleep, he thought.

"Come on, Vin." It was Chris again. "I'm sorry. Nathan will be here soon. You have to stay awake."

Vin opened his eyes once more. Damn.

"Let's get you sitting up a little more," said Chris. "You've gotta' get your feet under you pretty soon here."

They were dragging him higher, and Vin heard himself gasp as someone touched the place on his shoulder that still felt like hell. But then he was sitting nearly upright, dizzy again, and he started to fall over sideways but someone caught him, and it started all over again for a while: in and out, and a sip of water, and the cloth on his face. And then he blinked himself back aware again and looked again at Chris and frowned.

Vin panted, his face cross. "I'm gonna' . . . shoot . . . you."

Buck laughed shortly. "I'll give you the gun, Pard!"

Vin smiled a little at that, and looked from Buck's face to Chris's dark one. Chris's dark face, he thought. Chris's face was dark? Well damn. He looked back at Buck. Saw tension there. Double damn.

Suddenly he was just so tired. Vin thought seriously of asking them to just leave him behind. He didn't even want to be awake, much less caught between Buck and Chris. He didn't want to be sitting up or drinking water or anything. His head hurt, and his legs and back ached like he'd been beaten, and he was hot, and his chest and shoulder still throbbed like hell even though at least he could stand it now. He didn't want to go wherever it was they wanted him to go, and he _sure_ as hell didn't want to do any riding. He didn't much care where they were or what might happen next. They could all leave, and welcome to it, but he--

"Whoa. Stay with me, Vin." It was Chris again, and Vin sighed and heard it turn into a low moan, and he opened weary eyes to look at his friend again. "Try to hang on," said Chris softly. "Just a little while. It won't be long and we'll have you out of here."

"Buck," said Vin, realizing what thought it was that had been jiggling his elbow all this time. "Buck?"

"Right here, Pard."

Vin studied the man's face, saw that he was still pale. Really pale. He pushed himself against the crate behind him, straightening up, coming more to himself. It would be like Buck not to say anything to Chris about his leg if he was mad, not to let on that he had about half the blood in him a man needed if he was going to walk around doing things. And Vin remembered, suddenly, the way Buck had looked way back whenever the hell it was, when Vin had first found him. Mad and hurt inside, in ways that would make him take dangerous risks. That had made him take them in the past.

"Buck," said Vin, reaching out his good hand to his friend. Chris didn't know. He was sure of it. And that damn Buck wasn't going to say anything. "You-"

"Here we go," said Chris.

+ + + + + + +

Nathan pulled the door shut behind him gently, and hurried down the steps into the cellar. Chris twisted part-way around and looked up from where he sat to one side of Vin and facing him, a wet cloth in his hand. They'd propped the sick man up and he was awake, even if his eyes were still fever-dull. Nathan felt relief flood him at the sight; he'd spent too many long years as a stretcher-bearer to underestimate the difficulty of carrying an unconscious man a long distance. Buck was on Vin's other side, and he stood up with sharp eyes when he saw Nathan, and that Nathan had his guns.

"No shells," said Nathan briefly. But Chris and Buck both buckled on their holsters, and Buck smiled.

"Still makes me feel better," he said softly. "Maybe if we get in trouble, I'll THROW it at someone. And besides," Buck fingered the knife that he kept in a scabbard on the gunbelt, and smiled rakishly, "I can still give someone a surprise if he gets too close."

Nathan moved closer to Vin, and bent down to pull the man's good arm over his neck and shoulders. Buck stepped back suddenly, for Nathan to go between him and Vin, and left Vin's field of view. The tracker shook his head, and seemed to be searching for Buck again.

"No," he said softly. "Buck--"

"It's ok, Vin." Nathan was reassuring him now, not understanding, drawing Vin's good arm over his shoulder and helping him to his feet. Vin shook his head again, looked to his side at Nathan, then gasped as Chris lifted his bad arm to support him on that side. He seemed about to protest once more, but then drew in a sharp breath when the men began to move him to the base of the stairs.

Nathan paused to let Buck squeeze by to go up ahead of them; the tall man paused at the landing to listen carefully before opening the door wide enough to let them all pass through. Then he pulled it shut behind them and lowered the bar back in place, and reset the lock. Nathan and Chris were walking as quickly as they could down the hall and into the kitchen, to go out the kitchen door. Vin's feet were moving, taking one step for every three of theirs, but he wasn't totally a dead weight on them and seemed to be aware of the situation even though not alert.

Buck passed the three again, this time to survey the back of the house before he opened the kitchen door. He slipped completely outside and stood in the rising gusts of thunderstorm wind, his head up and alert, his eyes gleaming, then turned to look back up the little flight of steps to the kitchen door and nod. Nathan and Chris came out immediately, easing Vin down the steps he couldn't really navigate, and then Buck fell in behind them again as they started across the yard towards the mountains north of the compound. Towards their waiting friends.

+ + + + + + +

Striker had gone back inside the house, straight to the side porch where the butler slept. He was about ready for some answers.

But the cot was empty, the butler's uniform laid neatly across it.

Which meant the butler had fled.

Striker bit his lips in sudden understanding that the impossible might actually have happened, and raced to the cellar door on silent feet. He knew the moment he opened it that they were gone. But he went down anyway to pick up their scent, and stood in the dim light at the bottom of the stairs looking all around into the shadows. He smelled blood. Fresh blood. Too fresh to be that of either Wilmington or Tanner.

When he found Sullivan's body, he sprinted up the stairs and all the way to the front hallway, around the balustrade, and up the main staircase to the second floor.

"Michaels!! MICHAELS!! OUT! NOW!! Larabee and the others have ESCAPED!!!!"

The mine owner's bedroom door flew opened as he burst from it, his hair disheveled and Belle's pale face shining from the bed behind him. Thunder rumbled again, and then a new flash of lightning lit up the fury of his face. "Grab my gun!" he was yelling, "Get my boots and pants!"

Striker collared Michaels and pressed him against the hallway wall.

"Your colored boy ain't here," he growled, "so stop that."

"Natha--?"

"He's the one that got 'em out. His name is Jackson. He's that damned healer from Four Corners."

"WHAT!?!" Michaels shook as rage exploded in his veins.

"He stole their gun rigs from your desk, an' they killed Sullivan sometime earlier today. His body's in the cellar." Striker backed away from Michaels when he saw his boss was finally getting a clear picture of the situation. "I'll get the dogs while you throw on some clothes," he said. "They can't get far."

+ + + + + + +

Nathan could feel the heat from Vin's body pouring from his arm and side where they were pressed against the man supporting him. He was still moving his legs and taking some of his own weight on them, but his breathing was becoming more and more ragged. It was pitch dark beneath the heavy cloud cover, and Chris suddenly stumbled on the other side, jerking Vin's arm unavoidably. The tracker gasped, and his head snapped back on his neck as he recoiled from the shock of the jarring. Nathan glanced over his shoulder to see that Buck was still coming behind them, limping heavily and only barely visible in the darkness. Just then, lightning ripped a long trail across the sky overhead and a loud peal of thunder echoed off the surrounding hills and mountains. The wind rose, cold, and lifted Vin's hair from his face. Nathan started to pant, and he could hear Chris's breathing getting shorter, too.

It hadn't seemed so far when he'd walked it earlier. Come on, Ezra! JD, Josiah, where are you guys?

+ + + + + + +

The dog handler leaned down in the circle of yellow lamplight, holding the damp and bloody bandanna they'd found in the cellar. The bloodhound pressed its muzzle to the fabric, sniffed deeply, shook itself, and raised its face onto the wind.

"Turn 'em loose," said Michaels softly.

The handler snapped off the chains on the hounds' collars, and they ran off into the darkness on silent feet, the one in the lead already tonguing a bay as it struck the fresh scent still on the very air itself.

"Now those," said Michaels.

The handler looked at his boss and shrugged. Not his business, he thought. The sharp-faced black dogs strained at their leashes to follow the hounds, and they bounded like specters into the night-storm and vanished the moment the handler set them loose.

They didn't bay. That wasn't their purpose.

Michaels picked up his shotgun and strode out after the bloodhounds, following the sound of their baying. Striker, armed with both pistols and rifle, was at his side. Bland trotted at his heels, his face livid and a rifle held across his chest. Ten more men followed closely.

+ + + + + + +

Nathan felt his blood freeze in his belly when he heard them. Dear God, how many times had he dreaded he would hear that very sound, when he'd run away and spent so many days and weeks hiding, slipping along ditches and through abandoned fields? And now here it was, when it shouldn't even be any more: the wavering, hollow sound of bloodhounds on his trail, rising on the storm wind and then dropping, but clear and certain and not shifting.

They had the trail. They had the scent, in the air, or they wouldn't give tongue like that.

Nathan fought to keep moving, fear suddenly rising out of the night to sock him in the gut so hard that he thought he'd go down. Elemental, deep, primitive: the fear of a runaway slave being hunted by dogs.

Josiah, JD, Ezra . . . dear God where are you? Where are you?

Part 89

Damn! Vin's breath caught in his throat like it was strangled there and wouldn't come out again. He felt his back and neck arch as the lightning bolt of pain ripped through his arm and shoulder and chest, ran down his back into the ground and exploded in a crash of thunder. Damn!

He was dimly aware of Nathan to one side of him and Chris on the other. He knew he was moving a lot faster than he wanted to, couldn't keep up and wanted only to stop, to sit down, to put his head down . . . but that the men supporting him weren't slowing down. They were running somewhere, dragging Vin with them, and where the hell had Buck gotten? He tried to turn his head around, to see in the darkness. Buck. The memory swam back through his mind and right in front of his face again for a moment: Buck had lost too much blood. He couldn't possibly keep up this pace. Where was he? What was he doing?

Another brighter flare of lightning burst, this one so brilliant that for the first time Vin wondered if it was real honest-to-God storm lightning instead of the hot flames of pain that had hit him over and over again for what seemed like weeks. The cold wind that fanned into his face on the ensuing crash of thunder made him nod in relieved understanding that it was. Thank God, he thought. That'll cool it off, at least. He was so hot, and even the cool wind felt good on his face.

An hour went by, that they kept running. Two hours. Six. A night that stretched out into a second night, and a third, and a fourth. Vin wanted to tell them to stop, to let him go, to let him down, to leave him behind. He couldn't keep up, he couldn't run any more, he couldn't think or breathe or move his legs any more. But his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, too dry to move it. And his voice was stuck with it. He tried to look at Nathan, then at Chris, to stare at their earnest, weary profiles long enough that they would feel his gaze on them and turn their faces and look at him, and read the desperation in his eyes and let him go.

But they didn't. They just kept running. Vin squeezed his eyes shut and tried to concentrate on the cool wind, and on the rolling of the thunder, and then on the wavering sound that began to rise around him on all sides . . . asound like giant, hungry, rabid wolf spirits loose in the storm, racing the thunder beings, chasing him and Chris and Nathan and Buck. Nathan was saying something, then, shouting to be heard over the rising wind, and then there were other hands, other voices. He heard horses milling around and there was a sense of quiet urgency and dark confusion and he felt himself being lifted from the ground, his breath catching once more as the pain flashed over him and echoed through his body, rippling out in deep waves from his shoulder and chest.

Vin began to shiver as a chill swept through him, and he caught at a saddle horn and leaned over it as someone swung up behind him. Oh God, he thought, oh no. But even as he thought it, the horse moved out at a gallop, and Vin heard himself cry out as the momentum shoved him back against the man behind him, and there was another enormous crash of thunder and the sky turned inside-out and fat cold drops of rain hit him in the face.

"Hang on!" Someone was yelling at his ear, had wrapped a strong arm around his waist, was urging the horse to go even faster. Vin felt himself losing consciousness, swaying precariously, being caught and held more firmly. "Hang on, Vin!" The voice again, right at his ear, saying his name. The rain started to fall harder, cold and sharp and driven by a furious wind, and Vin tried to hang on. The rain was cold, and the wind was colder. He felt the shivering grow and expand until it shook him so hard that his teeth chattered. More yelling, and then gunshots behind him. Screams of something hit, something dying.

Where was Buck? Hang on, Vin thought, hang on.

"You can let go, now, Vin. Come on. Let go."

The injured man slowly realized that things had changed. No more lightning. No thunder. No wind. Only steady, cold rain. He could hear it hitting the ground all around him in what was otherwise pitch-black silence. He let whoever had spoken to him lift his fingers from the saddle horn, pry them cold and stiff from the leather he'd clung to for God only knew how long. If they wanted to do that, why not? Vin opened his eyes dully, saw that it was Chris talking to him, but he couldn't hear the words so he closed his eyes again. He felt the slickness of the wet saddle under his legs as he slipped from it sideways, wondering why he didn't seem to hit the ground, and then it wasn't raining on him any more and he felt how clammy his clothes were and wished they would just please, please leave him the hell alone.

"Get a fire goin'," someone said. There was a sound of wood being knocked against something. He felt the cold air strike his skin as his wet clothing was tugged off, and heard someone swear softly about something, and then fingers were pulling at his shoulder somehow, and he moaned and tried to move away from them.

"Hold on, Vin. It's ok. Jus' need t' get off this wet dressin'."

Vin didn't care; he just wanted to be left alone, to stop hurting, to stop being too hot or too cold. He started to say so, but something warm and dry settled around him just at that moment, and it surprised him so much to feel suddenly better that he opened his eyes in surprise. Nathan was peering at his shoulder with a grim expression, Chris behind him, and Vin licked his lips and wished he had water. As if Chris had read his mind, there was a cup to his lips almost the next thing he knew, but then he saw that the bandages were all off his shoulder and that Nathan was stirring something at a pot-bellied stove, and he knew he'd lost time again.

Where was Buck?

He looked into Chris's eyes and saw fatigue and pain and grief, and Vin got scared. Really scared, for the first time. He raised his good hand, and it was shaky, but he reached for Chris and a blanket fell from him as he did. Chris caught his arm, laid it back down beside him, and pulled the blanket back up.

"Rest easy," he said softly. "It's all right."

It's not all right, thought Vin. It's not. He struggled harder, and heard his own voice, harsh and faint and breathless then:

"Buck?"

Chris's face darkened, and he didn't answer. Instead, he pressed the palm of his hand to the center of Vin's chest and turned to Nathan.

"You'd better hurry," he said. "I think his fever's gettin' worse again."

"No." Vin was starting to feel really mad. Why wouldn't Chris listen to him? "Where's . . . Buck?" He panted, suddenly dizzy. Other voices started speaking, and Nathan came over and his face got closer to Vin's, and he put his hand to Vin's face and said something. Vin shook his head. He didn't know what Nathan was saying. He didn't care. He raised his head a fraction from wherever the hell he was laying and reached out with more strength than he even knew he had and grabbed Nathan by the front of his shirt and said it clear and distinct:

"Where . . . is . . . BUCK?"

"We don' know," said Nathan softly. "Lay back an' try t' rest."

Vin fell back exhausted, his heart pounding in his ears. They didn't know? He looked at Chris again, and saw his friend's face receding slowly, rising higher into the upper reaches of a long tunnel. Then Vin shook his head, realizing he had it backwards. It was him that was moving, down a tunnel, farther from Chris.

He looked around him in the darkness when he got to the bottom and let go.

Part 90

"What on earth . . .?" Ezra rose in his stirrups trying to hear the weird, wailing sound that had begun to echo from the hills over the roar of the wind, and his horse backed nervously, nickering and flicking its ears back.

"Hounds! They had those back home. We've gotta' _do_ somethin', Ezra! We need to break that up or the dogs'll lead 'em to --" An enormous crash of thunder splintered JD's words and made Ezra's already-nervous horse hop sideways. He laid a steadying hand on its neck and looked at JD in the dim flashes of more distant lightning, then saw the youth's face stand out in stark contrast as another bolt lit the place they were waiting like a battlefield flare. The ensuing blast of thunder made talking impossible, and as soon as it rolled away into the surrounding hills, Ezra drew his horse closer to JD's and pointed towards Josiah, who had dismounted to run towards dark figures straggling up out of the trees.

"They're here!" He had to scream to be heard over the rising wind.

"We gotta' sidetrack those--!" Another burst of thunder drowned out JD's voice again, but Ezra had understood him enough to nod agreement. The youth was pointing down the hill, his mare's neck curved so strongly as she pranced in fear that her nose nearly touched her chest. Ezra peered through the black night already filled with flying bits of debris riding ahead of the storm on the main wind, and caught the glimmer of lanterns among the trees.

He looked again at the group of figures struggling up on horseback now, not even very far away but almost indistinguishable between the flares of lightning. They were moving far too slowly. Ezra pulled his pistol and raised it meaningfully where JD could see it, and the youth did the same at once. Both men released their horses' heads at the same time then, setting their heels to the nervous animals' flanks in such a way that the pair flew down the slope as if they were riding the storm wind that rose to meet them. Faster, and the lightning unrolled across the sky over their heads from one horizon to the other, thunder crashing simultaneously, and they ducked low as the terrified horses swept them beneath tossing pine boughs. The spots of light that were lanterns became larger, showed more frequently between the trees, and Ezra nudged his gelding more onto a slant to cut in ahead of the men who carried the lanterns, JD riding at his stirrup.

Then suddenly they were there, riding practically through the front line of the group, their two horses cutting up great clods of earth and pine needles that showered onto the men on foot as the horses thundered past them. Both JD and Ezra fired and hit marks, men screaming and running, ducking in terror from a horror they hadn't even seen or heard coming in the dark and the storm. Ezra looked back over his shoulder at them as both men reined in tightly, whirled their horses, and lit back into the group a second time. Lightning flared again, and this time Ezra's shots struck two of the men carrying lanterns in quick succession, so that their lamps fell to the ground and burst opened in a crash of flames that scattered the men who had held their ground after being run through only a moment earlier. JD understood then: the lantern light was blinding the men in the group to anything in the ring of darkness around them. He fired again as he rode back at a gallop once more through the group, too, and as he brought down another of the men himself he saw panic flare up as surely as the flames from the broken lanterns were beginning to lick hungrily at the dry pine needles on the forest floor, fed by the rising wind.

There was a roar of returning fire this time, though, and the two friends were themselves blinded momentarily by an enormous flash of lightning, its thunder so monumental that the ground rolled and shook beneath them. Ezra lost sight of JD, and pulled up his horse in a plunging slide after reaching the darkness again, then nearly shot the youth as he materialized out of the darkness with astonishing suddenness. It was impossible to hear now, useless to speak. The roar of the storm was fully upon them, and a heavy rain began without preamble of small drops: enormous, icy drops that had hailstones mixed into them, driven so hard by the wind that they stung where they struck exposed skin. The trees themselves were thundering as they tremored in the galeforce wind that began now to break off small branches and hurl them through the pitch-blackness.

JD grabbed Ezra's forearm and gestured towards the group of men again, the fires that had been started by the broken lanterns quickly being extinguished by the rain, and the remaining lanterns now in two groups: one that was bobbing in several different directions as the lantern-bearers ran as hard as they could away from whoever the hell was attacking them so unexpectedly on horseback out of the dark, and a second group that made a tighter knot than before and held its course with an air of lethal determination. Ezra shook his head to himself, legging his chestnut to follow the bay as the young man headed back at them again. He cut his horse in front of JD's and gestured to the younger man to hold back a moment.

This time Ezra stayed out of the pool of lantern light, and slowed his mount, faced the group of men that could not see him, and then very deliberately let them come just close enough to bring him and his bunched animal into their sight for a moment before he melted into the darkness again. JD, being in the dark himself, could see Ezra lay spurs to his gelding as he escaped the light, so that it flew away at a tangent as the infuriated men fired wildly at the place Ezra had been only a fraction of a moment before. The whole group veered to pursue him, rushing in a body in the direction where they had seen him, finding nothing where they expected to find his body, regrouping . . . and then once again discovering he was in their circle of light, his dripping horse shining, rain pouring off the brim of his hat, black shadows like smudges of coal etching his features. And again, Ezra fled in an unexpected direction as the men shot and shot at him and ran to find his body.

Now JD picked up the pattern -- it was no harder than a dance step -- and the next time the lanterns caught an unwary attacker who had blundered within range, it was a man in a checked coat and a bowler hat. JD felt his heart hammering in his ears as he raced his chestnut from them on a zigzag course, feeling the puff of wind of a bullet catch part of a sleeve. But when he pulled up out of range, he was unharmed and so was his horse, and Ezra was racing back through to draw them this time. And then JD again. And then JD, followed once more by Ezra.

The horses were covered in slick wet mud to their bellies after a while. The ground was so slippery in the heavy rain that Ezra shook his head in disbelief at their luck that neither animal had taken a fall while within range of the infuriated men and fallen _then_ to the fusillade they repeatedly directed at their elusive attackers. He couldn't believe that the ruse had proven successful so long, and that the body of men had never veered back to their original course or returned to the place they'd last heard the hounds. Of course, thought Ezra, no one had been able to _hear_ the hounds since the storm had hit. He was sitting in the dark, pelting rain -- once again -- watching JD run the pattern -- once again -- and his horse's sides were heaving between his legs, and he knew it had been as long as it could be. If Josiah hadn't gotten the others away by now, it couldn't be done.

This time, when JD flashed past him, Ezra reached out to grab the youth and point towards the hill that lay in the direction of the logging camp, and JD nodded. He cast a last backward glance at the furious knot of men who'd been chasing them ineffectively for nearly two hours, and urged his bay into an extended jog up the slope. Ezra was right next to him.

They'd cut south maybe five or six miles from the rendezvous point, Ezra calculated, and now they headed for the remote cabin they'd found, more by dead-reckoning than any other sense. It was too dark to see, the darkness between the lightning flashes more intense that it would otherwise have been, and the thunder so continuous and loud that both men were effectively deafened. They rode side by side for several miles through the storm-tossed forest and then slowed to a walk, the horses immediately stretching their necks tiredly and blowing loudly even though they couldn't be heard. Ezra could feel his chestnut's chest shake between his knees, though, and the shivering of its rib cage as it dragged in great gulps of air and then blew them out heavily.

At a steady walk through a darkness interlaced with more and more distant flashes of lightning, the rain not letting up even a fraction, it took them so long to reach the cabin that the trees were starting to be visible as black silhouettes against a slightly less-black sky if they looked to the east. The thunder had long since faded to a steady grumbling that rose occasionally to a roar; it no longer prevented conversation. Yet neither man spoke. They rode silently, exhausted, on exhausted mounts, men and horses both soaked and cold and covered in mud and plastered with pine needles that had been blown through the air like snow on the heavy wind. It was hard even to stay awake, even to keep plodding on, but men and horses both had one goal in mind: to get somewhere. Anywhere. To arrive.

And after an eternity, they saw the dim and dark grey shape of the cabin between the trees, its one papered window that faced them dimly golden from firelight within, and Ezra thought he had truly never seen any sight more beautiful in his life. When the two arrived, they sat a long time in front of the cabin, both of them so stiff and cold that the thought of actually dismounting was suddenly almost unbearably difficult. Yet they wanted to go in, to get dry, to get warm.

But the horses had to be attended to first.

JD was the first to pull his offside leg out of its stirrup and stiffly swing it over the cantle of his saddle. The groan with which he moved was not encouraging to Ezra, who knew he wasn't as young and limber as the other man and would suffer more grievously. He closed his eyes as JD began to walk slowly towards the shed, his horse's reins in one fist, and then he broke contact with the saddle himself and dismounted and thought he would die. Why didn't Josiah come on outside and give them a hand, he thought? It really would be a rather nice gesture, given that they'd spent the last half of the night drawing the dogs . . . well, the men _behind_ the dogs . . . Ezra's thoughts trailed off into a drizzle as he yawned and dragged his horse into the shed on JD's heels. He stopped with a feeling of deep distress pulling at his limbs when he saw that Josiah's and Buck's horses were missing. Nathan's horse was there, and Chris' and Vin's. But two were missing.

He saw that JD had noticed the absence as well, but neither man said anything, turning instead to the job at hand. Somehow Ezra got the saddle off his horse, and the bridle, and rubbed the tired animal down, and grained it. And somehow, in some fashion he could not fathom, he managed to stumble in the cabin door behind the younger man as the sky was actually starting to grow light. He stood just inside the door and felt the dry warmth of the fire reach out and embrace him, and looked around the cabin quickly and saw in a single heartbeat that the men whose horses were missing weren't present either. He started to ask about them, but then stopped. He was tired beyond endurance, and he was certain the answer he heard wasn't going to make it any easier to stay awake. In fact, if he had some sleep he might even be able to do something about whatever had happened, or at least think about it clearly. He was about to tumble onto a bottom bunk when Nathan's hands seized his arm and he was being told to get out of his wet things.

Ezra shook his head wearily, trying not to think about . . . the thing he was trying not to think about, and peeled his wet clothes off his wet ody as he didn't think it. He dropped them in a pile that rapidly formed a small lake around it, the clothes rising out of it as an island: coat and boots at the bottom and pants on top. And when he had finished constructing that island Ezra crawled under the blanket on the bottom bunk and looked across the room at Chris Larabee, who he hadn't even seen in . . . six or seven months now, Ezra decided. Must be. The man was sitting next to a bunk on which Vin was laying, and even from here Ezra could see that the tracker was not resting at all comfortably. Ezra sighed and closed his eyes. 'All that, and not even a thank you,' he thought cynically. But what he said was, "I will return shortly to find out what has happened. But meanwhile I WILL shoot anyone who disturbs me for the next two hours."

"Thank you, Ezra." said Chris softly. "Thank you, JD."

Ezra felt a shock of surprise ripple through his tired muscles at Chris' words. He heard JD's sleepy voice answer something from across the room and thought briefly of making a telling comment in reply, but he fell asleep instead -- and so quickly that a look of surprised pleasure still sat gently on his face.

Part 91

When Buck stepped outside the house into the windy night, he thought the brisk mountain air was the sweetest thing he'd ever smelled in his life. Mostly Buck didn't think much about what lay ahead or how things might go, but he had to admit there'd been moments in that cellar when he'd thought he might never see a night sky again.

Chris and Nathan slipped past him, helping Vin between them and Buck fell in behind. They had managed to get out of the house without raising any alarm and now they needed to cover the distance to the others and the horses as quickly as possible. Buck turned and felt a quick sharp flash of pain arrow up his leg, but he ignored it. For now, he wasn't tired and he wasn't weak and he figured if he just pushed a little longer, he could make it out of this damned place.

A flash of lightning lit the way ahead of them and Buck could see a long low rise with trees starting another hundred yards beyond where they were. JD and the others, with their loaded guns and their fresh horses, would be beyond that. But they would be there. That was something Buck knew beyond the shadow of a doubt. He found his hand resting automatically on his gun. It felt good to know it was there, even empty, as if it returned to him something that had been lost for days and that he had in his lowest moments thought he might never regain.

He turned against his bad leg and looked back toward the house. Still dark. He looked ahead. Chris and Vin and Nathan were drawing away from him, looking almost like wraiths in the thick dark blackness of the approaching storm. Buck pushed himself harder, trying to catch up with them, but his bad leg just didn't work right and he found his limp worsening with each step he took. Ignoring the pain that seemed to expand and spread and work its way into the very bones of his leg and hip and ankle was easy, but even though he could ignore it, he couldn't seem to move any faster or keep the leg from half-collapsing out from under him every third or fourth step. He looked behind him again. If they were really lucky the men in the house wouldn't know they were gone until they'd reached the horses and disappeared into the night. But even as he thought it, he saw lights coming on inside and his heart began to sink. He turned back to yell at Chris and Nathan, to urge them to hurry, but they had disappeared completely. He stood still a minute and listened, but he couldn't even hear them anymore. He couldn't hear horses waiting or the shouts of desperate men. All he could hear was the rising wind and the shifting tree branches and the distant sound of thunder. In that single moment he felt as if he were all alone in the entire world. Just him. Alone. Forever.

He started out again, determined to catch up. He was damned if he would let this all come to nothing because they had to wait for him. He took a step and this time his leg collapsed completely and he fell, rolling several feet back down the slope before he could catch himself. He was trying to catch his breath and get his legs back under him, when he heard it, the chill cold sound of baying hounds.

Buck stood, turned back the way he had come, and pulled his knife. He crouched low, prepared to stop the hounds when they came. If he could keep them from following the others they'd have a chance. If he could take out a few of the men who almost certainly followed further behind, he could maybe ensure that they got away clean.

He was completely unprepared for the silent black shape that hurtled at him out of the darkness, hitting him hard in the left side and knocking him down. He scrabbled frantically and felt teeth tear at the sleeve of his shirt. His right hand, the one holding the knife, lay half underneath him and he grabbed at the dog's neck, trying to hold it back as it snarled and snapped at him. Lightning flashed and in one stark nightmarish moment he could see the animal that had attacked him--black coat, pointed nose, huge white teeth and eyes that flashed red in the sudden light. The dog writhed violently, breaking his hold and backing away two steps to come at him again. Buck moved, freed his knife and plunged it into the dog's belly as its jaws snapped shut just an inch from his throat. He pushed it away and scrambled to his feet, breathing hard.

He lunged up the hill toward a rocky outcropping. There were more of them out there. He knew it. He couldn't hear them, not with the rising wind and the thunder and the baying of the bloodhounds. But they were out there. He felt a little better with his back against something solid, but then another one came at him, invisible as it approached him, then, suddenly, _there_ going straight for his throat. He couldn't get the knife up and was only able to shove it away, using its own momentum to carry it over and away from him. It was a weak effort though and he knew he wouldn't be able to stand against these dogs for long. The one he'd thrown hit the ground with a quick, high yelp. But then it leaped to its feet and swirled away into the darkness and Buck knew it would be back. He swallowed hard and wiped a quick hand across his face and tried to see beyond the stormy blackness of the woods. Goddammit! He thought. I need lightning! Then, there it was, one big flash and for a second the woods were lit up bright as day. And he almost wished it hadn't been because he saw them, four more of them, red-eyed and hateful, waiting for him to show just one sign of weakness and they'd be on him. The lightning faded and he was left briefly blinded from its intensity. He could hear the hounds approaching on his right and he braced for them to swerve toward him too, but they paused for a moment just up the hill from him and then went on.

Buck couldn't seem to catch his breath and he had to lean back against the rock behind him to keep from falling. He didn't even see the next dog that came at him and it was right there, right in front of his face before he knew it and he was bringing up his arms, already knowing it was too late, when the dog fell at his feet. Buck looked down and realized that it was dead. And only after that did he realize that somewhere in the noise of the storm and the baying of the hounds there'd been a single gunshot.

Then, as if from nowhere, Josiah appeared next to him. Buck didn't even have time to think about it because at that moment two more dogs attacked them and for the next several minutes the two of them were too busy to do anything but stay alive. Then, as quickly and silently as it had begun, it was over. Buck drew in great gasping breaths of air, but it was as if he'd forgotten how to breathe because somehow it wasn't doing any good. He slid slowly down the rock face until he was on his knees on the ground and his head was bent low and he was still trying to get enough air in his lungs. It was raining and he didn't remember when it started, but looking at the ground he could see that it was wet. He wasn't sure about anything else or even what had just happened so in a way it reassured him to find one certain thing--it was raining.

Josiah looked at Buck, nearly passed out on the ground. He looked down the hill at bobbing lanterns, still a good safe distance away, but approaching steadily. They had to get out of here now, he thought. There wasn't any more time. He reached down and grabbed Buck around the waist, preparing to drag him to his feet and help him up the hill to the waiting horses.

Quicker than thought, Buck was on his feet, one hand wrenching Josiah's collar and the other nicking at his neck with the tip of his bloody knife. "Don't touch me," he said in a low and deadly voice that carried clearly through the sudden silence between thunderclaps. "Don't you ever touch me."

Josiah saw it clearly again, the moment when he'd tried to crush the life out of Buck, the moment he'd said irrevocable, damaging things, and he slowly held up his hands with the palms facing outward. Buck's eyes flared with anger in the reflected light from a lightning bolt, but in that same sudden flash Josiah could see how bone-weary and desperate and pale he was. 'My God,' Josiah thought. 'My God.'

"Buck," he spoke slowly, but with an edge in his voice and he hoped Buck would be able to understand the urgency. "I ain't gonna touch you, Buck. But we have got to go." He pointed down the slope at the approaching lanterns.

Buck lowered his knife.

The rain increased, soaking both men, though Josiah at least had an overcoat. He thought for a second about offering it to Buck who surely needed it worse than he did, but he didn't. There wasn't time for a gesture Buck would certainly refuse. They had to get out of there. "I'm going for the horses, Buck," Josiah shouted. "Wait here."

And Josiah turned and ran back into the darkness and rain, leaving Buck to stare after him with a numbness he didn't completely understand. Gone, he thought. They were all gone and in a way he'd expected it. All his life he'd expected it and he'd covered that expectation with loud talk and a deadly gun and a fierce loyalty to anyone who mattered to him.

He took a step and stumbled and almost gave up right there and let himself collapse in the mud. But then he saw a lantern swing way down the slope below him and a rush of wind carried the sound of shouting voices. Damn it! Buck Wilmington didn't quit. He never quit. Not when he was a skinny kid getting beat up by every one who came along and not now. If he had to walk off this mountain on his own he would do it. And all the rest of them could go straight to hell.

The second step he took was easier than the first and he tried to ignore the breathlessness that assailed him. Ought to be used to that by now, he thought. He took another step and another. One step at a time, he thought, and all I have to do is stay away from dogs and lanterns. He smiled grimly to himself at that. Glancing down the hill he could see the lanterns swinging wildly. They didn't seem any closer to him now than they had several minutes ago. He almost wondered about that, but he didn't have enough energy to spare. The next step, he told himself. It's just the next step. And the next step. And the next step--

He heard a sound and stopped, his hand going automatically to the butt of his gun. Horses, coming quick. He stepped back, looking around for some kind of shelter, but there was nothing. He wondered if he could make it back to the outcropping, only a few steps and no real protection, but it gave him a place to put his back against and when you didn't have anything, then the one thing you did have mattered. He'd managed to turn and stumble a half step back when Josiah's horse almost ran into him. He could see Josiah rein in hard, his horse plunging to a quick sideways halt. "Damnit, Buck!" Josiah yelled. "I thought you were going to wait."

Buck looked at him as if he were an exotic stranger the likes of which he'd never seen before. The wind whipped rain into his face and a sudden flash of lightning struck shadows down the slope, making everything look even more unreal.

"Come on, Buck," Josiah shouted, trying to make himself heard above the wind. "We have to go now."

'Where?' Buck thought. 'Where is there to go?' But then the answer came. The answer he'd had just a minute ago. Off this mountain. He looked and realized that Josiah had another horse and he was waiting for Buck to mount up. Buck put his hands on the saddle and braced himself for the pain in his bad leg as he swung it across the horse's back. His arms trembled, threatening to collapse when he shifted his weight to them as he mounted, and he realized that it wasn't just his leg anymore. The pain didn't even seem to matter, though it jabbed at him every time he moved. It was that nothing was working right anymore. Not his arms with all the strength faded out of them, not his legs--not either one of them--even the good one kept shaking with exhaustion. His eyes weren't even working right. Things kept flashing across his vision and then away, like black and yellow streamers where sometimes the dark was brighter than the light. He sat in the saddle a minute, knowing that he should be moving and not even able to quite figure out how, like his brain had just stopped.

Then, Josiah was shouting at him, throwing the reins at him and pulling his horse around. And then they were riding, into the blackness, into the rain, into the bright flashes of lightning. And Buck was thinking--All right. I can do this. I just have to ride. And the world and the night and the storm all closed down around him until all that he had was that one thing--the ride.

Part 92

When Nathan had finally come, Chris had been ready. He felt as if he'd been ready for a long time--forever, maybe--ready to get out of that damp, stifling cellar. Out of a place that was too small and too dark and too close to even stand much longer. He wanted to get out and get going and take some action against all the things that had been going on--against the man, Striker, who had brought him there, against that smug bastard, Michaels, and even, though in a different way, against Buck. Maybe Buck wasn't his enemy the way the other two were, but there was something there, something at odds with the man Chris thought he knew, something that led to rape charges, to sacrificing a wounded friend, to walking out on a town that had supported him, and Chris intended, sooner or later, to find out what the hell that something was.

Vin moved. Chris turned to look at him. And then, Nathan was there, slipping through the door at the top of the stairs, making his quiet way down to them. Chris didn't say anything. There was no need at that point for words, he figured. He took his gun belt when Nathan offered it and he had to admit that the weight of it felt pretty good. The revolver was empty, though. He frowned when Buck grinned at Nathan and said he'd throw his if he had to--an empty, reckless kind of gesture that, if he actually did it, would leave him, would leave _them_, worse off than before.

There wasn't much time for those thoughts, though. Nathan had already pulled Vin's arm over his shoulder and Chris moved in to take up a position supporting Vin's other side. The tracker protested softly, but there was no time left and without further conversation, the four men moved out.

Buck went up the stairs ahead of them. A familiar figure--Chris knew they'd done this before, in another time and another place, though he couldn't at the moment recall exactly when or where. Vin made another sound, of pain this time as he tried to keep his legs under him and Chris's face thinned down even more. Someone was going to pay for this, he thought. Someone was definitely going to pay.

Buck checked the corridor and signaled back to them and they moved smoothly up the stairs and out into the hallway. A few silent minutes later they were through the house and out the back door, moving past Buck again. Chris tried to look at him as they passed, tried to gauge his stamina for what was ahead, but all he could see in the thickening night was a dark outline of his face, a darker shadow marking his moustache. Then, he and Nathan and Vin were moving up the slope away from the house, Vin struggling just to stay awake and upright, Nathan and Chris trying to match strides as best they could, trying to be swift and efficient and stronger than it was possible for two men to be. They might have hours before anyone knew they were missing and raised the alarm. Or they might have minutes. The wind was rising and Chris could hear it in the pine trees just ahead of them.

They were halfway up the long slope now, maybe five hundred yards from the house. Vin was getting heavier, the little strength he'd had, long since given out. Lightning flashed. Flashed again. Followed by a long, slow roll of thunder that seemed to fill the entire sky with its low rumbling intensity.

Chris dug in his heels and climbed. The slope wasn't steep, but they'd gone a long way already and for all he knew had an even longer way left to go. It wouldn't do to use all his strength too early and not have it later when he needed it. They were moving. They were out of the cellar. Every second that passed they were farther up the slope away from the house. He started to look back to see where Buck was when he saw Nathan's head snap back as if he'd been hit and in that same exact instant Chris heard what Nathan must have heard--the sound of baying hounds.

Chris did look back over his shoulder then. He couldn't see the house any longer, but he imagined it, lit up like a celebration. Damn! How had they discovered them so soon! He looked over at Nathan, then his head snapped back behind him again when he realized that what he hadn't seen when he'd looked back the first time was Buck. He'd disappeared completely. Even in a quick bright flash of lightning, so stark it turned the world inside out and blue at the same time, Chris couldn't see him. He slowed his steps, almost causing Nathan to stumble. Damn! He couldn't stop now. Not with Vin depending on him. He sucked in his breath and turned back up the slope and grabbed hold of Vin even tighter and between them they almost managed to run. Get Vin to safety, Chris thought. Get him out of this. Then--

Then, Josiah was flying out of the darkness toward them. "Nathan!" he shouted. "Chris! This way! The horses are just up--"

Suddenly two riders galloped past like shadows only a shade darker than the stormy night itself. Without even seeing them, Chris knew--something about the feel in the air as they passed--that it was JD and Ezra gone to draw off the hounds and the men who surely followed them. It gave Chris a sharp, unexpected flash of something remarkably like hope to know that they were there, that the night was suddenly full of men who could see what needed to be done and had the means to do it.

Josiah urged them quickly onward and Chris drew in his breath and ignored the tight strain of exertion in his chest and ground onward up the slope. Another long, dark, endless fifty yards, marked only by increasingly violent lightning flashes and sharp cracks of thunder echoing after them. And then, finally--finally!--they reached the horses. The three of them, Nathan, Chris and Josiah, all shoved Vin up onto a horse and Nathan grabbed the reins from Josiah's hands and shouted at Chris to hurry. Chris searched the darkness behind him. Damn! Where was he? Where was Buck?

Nathan shouted at him again, but the wind and the thunder carried the words away. Then, the rain started, like the heavens breaking open. Chris grabbed the bridle of the horse Nathan was holding and leaned toward him, shouting, "I'm going back!"

At the same time, Josiah appeared out of the darkness, looming in close to Chris and Nathan and he was shouting too. "Buck! Where is he?"

Chris gestured back down the slope and started to speak. "I'll--"

But Josiah never even heard him. He turned the minute Chris pointed and took off down the slope. He'd only taken three steps away from them before disappearing completely into the black cold rain.

Chris took a step after him. "Chris! Chris!" Nathan shouted at him, almost screaming to make himself heard over the raging storm. "We have to go. NOW! Got to get Vin to shelter." And there was nothing more for Chris to do. Nathan needed him. Vin needed him more. He mounted up behind Vin, who was swaying dangerously in the saddle, not quite out of it, clinging to consciousness by half a thread, but not able to ride alone into this stormy savage night. Chris reached across for the reins Nathan handed him. "Hang on," he shouted at Vin and he cursed himself because he was leaving men behind, because he'd left Buck on the slope as they climbed and he hadn't even known it. Damn! He reined his horse hard and the three of them, Chris and Vin and Nathan, took off into the nothingness. They rode as if they could see where they were going, as if the track they followed was smooth and wide, as if the wind weren't snapping branches and smashing them to the ground in front of them. They stopped once after what seemed, even to Chris like an endless long time, and rested the horses for a bit and then proceeded on at a slower pace. Chris thought of asking Nathan where they were going, but it was a waste of energy trying to shout across the thunder and the sound of pounding rain and he figured he'd find out soon enough.

Chris's arms ached from holding Vin in the saddle. He couldn't be sure how long they'd been riding, it was too dark and too stormy for him to judge, but it had been a damned long time, maybe ten miles from where they'd gotten the horses. He was just going to spur his tired horse up beside Nathan, when the healer slowed abruptly and looked back at Chris. He didn't say anything; it was still too hard to talk across the wind and rain, but Chris could now barely make out the dark shapes of cabins to his right. He frowned. What could be out here, so close to Michaels' compound? And in another instant the answer came, would probably have come sooner if he hadn't been so tired. A lumber camp for the mine.

Nathan led them back along a flat, rutted road to a larger cabin at the back of the camp. He dismounted first and took Vin from Chris until Chris could dismount. The two of them carried Vin into the cabin and laid him on one of the lower bunks where he settled with a weak groan. The first thing Chris noticed entering the cabin was that it was possible to hear again. Thunder still rumbled and the wind swept rain against the cabin walls and the cabin itself was cold, but there was a security in shutting out the rain, in having a roof and four walls--a promise that had been lost and now regained, that things could perhaps get better.

While Nathan stripped Vin's clothes and wrapped him in blankets, Chris started a fire in the stove and another in the fireplace stoking both of them as hot as he could, trying to hurry warmth into the place for Vin's sake. Now that they were here, he wanted to be busy, doing anything and not worrying about the others who were all still out there somewhere. He went back outside into the rain and put up the horses in a shed that Nathan pointed out to him and brought water back inside. Nathan had food and medical supplies and Chris was surprised by how well-prepared they seemed to be. He wanted to ask questions, well aware that he knew almost nothing about what was going on, but there was just so much to do.

Vin had been briefly awake when they arrived and he'd asked about Buck, seeming almost panicked to know where he was, like he was afraid, and that made Chris frown, reminding him of questions that didn't yet have answers and confrontations that hadn't yet been had. Vin finally settled down, asleep or passed out, Chris wasn't sure, but he watched him for Nathan as the healer busied himself. Chris could see Nathan glance at the door every few seconds, waiting and worrying and trying not to let it show.

"You'd best get out of those wet clothes yourself," Nathan told Chris at one point, but Chris noticed Nathan hadn't shed his own soaked pants and shirt either and the fire needed more wood and he was just going out in the rain again anyway and so the two of them went on and tried not to notice that time was passing.

Once Chris glanced out the window and saw that the rain was slackening and the sky was beginning to grey. Damn! He looked across at Nathan, who was obviously exhausted and trying to hide it. And he looked down at Vin beside him. If the others didn't return soon he'd have to go out looking for them. Just then, he heard the sound of horses approaching. Chris's hand went to his revolver, an automatic gesture, and it made him glad that one of the first things he'd done when they'd arrived was load the damn thing. Nathan went silently to the window and looked out intently into the not-quite-dawn. After a minute he looked back at Chris and gave him a silent nod. Chris's hand slipped off his gun. One of theirs.

"Looks to be JD and Ezra," Nathan said, moving back to the stove. Chris sat for a minute. Vin was restless and he knew he couldn't leave him alone right now. Nathan was busy. And Chris was only one man, though at times like this that frustrated him no end. He wanted to know if JD and Ezra were all right. He wanted to know if they'd seen Buck and Josiah. He wanted to know if anyone had followed them. They'd be dismounting, walking wearily to the shed, unsaddling their horses and making sure they were dried off and fed. He knew how long that would take them, but he still couldn't help being irritated when they didn't appear. And despite himself he kept listening for the sound of other horses.

After what seemed like eternity, JD and Ezra finally came, but they were so tired Chris didn't have the heart to grill them the way he wanted to. "Take them clothes off now," Nathan admonished both men and it was all they could do to comply before crawling into their bunks and falling asleep. Chris looked at the two of them for a minute. He looked at Vin who was still moving restlessly, fighting the fever and exhaustion that pulled at him.

"Nathan," he said, quietly. "I think--"

Nathan was frowning at the window, not listening to Chris. "Somebody's got to go out there," he said. "We got to find out what's happened to them."

"I know," Chris began, but he only got as far as the 'I--' when the door to the cabin slammed open.

Part 93

When Josiah thought about the journey later what he would remember was the rain.

And the wind.

And the fear.

He knew Buck couldn't make it ten miles to the lumber camp. He'd seen him when he mounted his horse, limbs shaking from exhaustion, and the cold too, probably. But what was he supposed to do? There was nothing to do except keep the horses moving onward and pray that things turned out better than it looked like they would.

There was water everywhere, dripping off the brim of his hat, down the back of his neck when the wind blew sharp lashings of rain against his back, creeping up the sleeves of his coat, soaking his reins and even edging down the tops of his boots. But the wet, cold, tiredness he felt was nothing, not when he looked at Buck riding beside him. The man was injured, how badly Josiah didn't know, but he remembered the blood at the rocks and under the hackberry trees. Buck's blood.

"Buck," he said. "Buck!" He had to yell to make himself heard above the storm. Buck turned his head to face him and Josiah figured it was probably just as well he couldn't see him very clearly because it would have only served to make him more afraid. As it was, Buck's eyes were dull and dark, as if most of him had already departed into a quieter, warmer place and he was just holding onto consciousness by a thin dark thread.

Josiah moved his horse one step closer and hollered, trying to communicate above the lashing rain and Buck's own exhaustion. "Buck!" he shouted. "We've got to rest. Find some shelter. Once this rain stops we can join up with the others." If they could get out of the rain, Josiah figured, that'd be something.

"No," Buck said, but so quietly that Josiah wasn't sure he'd spoken for a moment.

"What?"

"NO!" Buck shook his head, slow, like it was too heavy for him to move it any faster. "Can't...we can't stop now. I won't..." then he closed his eyes and shook his head again. "We can't stop!"

You won't make it, you mean, Josiah thought to himself. You won't make it. And that was the moment when Josiah realized that Buck might _not_ make it. And he cursed himself and the others for picking a site so far from the compound even though there had been no choice, even though anything closer wouldn't have given them the security they needed, and he cursed Buck for going up against black killer dogs and using all his strength before Josiah'd even managed to get him on a horse and on his way. As if he'd had a choice. As if--and now Josiah had worked himself back around to the real problem--Buck would even be out here at all if it hadn't been for Josiah and his temper and the whiskey.

He reached out and laid a hand on Buck's arm. Buck's head snapped around and Josiah could see the glare in his eye. Even now, he thought bitterly as he moved his hand away. Even here. "Come on, Buck," he said, feeling as if there was some kind of pain centered in the middle of his chest that would likely never go away again. "Let's keep on."

An hour passed and Josiah hunched deeper into his coat, pulling the collar up tight against his neck though it did nothing to prevent the rain from seeping in. He looked at the back of his horse's head; he looked at the trail in front of them; he listened for the sound of Buck's horse to his left, the normal sounds of a horse on the trail distorted by the mud and the rain. Buck's horse stumbled and Josiah heard a sharp cry of pain escape Buck's lips as he tried to catch himself. Josiah looked up and over to see Buck bent forward over the pommel of his saddle, his hand clutching at his wounded leg and the reins starting to slowly slip from his grasp.

"Jesus, Buck!" Josiah reached out to steady him, but caught himself before he touched the gunslinger. A self-mocking smile twisted his face. 'You should be damned, Josiah,' he thought to himself, and he reached out and grabbed Buck's reins before they could fall to the ground.

For a moment the two man just sat there in the middle of the woods in the middle of a storm and waited for Buck to catch his breath.

"I'm all right." Buck finally spoke as he slowly straightened up in the saddle. "I'm all right. I'm all right. I'm all right." And Josiah realized Buck wasn't saying it to him. He was repeating it over and over to himself, trying to convince himself that it was so, that he could make it just a little further. Josiah sighed.

A cool gust of wind blew into his face and he suddenly realized that it hadn't been accompanied by a cold splash of rain. He looked up; the rain seemed to be easing a bit. And...was the sky lightening? My God, he thought, was this night actually going to end? He peered more intently up the trail. Was that?...Could it be the vague outline of a cabin? He urged his horse forward. Yes! Yes, it was a cabin. They'd made it! They'd reached the lumber camp.

He looked back to realize that Buck's horse hadn't moved. Feeling a hollow sense of dread in the pit of his stomach, Josiah rode back to him. "Buck!" he shouted. "Buck! We're here. We're safe now, Buck. It's just a little further."

Buck turned and looked at him and now, in the easing darkness, Josiah could see his face. His eyes were unfocused, all but unseeing. There were deep, dark shadows under his eyes and sharp hollows beneath his cheekbones. His eyes drifted shut and then open again and the expression on his face never changed as if there weren't any difference now between being awake or asleep. And yet, there was still a tightness about him, a way of holding himself together and Josiah couldn't help wondering what would happen when he finally had to let go.

"Come on," he urged gently. "It's just a little farther."

Buck turned his head, but Josiah wasn't sure if he saw him or not. In any event he urged his horse forward to Josiah's relief and slowly they rode forward into the lumber camp. They'd passed the first cabin when they came across a huge branch lying across the lumber road. Buck kept going, straight ahead, and Josiah had to reach out and grab the reins and steer him around the barrier. Buck turned and looked at him, a small frown forming on his brow, as if he were taking in information, but couldn't process it fast enough to act on it. 'I hope you're ready for us, Nathan,' Josiah thought. 'Because we surely need you now.'

Slowly, they crossed the deserted lumber camp to the cabin where, Josiah hoped, they would find all the others. Buck seemed to be hanging on only because he'd forgotten how to let go. And that was okay, Josiah figured, as long as it got them over the next hundred yards. A hundred yards. That was all Josiah asked anymore.

It took even Josiah a moment to realize that they'd reached the cabin. His mind took a minute to register the light in the windows and the smoke floating out the chimney. We're here, he thought. We've made it.

He looked over at Buck and thought, 'And how am I going to get you in there, if you won't let me touch you?'

He dismounted, feeling an aching stiffness in every bone in his body. 'I'm way too old for this,' he thought wryly. He was going to go into the cabin and get some help when he realized that Buck had already dismounted. 'How the hell did you do that?' he wondered. But Buck was standing there, swaying and Josiah didn't even think, he just rushed up to him and grabbed him around the waist, throwing Buck's arm over his shoulder. Buck turned his head to look at him and Josiah thought--'this is it. He's going to spit in my eye or tell me to go to hell or something.'

Buck blinked as if it were hard for him to focus. "All right," he said very softly. Then, he closed his eyes and started to slump.

Josiah grabbed his wrist and tried to hoist him up. He stumbled toward the cabin. "Not yet," he said to Buck. "We're almost there now."

Part 94

Nathan layered the hot, wet leaves of the herbs he used to draw out blood poisoning onto the muslin, then folded the cloth over to cover them and laid a new layer in place. He layered and folded it several more times before carrying it carefully across the room to the bed where Vin was laying, to set it gently down on the bared wound. The tracker didn't react at all, except to slowly roll his head against the pillow in a way that he'd been doing all along anyway, and Nathan pressed the compress into place and then laid several thick cloths over the top of it to hold the heat in. He gestured to Chris to put a steadying hand on it long enough to make sure it didn't move, and then went back to the stove. He paused for a moment as the pan of green-tinged water blurred in his vision, and then shook his head to clear it. No time for that now, he thought. Not yet.

The others weren't even back yet: Josiah and Buck, or JD and Ezra. Where were they? Who else was going to come in bloody and needing treatment? God, he thought, glancing at the doorway, just so they come back. Just so they can get here for me to try. Where are they? His eye caught Chris's suddenly, the gunman staring at him as if reading his thoughts, and Nathan looked away quickly.

He'd couldn't understand what he was seeing in Chris since they'd gotten to the cabin. Yes, he'd seen the marks of a bad blow to the head on the man, but it hadn't seemed to be much of an issue any more, the few times he'd seen Chris in the cellar. And it was clear that the man had been treated badly, was exhausted and worried and cross -- well, maybe furious and tight and burning inside was more like it. Nathan poured the pan of herbed water into a can and set it on the back of the stove in case he needed it later to soak a sprain or something. That made sense. But they'd gotten away, and gotten Vin to the cabin -- so why was there a sense that Chris was somehow captive, held somewhere against his will, still expecting to be blindsided and hit? Nathan sighed and started tearing up willow bark into a small coffeepot to make a tea to bring Vin's fever down. Maybe, he thought, it was the fear that the others were in trouble but not being able to do anything about it. He glanced at Chris, who was looking at Vin's face now, his hands in his lap and his expression grim, and knew that wasn't it. It was there, yes, that fear. But that wasn't what was eating at Chris at all.

The sound of horses outside made Nathan look up sharply, and then move to a window to peer outside with caution. After a long moment he saw the shapes of two horses and riders materialize out of the darkness and draw up in the yard of the cabin. The riders sat quietly a long, stiff moment before one of them dismounted. When he did, Nathan saw the unmistakable shape of JD's bowler hat, and he turned to let Chris know who it was that had arrived. Two in, he thought, returning to the willow bark tea. Just two still out. He stoked the fire in the stove and pulled the coffeepot over the flame. Come on, Josiah, he thought. Come on, Buck.

A long time of waiting later, the door opened to admit cold, wet air and two men who were themselves as cold and wet as bedraggled leaves blown in by the storm. They staggered across the room towards unoccupied bunks and started to pitch forward, but Nathan reached out quickly to catch first one of them and then the other by an arm, to make them get out of their wet things first so they didn't catch pneumonia. He might not have been able to get Chris to put on dry things yet, but these two had been out long enough to be chilled to the point of it being dangerous, and he had no intention of losing anyone else at this point.

Nathan drew up short, realizing what he'd thought: anyone else. He looked over at Vin, whose skin was shining still with fever sweat and who moved slowly against the mattress in discomfort. But Vin wasn't lost. Not yet, at least, and not at all if Nathan had his way. Nathan pressed his lips together and went back to the stove as Ezra and JD crawled into thick blankets and dropped into the silent sleep of exhaustion. He heard Chris thank them, wondered how that fit with his own reflexive thought about "not losing anyone else." Maybe it was fear that was eating at the gunman after all. Maybe . . . Nathan looked at Chris and saw that he was staring again at the healer, watching him in a way that made Nathan's skin crawl uneasily.

"Nathan," Chris said, quietly. "I think--"

Nathan shook his head, trying not to hear words that might affirm the fear growing to a certainty somewhere inside him. "Somebody's got to go out there," he said. "We got to find out what's happened to them."

Chris opened his mouth to answer, but before he could the door to the cabin banged open so hard that the lean gunman leaped to his feet with his pistol leveled at the two men staggering through it. Nathan took a single look and dropped the spoon he'd been stirring the tea with, to run help Josiah drag Buck into the cabin. Both men were dark with mud and debris from the storm, and their clothes were ripped in several places. Buck had clearly been at least semi-conscious not long before, but the walk to the cabin had used up the last of his strength. Now he sagged against Josiah as the big preacher held him up with one massive arm around his waist, the other hand gripping his wrist with Buck's arm across his shoulders. Even as Nathan caught his other side, Buck fell so entirely senseless that he would have gone to the floor despite Josiah's presence, had Nathan not been there to grab his other arm. Together they got him to the last unoccupied lower bunk and laid him down, stripping off his wet things as they did, so that he would be lying in dry blankets. Nathan frowned when their work suddenly revealed the horrendous wound on Buck's leg.

"Damn," said Josiah softly.

"Yeah. That's no bullet hole, either." Nathan lifted Buck's feet to the mattress and pulled the blankets around his torso to warm him, then pulled up a chair to sit on while he examined the wound. He looked quickly back over his shoulder at Chris as anger flared up where fatigue had been only a moment before. "Why the hell didn't you tell me he was this bad off?" he demanded.

Chris stood silent, his pistol lowered, and then sat back down next to Vin without saying a word. His eyes were expressionless. Nathan snorted angrily and turned back to Buck as he addressed Josiah. "Get me some a' them cloths, an' that can a' greenish-lookin' water on the back a' the stove," he said quickly. "An' bandages." He began to pull tentatively at the edges of the jagged rent in his friend's leg as Josiah moved to do as he was asked, and Buck gasped very softly and then lay more quietly again. The whole immediate area was bruised so dark as to be nearly black, the edges of the wound itself beginning to heal over but in a way that would leave an enormous scar. It was obvious that the man had lost a huge amount of blood, some of it in internal bleeding that had swelled the tissues and colored most of his thigh in shades ranging from green and yellow through blue and purple to charcoal. Nathan cleaned it as best he could, his face dark and grim, then went silently to the stove to make a fresh compress. He looked over at Chris as he did, only to see that the man was sitting more tensely than before, his rage as palpable and banked and hot as Vin's fever was. He never looked even once in Buck's direction.

Nathan shook his head to himself and wished the herbs would hurry. His ears were starting to ring in a way that warned him he had only a limited time left in which to do what needed to be done. At least Josiah was all right, he thought. If he'd get out of those wet clothes. Not one of these men had the sense God gave them, to get out of the rain, he thought crossly. Not one of them. He slammed the pot down on the stove lid between burners and began to layer out the leaves onto a fresh piece of muslin, aware that Josiah had risen and approached him.

"Need some help, Brother Nate?"

"No." Nathan heard how short his own voice was, but he couldn't help it. He was running out of time, he knew, and out of energy. It didn't help that no one had told him what he needed to know, what he had asked them about point-blank. It didn't help at all that things were going on in secret somehow, things that clearly affected the health of the three men they'd all just risked their lives to get out of Michaels' house. Buck had nearly bled to death, and no one had said a word, no one had . . . Nathan shook his head as he finished the compress and carried it across the room. The light in there was getting watery-looking, he noticed, and the floor seemed to be tipping. Damn. He laid the compress on Buck's leg and fell into the chair wearily and thought about the blood he'd seen on the ground near where Ezra had found Buck's coat, about how they'd agreed the blood in the stone enclosure near Vin's coat was also Buck's. I knew, he thought. I knew all along, myself. I didn't have to ask or be told. Why didn't I act on what I knew was so? Why wasn't I paying attention? He bound the compress to Buck's leg with thick bandages, and then pulled the blanket over him all the way, startled when he saw a broad hand on the wool next to his, and looked up into Josiah's concerned face.

"I think you _do_ need some help," he said softly.

Nathan tried to tell him no again, tried to stand up to go back to the stove to finish the willow bark tea and give some to Vin. But no words came out. His legs didn't work, either. He stared into Josiah's strong eyes and suddenly felt more helpless than he'd ever wanted to feel. There were men depending on him, men he was letting down, men who were his friends, who --

"Chris, I think you better get Ezra off that bottom bunk," said Josiah softly. "Nathan appears to need it."

Low murmurs, and Nathan looked at Buck's pale face and shook his head angrily. "No," he said. He looked at Josiah, who had lifted him from the chair somehow and was leading him to a bed that Ezra stood next to, his face dark and tousled, a look of deep worry on it.

"Yes," said Ezra softly. He pulled back the blankets and Nathan tried to pull away from Josiah, but the room began to spin just then and he realized he was sinking to the floor.

He never even knew it when Josiah pulled the blankets over him, a few minutes later after pulling off Nathan's own still-wet things. The preacher stood silently looking down at his friend's face and then looked at Ezra. They didn't say anything. Slowly Josiah turned to regard Chris, who had gone back to Vin's side as soon as he'd awakened Ezra when it was clear Nathan was about to collapse.

"You're awful quiet about all this," observed Josiah.

Chris flushed and turned brittle eyes away from the other men, to regard the wall.

A knot of wood cracked in the fire suddenly, tossing a glowing ember out onto the floor. Josiah walked over calmly and set his wet boot on it. It hissed beneath his foot and then was silent. He looked back at Ezra and nodded to the upper bunk. "Might as well get some more sleep while you can," he said in his low voice. "I'm gonna' grab a cup a' hot coffee, then go out an' take care a' the horses." He looked once more at Chris, and then went about his own business.

Part 95

When the door to the cabin slammed open, Chris rose and drew his revolver in one smooth fluid movement, quicker than thought. When he saw who it was, he lowered the gun. His first reaction at seeing the two muddy and rain-soaked men stumbling through the door was relief. As if things had just notched down a level and it was finally possible to breathe.

The relief was short-lived, however, replaced almost immediately by the anger that had been eating at his insides for days. Vin moved slightly on the bunk to Chris's right and Chris looked down at the tracker's face, still flushed with fever. His expression grew darker.

Josiah and Nathan talked softly to each other as they half-carried a now unconscious Buck across the cabin and maneuvered him into the last remaining lower bunk. Nothing was over, Chris thought. Maybe they were all here together. Maybe they were out of that cellar, but they were all still trapped and Chris for one was getting damned impatient. He wanted answers. And he had so many questions. But here, he thought, was an easy one. What the hell had taken Josiah and Buck so long to get here?

He was just opening his mouth, figuring he could get an answer to that question at least, when Nathan moved slightly and Chris got his first good look at just how badly Buck had been wounded. He sucked in his breath, his anger dropping suddenly to nothing, just as Nathan looked at him and said, "Why the hell didn't you tell me he was this bad off?"

Chris clenched his jaw so tightly the muscles jumped out in stark relief and his eyes thinned down to a flat, blank stare. 'Because he wouldn't let me,' Chris thought and in that second, a deep sadness washed over him, as hard and suffocating as anything he'd felt when Sarah and Adam had died. He looked at Buck's pale form on the bed and he knew he'd lost something important. He closed his eyes and felt the skin stretch tight across his face as everything that had happened or ever would happen welled up and crashed over him like a tidal wave of grief built over long unforgotten years and when it was gone the sadness was gone with it and familiar black anger rushed in to fill the vacuum left behind. He opened his eyes. He had tried, damnit! Buck hadn't let him. Too stubborn, too righteous to take care of himself and by extension the man who'd been depending on him. It all came back to responsibility, Chris thought. And Buck just proved over and over that he'd never had any.

Chris wished right then that someone would walk through the cabin door and he could shoot them. It wouldn't really make him feel better, but it would be something to do, something loud and dark and final. Just sitting here. Just waiting. That was too hard in this particular place and time. Vin moved and Chris looked sideways at him. 'At least we got you out,' he thought. He put his hand on the tracker's arm and noted that the fever was down some. 'At least there's that.'

"Chris, get Ezra off that bottom bunk," Josiah said suddenly. Chris looked up. Josiah was holding Nathan. 'What the hell?' Chris thought. 'What was going on here?' But it was as if things were playing out in some way that caused Chris to miss half of every action that happened and guaranteed that he understood nothing. Nathan had been all right and now he wasn't. Buck had been his friend, the man he'd relied on even when he himself was not reliable. And now he wasn't. How had this come to pass? What had been happening when Chris had apparently been looking away?

He'd gotten Ezra up and gone back to sit by Vin and he didn't even realize that Josiah had helped Nathan off with his wet things and into the bunk until he turned to Chris once again and said, "You're awful quiet about all this."

'Because I don't know what's going on.' Chris thought about saying. 'Because everything changed somehow when I was in that cellar and I can't even begin to figure it out.' But Josiah didn't wait for him to say anything. He walked to the fire and set his boot on a glowing ember on the floor and he said, "I'm going out to put up the horses."

"No," Chris said, "I'll do it." His long strides carried him quickly across the cabin to the door. He needed to be out of here right now, needed something he could do that didn't pull at him with needs and emotions and questions he had no answers to.

The air outside was damp and cool, the sky a grey fading slowly into dawn. Chris gathered up the reins of Buck's and Josiah's horses and led them to the shed. The familiar tasks--uncinching the saddle, lifting it from the horse's back, unbuckling, untying, setting aside--were what he needed right now, a way to feel both outside the things happening in the cabin and a fixed and certain part of everything. He fed and watered the two tired horses, and checked the others to make sure they were comfortable. He brushed them down as best he could and laid the blankets across the saddles so they'd at least have a chance to dry.

There were no judgments here. No complex interactions that could never be completely understood. Just the soft shift and rustle as the horses moved, a casual snort as one of them lifted its head and looked at him, then settled again. Chris laid his hand on his own horse's withers and just stood there with his head bowed.

After a minute he straightened again and moved once more through the small shed making sure everything was as it should be. By the time he had finished and was on his way back to the cabin, the sky was several degrees lighter, the pale light of dawn edging around the receding grey storm clouds.

When he reentered the cabin, he was struck by how quiet it was. JD was sleeping in the far corner of the room, his head completely buried under the blankets. Ezra had moved to one of the upper bunks and he had his back turned to the door, his shoulders hunched under the blanket that covered him. Nathan lay facing the center of the room, as if, even in sleep he wanted to be ready to help anyone who needed him. Chris could see exhaustion in the slackness of his features, in the slight frown as he slept. Vin was sleeping too, still moving restlessly, with occasional soft sounds of protest escaping his lips, but resting at least, and so much more comfortably than he had in that dark cellar. And for that Chris could be grateful. He looked at Buck last. His face was really pale, the starkness emphasized by his dark moustache. He lay very still, but there was something not at all peaceful about him, lines of pain or fatigue or maybe just the way he breathed, quicker than it ought to be. Damn, Chris thought, but there was less heat, less anger than there had been. There would time for everything. Time for answers and accusations and making right whatever the hell it was that had gone wrong with Buck.

Chris turned away from the sleeping men and looked at Josiah who was sitting in a chair near Vin's bed. He'd taken off his coat and boots and found a pair of dry socks. His feet had been stretched out in front of him, his head bowed low to his chest when Chris had opened the door to the cabin. He had looked up when Chris had entered, but he hadn't said anything, just sat there, waiting.

Chris took another chair from the wooden table in the middle of the room. He set it down to one side of Josiah. "You should get some sleep," he said quietly.

"So should you." Even when Josiah spoke softly, his voice rumbled like distant thunder.

For a minute, both men just sat, the heat from the stove creating a dry and quiet presence, like a wall the tired men could lean against. Chris looked away, at something high up on the wall that only he could see. Then, he turned back to Josiah. "What happened?" he asked quietly.

Josiah didn't answer for a minute and Chris thought maybe he hadn't understood. I just want one answer, Chris thought. I just want to know one thing before a new day begins, something I can hold onto and examine and maybe comprehend. And he thought this was the easiest, 'what happened to you and Buck? What took you so long to get here?'

"There were...dogs," Josiah finally said.

Chris's head snapped up. "Hounds? We heard them. I thought you'd lose them in the rain."

"No." There was something about Josiah's voice that forced a man to think, Chris thought, something that made it harder to just leap straight into judgment. "These were different." He sat up and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and interlacing his fingers. He stared at the flickering fire in the stove. "These were dogs for killing. Quick, silent, deadly. They'd already caught Buck before I got there. We had to fight them on the ground." He shook his head heavily. "I never want to see the like again."

Chris turned and looked at Buck again, remembering the torn sleeve of his shirt. Maybe I didn't want to understand, he thought. Maybe I didn't want to know.

Josiah stood and stretched, groaning as his sore and tired muscles protested. "He thought we left him, Chris," he said to the lean black-clad gunslinger. "I could tell by the look in his eyes when I found him. I'd think on that too. While you're thinking." And with that, Josiah walked to the other side of the room and shed the rest of his clothes and climbed into one of the remaining upper bunks.

Chris sat in the chair and looked at the fire in the stove and listened to the sound of the other men sleeping and tried just not to think about anything much at all.

Part 96

Sterling Michaels was wet and cold and very, very angry.

He looked at the men arrayed around him. Striker sat with his back against the far wall, his eyes glittering with something almost approaching anger. John Bland was pacing annoyingly back and forth between the long tables that lined the dining hall where they'd all finally retreated after fruitless hours of searching in mud and wind and rain. Damn them! Damn them! How had this happened?

Miners coming off the night shift into the dining hall saw the large group of Michaels' personal 'security' men gathered on one side of the hall and sat as far from them as possible, until half the hall was full and men were leaning against the wall to eat their meal. Michaels didn't even notice them. He started to pace, leaving wet boot marks on the wooden floor. Then, he realized that Bland was matching him step for step and he stopped and glared. What an annoying man, Michaels thought. What good was he? Why was he here? But he'd brought Bland in from Kansas City, a man known for his skill with poison. Who would have known how downright annoying and stupid he would be in person?

He glared at each man in turn, stopping with Striker who--and this annoyed Michaels no end too--was remarkably hard to glare at. He returned Michael's gaze with an impenetrable one of his own, as if every look anyone gave him was absorbed by him, taking something from the person who looked, but revealing nothing of Striker in return.

"What the hell happened?" Michaels barked.

Striker raised an eyebrow. "You let one of them into the house."

"I know!" Michaels shouted. "How did that happen? Why didn't you know?"

"Why didn't Bland know?" Striker countered. "It was the healer, after all."

Michaels rounded on Bland who had finally stopped pacing and was trying to look, well, Michaels could only figure he was trying to look fierce.

"Look," Bland snapped peevishly. "I didn't expect to see him here. How could I? I thought he was dead. He _should_ have been dead."

"Well, obviously, he's not," Michaels remarked dryly. He turned away, took a few steps, then turned back with a snap. "You're no good to me, Bland. You failed in town. There was no epidemic. You failed me here. Is there a reason I shouldn't kill you right now?" 'I would love to kill you right now,' Michaels thought. ' I would really love to kill someone for this mess.'

To Bland's credit he didn't shrink or grovel or beg, which in the end was what saved him. In fact, he straightened and looked Michaels square in the eye. "You hired me to do a job. I did the best I could. I have skills that could still be of use to you. But if you have no further need of me, I could also leave."

Michaels laughed shortly. He liked audacity in a man, hell, he kept Striker around, didn't he? "You _better_ be of use to me," he said, his voice deepening down until the threat in his words was stark and clear. The words caused Bland to blink and take a step backward. Michaels could see something in John Bland's eyes, something dark and a little slimy and not-quite-recognizable, which Michaels himself thought with satisfaction must be fear. 'Good,' he thought. 'Be of use to me.'

He turned back to Striker. "I want them back," he said.

Striker stretched out one long leg. "Why?"

"Why?" Michaels drew himself up and sucked in his breath. "WHY?" he thundered. "Because it's important. Because they know who I am and if they don't know what I'm after they damn well have enough information to figure it out. And because I had them and they got away. _I_ am in charge of this operation. ME!" He turned toward the other men who had stood silently, dripping water onto the dining hall floor without a word among themselves. Michaels paid them handsomely to be nothing more than what they were--men who would kill other men for money. Michaels broad finger stabbed out. "You!" he said. "You! And you! I want you out there now. They can't have gotten far. Find them!"

"It's...still raining," Striker pointed out mildly.

"I don't care! Do you think I care what the hell the weather's like? I want results. I want those men back here by the end of the day." He took a deep breath and watched the men leave as he had ordered, then he turned back to Striker. "Tell me how this happened."

Striker looked up at him from under his hat. He raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. "I told you they were good," he said.

"We took out half of them. We took out the ones _you_ said we should take out. I hold you responsible. Solely responsible for this disaster."

Striker stood. He walked across the ten feet or so that separated him from Michaels until he could look him straight in the eye. He was two inches taller, but much thinner than Michaels, but it was Michaels who felt as if there wasn't enough space in that room for both of them. "You're the one that plays games, Michaels. I told you they were good. I told you to kill them. An accident or two. Half of them gone. But you had a better way."

Michaels took a deep breath. He was in control. He. Sterling Michaels. Not this dour, expressionless saddle tramp. "It is important," he said calmly "that when I win, the people I defeat know who has beaten them and how. Otherwise, there's really no point."

Striker eyed him for a minute. "Like you beat Sullivan?" he asked. Then, he turned and walked slowly out of the hall, a tall dark figure that men moved away from as he passed.

Michaels watched him for a moment then shook his head. Striker worked for him. He wasn't the one with money or power or any of the luxuries of life. Michaels wouldn't forget that and it gave him some satisfaction to know that Striker probably wouldn't either. As for Chris Larabee and the others...well, they were exhausted, far from home, and had wounded men to care for. He'd find them. He'd find them all. And when he did...

He turned to the dozen men remaining in the room, frowning at them as if he'd forgotten they were there. "I want you all out looking for them. Is that clear? I want no one back here until you find them."

The tired men looked at him for a minute, then they all, one by one, nodded their heads and left the hall.

Sterling Michaels turned to John Bland, the only man left in the dining hall with him. He was fidgeting nervously, looking at Michaels sideways, as if afraid to look at him straight on. Whatever spine he'd had that had allowed him to stand up to Michaels a few minutes ago seemed to have disappeared. He looked like nothing so much as a drowned rat. A dark flash of fresh anger ran through Michaels at the sight of the man's face. 'I let you live you worthless son of a bitch.'

"What the hell are you waiting for?" he said sharply to Bland.

The man jumped, causing Michaels frown to deepen. 'You better be of use to me,' Michaels thought, thoroughly irritated by Bland and the weather and all the things that had gone wrong in the last several hours. 'Because I don't keep anyone who isn't useful.'

"Well?" he said when Bland still hadn't moved.

"I, uh--"

"I expect you out there looking for these men," Michaels snapped. "I _expect_ you to make up to me for your failure both in Four Corners and here. Do you understand me?" And his voice went flat, the threat explicit in each word he spoke.

Bland's face paled, though there was still something dark and dangerous in his eyes. "I'm, uhm, I'm--" He took a deep breath and tried to pull himself up again, though it resulted in making him look rather like a squishy scarecrow. "Yes," his voice was markedly calmer, though. "Yes," he repeated. "I _will_ make up for it." Then he turned and left the hall.

Michaels stood for a moment, still angry, but also beginning to realize that he was cold and wet and tired. He noticed the miners on the other side of the hall for the first time. Most of them were trying not to see him, but Michaels knew that it diminished his power over them a little bit to see him looking rumpled and soggy.

Well. He had people working on the problem. And he knew that he was right. Those men were exhausted, some of them were injured, and they had no resources. At least not as compared to him. He _would_ find them.

And in the meantime, he thought, as he strode out of the dining hall, he would have breakfast and a bath and fresh clean clothes.

Part 97

Sterling Michaels' long walk up to his house from the workers' dining hall provided more than enough time to reflect on what it meant that Nathaniel had in fact been one of _them_, one of the seven men he'd targeted for removal. By the time he got to the front door, its gas light turning the falling rain at the entry into long streamers of tinsel, he was livid. The eastern sky was already greying behind him, and he threw opened the front entry door with a crash that sent it rebounding against the wall behind it, the echo thundering through an otherwise silent house.

Michaels stepped inside and stood dripping in the foyer, the puddles from his wet clothing ruining the inlaid parquet floor there. His eyes glittered furiously as he searched the rooms in view for a member of his household staff -- anyone at all. Probably all cowering in terror somewhere, he thought, and it was a damned smart idea right now. He felt like grabbing someone by the neck and just squeezing until the rage inside him had--

"Drink this, Marse Sterlin'. It'll warm y'up some." He turned to see the woman Miz Ruby at his side, and started slightly that she had seemingly appeared at his elbow out of nowhere. He hesitated a moment before taking the steaming cup from her hand and sniffing it. Warm brandy. The man sipped at it and felt the welcomed heat slide down into his marrow, and thought maybe he'd resist the urge roaring through him to throw the woman against the wall as hard as he could. But he looked at her with enough bloodlust in his eyes that she shivered visibly before fixing him with a bold stare of her own. "Ya' gots t' get outta' them wet things afore y'all catches yo' death. Jus' drop 'em right here an' Ah'll takes care of 'em. Then gits yo'self upstairs int' the hot bath Ah gots waitin' for ya'." Miz Ruby took a step back and set her hands on her ample hips. "Go on, 'fore ya' catches yo' death."

Michaels slid one heel into the boot tree in the foyer and pulled off a wet boot, then did the other. Then he downed the contents of the cup the woman had given him, feeling it burn its way into his gut. Only then did he break his gaze with Miz Ruby to stride forcefully up the stairs, his clothes trailing water behind him. Let her clean it up, he thought. It's what she's paid for. But by damn, there better not be any damage to the floors when this is all said and done. Not one bit.

He turned into the long hallway and saw the girl Bitsy rushing to his room with several thick towels in her arms, clutched to her thin bosom beneath a face filled with fear. She froze when she saw him, and backed against the wall in the hallway, trying to disappear into the shadows. Michaels strode up to her on the balls of his feet and stopped, cocked his head to eye her up and down.

"Those for me?"

The girl nodded, speechless, and he put out a hand demandingly. She set the towels in it, shaking. Michaels dropped all but one of them to the floor and flipped out the last so that it unfurled, then threw it around his head and shoulders to rub them dry. The girl started to slide away from him sideways, down the long wall, but he reached out his free hand and caught her by one wrist and raised her hand up to pin it against the wall behind her.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked in a low voice. The girl merely turned her face away from his, as far as she could in the limited space, and closed her eyes. Michaels shook her wrist and spoke in more of a growl. "I asked you where you think you're going? I didn't tell you that you could leave yet." He let go of the towel he had draped over his shoulders now, and grabbed her other wrist in his other hand so that he had her pinned between him and the wall. He moved much closer to her, and pressed his face closer to hers. Bitsy's features scrunched up, her forehead wrinkling and her neck cording as she tried to turn her face even farther from his. Michaels shook her by the arms when he saw it, and then he stepped back into the hallway and started for his room with one of her arms in his grip. Bitsy's feet slid and danced in a light pattern of hysteria on the floor as he shoved his way into his room with her in tow, to throw her to his bed so hard that the headboard rebounded against the wall. He unfastened the buckle of his belt and slid it off in a quick, angry gesture . . . and discovered that the towels he'd left in the hall were being held out to him again by someone.

"Once y'all gets them wet things off," Miz Ruby said softly, with confidence, "get yo'self in that tub pronto b'fore the water gits cold. Don' need no pneumonah', Marse Sterlin'." She was holding the towels out to him with a steady look on her face, as though she didn't even see what he'd intended to do, as if Bitsy wasn't crying in a forlorn and tiny heap on the enormous bed. Michaels looked from Miz Ruby back to Bitsy, and then took the towels. He gestured to the doors.

"Get out of here. Both of you. Now."

Miz Ruby held out her hand to Bitsy in silence, and the girl leaped to grasp it and then pressed herself fearfully against Miz Ruby's side as the woman left the room. She walks as if she owned the damned place, thought Michaels. Too bad she's not a man. I could use someone like her. Someone with that kind of brass -- instead of the idiots who work for me.

He stripped his wet clothing savagely, thinking again of how he'd been duped, of how he'd even been misled about the expertise and qualities of the men Bland and Sullivan, about how their mistakes had cost him the finesse in this plan that he always demanded. He wanted nothing less than perfection -- always -- and now perfection was long gone, out of his reach. The most he could hope for was just to shove his will into being to achieve the victory.

Well, no matter. He'd done it that way before and he could do it again. Michaels eased himself into the steaming water that had been poured into the gleaming enamel tub by the endless pan-full, and sighed as the heat soaked into his cold, tight muscles. There was more to what had happened than met the eye, he thought languidly, turning events over in his mind. More than met the eye. How had the darkie gotten into the house? Who had given him a job to start with, before Michaels had even seen him? Had he been working in the mine before this? In the stables? He needed to talk to the foremen, all the shifts. Who else had they seen around? What else had happened?

He sat up in the tub, then, realizing for the first time just how well-planned things had really been. The question wasn't how the darkie had gotten into his house. It was how he'd known that Michaels' house was where he wanted to be, to begin with. And how he'd found the men in the cellar, for God's sakes. How did he know they were down there? Not many people in the house knew that. Michaels certainly hadn't said anything to him. Although . . . Michaels reached out to slip a cigar from the nearby nightstand and light it thoughtfully . . . he had been present when Sullivan brought in Larabee, in the library. What had Michaels said then, exactly? And later, and the next day? What things did those men know now, that Michaels didn't want them to know? What else had that damned colored boy learned while he was in the house looking for his friends? Michaels leaned back in the tub again, puffing on the cigar, thinking.

His mind turned to the men on horseback who'd run through his own men and killed some and terrorized many of the rest of them, idiots that they were. Presumably, the horsemen were more of the men from Four Corners that his men had supposedly broken up -- how had they known the escape was coming off right then? How had they come to be here, now, so well-equipped, with enough horses in the right place and at the right time to pull this off?

Striker was right. They _were_ good. Too good.

They had to be stopped. Now.

Michaels stood up and water ran from his steaming, pink body in sheets. He stepped out of the tub and rubbed his skin dry in brisk, hurried motions and then dressed. He opened the bedroom door and called for the boy, Pedro, and then sat down at his secretary and wrote a quick note in a firm hand. "Someone on my household staff has to have helped them. I want to know who. I don't want them to know they're being watched. Take care of it. M." The boy ran into the room and hesitated, and Michaels folded the note over and turned to him.

"You know the man Striker."

"S�, Se�or." The boy's voice was almost a whisper.

"Take this note to him. Don't stop to talk to anyone on the way. Don't fail me, or I will punish you. Is that clear?"

"S�, Se�or Michaels." The boy turned and rushed from the room, and Michaels heard his sandals pounding down the front stairs, and then a few moments later the sound of the door opening and shutting with a bang in the kitchen below. He walked to the window and looked down, pulling the curtain slightly aside, to see the boy racing through the grey light of morning, the wet grass turning his pants wet up to his knees, running for the mine works as hard as he could go. It figures, thought Michaels, that he'd know where a man like Striker could be found.

He turned back into his room and looked at the bed, the covers rumpled where he'd thrown them aside earlier when he'd been awakened after the escape, and thought about Bitsy. Then he looked towards Belle's room and thought about her. She wouldn't be happy to see him at this hour of the morning, but that wasn't exactly the most important thing to him right now.

Imposing his will was.

Part 98

"Explain to me again why we are on foot, in the forest, instead of asleep after such a ghastly night. I think I must have forgotten that part due to my advanced state of fatigue." Ezra slapped irritably at a small pine branch that hung across his trail, and it was slender and elastic enough that it merely rebounded to smack a cluster of needles across his mouth as he finished speaking. Josiah put his hand against the trunk of the tree, leaned heavily on it, and burst into such laughter that he couldn't walk for a moment. Ezra turned to face the preacher and scowled. Josiah leaned his back against the tree then, and got himself under control.

"I'm sorry," he wheezed, "really."

"So I see." Ezra shifted his weight and looked disdainful. "So are we going to continue on this ridiculous jaunt or return now?"

"Oh, continue. By all means!" Josiah recovered enough to duck under the offending branch and clap Ezra on the shoulder. "You heard Nathan as well as I did. Buck needs meat to build up his blood."

"Gruesome image." Ezra shook his head, looking down at the dappled forest floor under his feet as he walked reluctantly at Josiah's side. The carpet of russet pine needles was littered with small branches torn loose in the storm of the night before, with larger branches forming a crazy quilt pile of red, green, and grey here and there between the silent trees.

Josiah grinned encouragingly. "Don't worry. Shouldn't take too long to find somethin', as early as it is."

"Excellent strategy, my friend. Excellent. Remind me that I am up and about far earlier than any civilized soul would be. That will compensate me for making this miserable trek." Ezra sighed, and Josiah chuckled softly.

"You know, it's not gonna' work, Ezra. I heard how you were in town, while we were . . . not around." The gambler shot a quick, almost frightened look at the preacher that made the big man nod knowingly. "You were responsible."

Ezra snorted. "I have shot men for less insult than that, my friend."

The men approached a cluster of low brush as Ezra finished speaking, and as the gambler trod upon the edges of it, it exploded in a roar of whistling wings, feathers and leaves. Ezra's derringer snapped into his startled hand and discharged two shots even as the gambler recoiled from the commotion with his other hand going up to shield his face. He stood there for a moment, staring blankly at the hollowness that seemed left behind by the violent intensity of what had happened, and turned a shocked face to the preacher.

"What in the name of hell was that?" he said.

Josiah took three long steps forward, reached down into the brush, and lifted a great gold and brown bird by its feet. "Turkeys," he said, smiling. He turned the tom around slightly as it hung from his hand, looking at it. "Gotta' say, I ain't never seen one brought down with a shot like that, though!" He laughed, and held out the bird to Ezra to carry. The gambler shook his head.

"Ohhh no. I shot it. You have to carry it back. That's the deal." He turned around smugly and began the walk back to the lumber cabin.

"WHAT deal!? HEY!" Josiah jogged after Ezra, and the gambler laughed silently to himself while his back was to the preacher. Josiah caught up to him them, and Ezra pulled a serious face and glanced to his companion.

"We must remember to get some of my prize turkey to our youngest member at his post," he said.

"Yeah, well, I'll spell JD after a while anyway. Don't wanna' leave anybody in the main part a' the camp by himself too long without checkin' on 'em." Josiah frowned very slightly. "I know we need someone near the lumber road to watch for trouble, but I still don't like thinkin' about what could happen if those men came along there while JD was by himself. Those dogs . . ." Josiah's voice trailed off. Ezra shook himself lightly.

"I believe there are far fewer of them now than there were last night," he observed simply.

Josiah sighed and stepped over a storm-felled tree that had lodged against another with its tip several feet above the ground. "I gotta' tell ya', Ezra . . . " The preacher's voice trailed off and he was silent. Ezra nodded somberly.

"Indeed," he replied. "Indeed."

"Did you know there was a second kind," Josiah asked softly, "besides the hounds?"

Ezra looked over at the preacher and shook his head slightly. "I had thought . . . " His voice trailed off as he ducked beneath another fallen tree, its trunk snapped off by storm winds six or eight feet off the ground and its tip lodged in the tree next to it. He paused to look at Josiah as the bigger man bent low to go under in his turn and then stood up again.

"There was a kind that attacked, not bloodhounds," said Josiah in a soft, deep rumble. "Black. Hounds of hell sent to bring men down by the throat. To rip them to bits."

"My God," said Ezra softly. "And we were worried about the men--" His voice broke off as he looked away from Josiah and into the forest littered with storm debris and thick, grey puddles. 'What we nearly did,' he thought, 'leaving them to a danger we didn't even see.' But he turned back to regard Josiah with a steady eye. The preacher met his gaze and nodded slightly.

"The men would've killed us if the dogs hadn't," he said simply. "You an' JD did the right thing." Josiah lifted the turkey so that he could lay it over one broad shoulder, and he gestured towards the camp with a nod of his head. "Let's go cook this," he rumbled, "an' get our strength back."

"Some more sleep wouldn't hurt, either, in that regard," observed Ezra.

"No it wouldn't," agreed Josiah. He smiled with his face held away from Ezra's view as he stepped over a large downed branch. "And perhaps you can stand guard while we all get some."

"Very funny." Ezra muttered as he trudged along in Josiah's wake, glancing from time to time at the bronze feathers of the bird over the big man's shoulder. He'd like very much to see them get their strength back at this point, he thought, and stop depending on him for everything. Yes. It really did sound like an excellent idea.

+ + + + + + +

JD looked around his surroundings. He actually wasn't in the main building but a smaller one that afforded the best view down the logging road. Before he decided on his vantage, he checked there was at least two exits. Actually there was a back door and a side window, in addition to the front door. He could hear Buck now, 'don't let yourself get pinned,' he'd admonish, 'always have two ways out.'

JD let out a shuddering breath. Well, he had done that. Now what?

The quiet was eerie; the sun was barely up and did little to illuminate the thick forest. It was still grey and overcast, the air was heavy with moisture and slight wind gusts would send a dousing of water onto the unsuspecting from the wet that clung to the pine boughs.

JD couldn't afford a fire or any sign that anyone had been here. He opened the door making sure his tracks were well hid. Only a tracker like Vin would know that someone had been here.

JD found a chair that he could place by a window to watch the road. He'd already decided that if they came, he'd head directly east -- giving the guys time to come up and support him without leading the bad guys to the cabin where Buck and Vin were.

'Check your weapons, fill your gun belt then put your extra ammo in your left jacket pocket for easy loading,' JD could hear Buck quietly run him through a checklist to make sure he was ready.

'Now remember, don't fire unless you have to. If you have to, for God's sake, don't fan your guns.'

'Sheesh Buck, I got that one, I got it.'

'See that you do, boy,' JD could see that smirk that always told him when Buck was teasing.

Oh man, he looked bad. Nathan said he lost a lot of blood. Too much blood. Come on, Buck. You can do it.

JD half-expected Buck's smiling visage to visit him and tease him for worrying about him, 'you worried about ol' Buck. This is just a scratch. A little vacation. I'll be back on your raggedy ass in no time. You best not let me down. I won't let you forget.'

But Buck didn't come to visit. JD shuddered with fear -- he didn't quite know what he'd do without Buck.

JD scanned the countryside avidly. Lives were depending on him. Had to stay alert. He did a quiet check of his hideout, looking out windows to make sure there was no one approaching from another direction.

God, he hoped he was doing right.

JD returned to his place at the front window. He scanned the lumber road, the surrounding woods and buildings. Then he would systematically repeat the process. Then he'd check out the other windows. And every time he made a check, the quiet seemed a little more quiet, the fear notched a little bit higher.

God, he hoped he was doing right. He wished Josiah were here to reassure him with a clap on the back. Or that he'd get one of those little nods from Chris that he was doing good. There was none of that.

Then, he saw them. Three men. JD slipped from his building to his first retreat point to the east, up a slight rise that gave him an overview of the whole camp but excellent cover.

"Hell, this is a waste of time," one of the men exclaimed.

The men half-heartedly looked around the complex, barely glancing into buildings. They turned around and headed back down the lumber road.

JD held his breath thinking the slightest sound would give away his position. He didn't move for what seemed like hours but was probably ten minutes.

He shivered in the damp morning air from fear and cold.

JD slipped back into the shadows and returned to his outpost in this wilderness.

To watch and wait. Alone.

Part 99

He was in pitch dark, a swirling maelstrom of storm, wild cries rising all around him on the crazy wind, and somewhere in the middle of it he suddenly saw Buck. The man was standing rock-solid in it, the wind whipping his hair and his shirt but the man himself unmoving. He turned his face to Vin and it was as pale as the moon. And as Vin watched, horrified, his pale face began to wane. The man himself slowly shrank in and narrowed and collapsed, and long coils of pale white smoke tendrilled out as he dissipated into the storm around him -- and Vin woke up with a gasp and a jerk, and felt a hand on his chest immediately, and heard words:

"Easy, Vin. Lay still."

He did lay still, for a long moment, his blood throbbing in his veins from the terrified leaps of his heart, and let waking reality seep into him. There was sunlight. _Sunlight._ Vin took a deep breath. Ah God, sunlight. The rich white sunlight of late morning, maybe almost afternoon -- and it was warm and dry and he felt like he was floating in it. He could smell the warm resin of pines, hear the distant call of a jay and then the screech of a red-tail some distance off, the tight hammering of a woodpecker. Vin relaxed, and the hand that had been on his chest pressing gently against him was withdrawn, reminding him that it had even been there. He turned his head very slowly, still not sure but what something might make that horrendous pain return, and saw Chris sitting next to him on a chair, looking at his face with a tight expression in which only a flicker of anything showed at all. And that flicker was of worry dancing with relief.

Vin blinked slowly and then shivered involuntarily as the central image of his nightmare tumbled once past him again. Chris leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees.

"Vin? Should I get Nathan?" The man's voice was low, the way a man speaks when he doesn't want to disturb the sleeping or the ill. Vin studied Chris's face a moment, trying to float back into the sunlight and away from the nightmare's darkness. He swallowed, shook his head slightly.

"Bad dream," he rasped out. Chris nodded, his brows furrowed, and produced a tin cup from somewhere. He helped Vin get his head up high enough to drink some, and the tracker felt the water's coolness run down inside him in turbulent eddies, and he sighed again.

"Where's Buck?" he asked. Chris inclined his head towards someplace that must be only a few feet away, and frowned slightly.

"Sleepin'. More or less."

More or . . . less? Vin looked at Chris with his eyes scrunched up as he tried to hitch himself up high enough to look around and see what the hell that meant. Chris reached out again to press him back down, and Vin winced and drew in his breath when their conflicting movements made his shoulder hurt again.

"I'm sorry," said Chris. "Lay still, though. Nathan said--"

"Nathan?" Vin was panting but already getting his breath back again as the pain ebbed back to a throb.

"Yeah. He's sleepin', too. So's Ezra."

"EZRA?"

Chris pressed his lips together as the edges quirked upward a fraction, and his eyes lit up with a green flash. "I tell ya' what," he said, "If you'll lay still and be quiet a minute, I'll fill you in."

Vin licked his lips and relaxed against whatever he was laying on, and listened and laid still.

"Do you remember where you an' Buck were bein' held?" A dark shade raced across Vin's face at Chris's words, and the latter put a steadying hand on his friend's forearm. "It's all right," he said.

Vin shook his head, closing his eyes briefly. "No it's not," he breathed. The darkness. The damp, the chill that had somehow still been suffocating, the man in buckskins . . . Vin's eyes snapped opened, and he looked at Chris with something like panic in them. "Where's Buck?" he asked again.

Chris shook his head. "Sleepin'. Remember?"

Oh yeah. That's right. Vin relaxed against the bed -- ah, it was a bed, then, he thought -- and his eyes drifted shut in relief. He opened them again a moment later and looked at Chris once more. The man was sitting just as he had been, regarding Vin as closely if he was studying the page of a book.

"He ok?" asked Vin.

"Yeah. Nathan thinks he'll be fine." Chris's face flashed and Vin felt confused. Wasn't that a good thing? If Buck was going to be all right? Was Chris hiding something?

"He ain't . . . gonna' lose his leg . . . "

"No, no." Chris patted Vin's forearm, where his hand was still resting. "An' Ezra's gone out an' shot a tur-"

"I thought sure that fella'd kill 'im. Before we could get out."

"Apparently Buck thought so, too." Chris's voice took on a dry tinder quality that made Vin shake his head a little, more confused. What the hell was going on? It was as if he couldn't quite wake up, couldn't quite get things to make sense. Vin swallowed the panic that tried to rise in his throat at that, and looked carefully at Chris's face.

"I tried not to let 'im get to me," said Vin softly, regret biting at his words. "Each time. But . . . "

"We'll talk about this later." Chris's voice was suddenly tight with locked-down rage, and Vin felt a shock of serious unease ripple through him.

"What's wrong that you ain't tellin' me, Chris? Where's Buck?"

"He's _right here_. Sleepin'." Chris's voice was nearly a hiss, he was so mad now. Vin wondered if he was still asleep, still dreaming. Oh God, now there was a terrifying thought. What if he was really still in that cellar, or if it was still that ride . . . The tracker's eyes snapped opened and he clutched at the bed underneath him to feel of it and know if he was on what he thought he was or not, or on the damp cold earth, or on a saddle with his hands tied and --

"Settle down, Vin. It's ok." Chris's voice was gentle again, and he was touching a hand to Vin's forehead. "You're still running fever, although it's comin' down. But you've got to stay still."

"Chris." Vin's voice had a strangled sound to it that he could hear but couldn't get rid of. Why didn't anything make sense any more? He looked at his friend and tried one last time. "He kept usin' me, to try t' get to 'im, to make 'im make a mistake--"

"I KNOW!" This time Chris's voice exploded into a loud enough pitch that he drew up short and looked quickly at others who were apparently sleeping in the room, and then looked back at Vin with darkening eyes. He lowered his voice to a savage whisper in which it was clear he was trying to sound much calmer than he actually was. "We're gonna' talk about what Buck did later. Right now, you need--"

"Hell, nothin' makes sense." Vin felt like just giving up. Why bother? He looked up and saw the bottom of a mattress over his head. So he was under a bed, not on one. Figured. Everything was upside-down and inside-out. Why not the bed? He looked at Chris with real resignation in his eyes. "I just wanted to know if I got Buck killed is all. I tried so hard not to, but it just hurt so damned bad that every time that man grabbed me--"

"What are you talking about?" Chris's grip on Vin's forearm tightened slightly, and the tracker shook his head. That's what he'd like to know, he thought, was what the hell anyone was talking about. Patiently, resigned to it meaning not a damned thing, he explained.

"There was a man that took us prisoner, wanted t' kill us, but he'd been given orders not to. So he was tryna' egg Buck into a fight. The whole time. So's Buck'd blow up an' then this fella'd have a reason to kill us both. But Buck wouldn't give 'im nothin'. So after a while, the fella' figured out he could pick on me an' that I couldn't help but give 'im what he wanted. That damned slug musta' been the size a' Texas, cause every time 'e grabbed me or hit it, it liked t'--" Vin paused, shook his head wearily. "I couldn't believe how Buck held 'is temper, though. But I kept thinkin' he was bound t' blow up sooner or later. An' I thought maybe . . . " Vin trailed off, suddenly exhausted. He looked at Chris's face with tired eyes, and said softly, "You got a little more a' that water around?"

Chris blinked as if he'd been asleep, and then he had water again, and Vin drank it, and he laid back and looked at his friend's face. The anger seemed to be gone at least, now. Maybe it had all been his fever he'd been feeling. Maybe it was just all in his own head, he thought. He was starting to sink back down into sleep when he felt a gentle hand on his arm again.

"It's all right now," he heard Chris say. The man's voice started sounding soft and fuzzy at the edges as Vin drifted off. "The man in buckskin can't do that any more. He's dead." There was a deep sigh. "Buck took care of him for you. Take it easy."

Part 100

For a long time after Vin went back to sleep, Chris sat in the chair with his hands resting on his knees and looked at the floor. Vin's words had been like hammer blows--each one of them--even as weak and as softly spoken as they'd been, they'd slammed into his chest, like his own personal punishment.

How could he have thought that Buck would use Vin as bait in a personal battle with Sullivan? How could he have--Shit! He straightened, started to rise, and then stopped and bent forward again, staring once more at the floor as if there were answers there written in the dust. He had been so sure. He had seen the interaction between the two men.

And he knew Buck. That thought pulled him up short. He hadn't been acting lately as if he knew anything at all about the man. Buck had his faults. And damned if Chris couldn't list most of them by heart. But Buck was also loyal. And he cared about his friends. And somehow Chris had forgotten that.

He straightened in the chair and rubbed a weary hand across his face. Still, Buck had a temper. And he was impulsive. Both of these things were true as well. And what he'd seen...

Chris shook his head. He'd been wrong. It was that simple. And he should have known. That was what ate at him now--why had he jumped to the conclusion he had and not a different one? Why did he expect the worst instead of the best? Especially of Buck. 'Because the other way will get you killed,' said a tight, dark voice from somewhere deep inside him.

He pushed himself up off the chair and crossed the room to put more wood on the fire. When he turned around, he stood for a minute and looked at Buck. 'Why the hell didn't he just say something?' Chris thought. And the answer came directly on the heels of the thought. 'Because I wouldn't have let him.'

He picked up the coffeepot on the back of the stove and poured himself another cup. Josiah was outside plucking and cleaning the turkey that Ezra had killed. JD was on watch in one of the cabins near the entrance to the camp. Everyone else was asleep.

Chris sat at the table. He found himself staring into the coffee mug instead of drinking from it. I was wrong, he thought. I was wrong. His mind seemed stuck on that one thought and he couldn't shake it. It wasn't as if he'd never been wrong before. Or even afraid to admit it. Maybe he was just tired. Or maybe there was something else. Something he still didn't understand. He sat up a little straighter. Why had Buck left town in the first place? Such a long time had passed since that question, but it still sat there, unanswered. To avoid a fight? Because the charges were true? For some murky dark reason utterly his own? It was enough to make a man doubt he'd ever known anything. It was enough--he gripped the mug tightly between his two hands--it was enough to make a man doubt...

"Mr. Larabee."

Chris looked up sharply to see Ezra awake and sitting up. He looked....rumpled, Chris thought with surprise. Could a man look rumpled without his shirt on? Well, if it was possible, Ezra did.

Ezra wrapped a blanket around himself and jumped lightly down from the bunk. A look of distaste flashed across his face. "It is decidedly chill in here," he declared.

"I just put wood on the fire," Chris said mildly. Glad to have anything, even grousing interrupt his own morose thoughts. "Put your boots on."

Ezra flashed him a look of annoyance. "Yes," he said dryly. "Thank you."

Chris watched Ezra pull on his boots, pull out a chair and toss aside the blanket as he donned his shirt. When he'd gone to the stove and poured himself a full mug of hot coffee, he turned and studied first Vin and then Buck. "Are they better?" he asked.

Chris wondered if it were possible to tell how serious Ezra was by the directness of his questions, if he saved the fancy words for times when the answer wasn't so important. He tilted his head to one side. "Better," he confirmed. "Nathan says Vin's fever should continue to come down. And Buck is...sleeping," he finished awkwardly, aware that he hadn't been paying as much attention as he should have when Nathan had been telling him. He shifted in his chair. "Tell me what's been happening in town."

"Since you left?" There was a bite in Ezra's words that made Chris look at him sharply. Ezra went back to the chair and sat down at the table.

"Yes."

"Since. You. Left." Ezra scratched his chin as though deep in thought.

Chris's eyes narrowed. "You have a problem?"

"I find it curious," Ezra studied his hand, "that a man who professes to have the welfare of an entire town at heart would simply...leave and not tell anyone where he was going."

Chris clenched his jaw. His hand tightened on the tin mug he was holding. "You do," he said bitingly. He leaned forward. "Then let me ask you this. When I talked to you the day before I left, what did you know about what was going on in town? You're a man who--what was it?--'professes to have the welfare of the town at heart' don't you? Did you know that Josiah was drinking himself to death over a woman, that Buck had left town?"

"Well, I--"

"Did you know that no one could find JD or Nathan? That Vin had left to look for Buck?"

"I knew--"

"Did you know anything except the fall of the cards in front of you? Tell me that, Ezra? Because I would like to know."

Ezra's eyes had gone flat and almost as hard as Chris's at the words Chris flung at him. For a long quiet moment both men sat there and looked at each other.

Ezra looked away first, gazing at the forest through the cabin window. "I might," he said in a low voice, "have paid more attention to what was going on."

"Yes," said Chris and Ezra looked at him sharply, but Chris was looking at Buck who had started moving restlessly in his sleep. He'd tossed the blankets aside, exposing the large white bandage on his leg. Chris went over and put a hand on Buck's shoulder which seemed to quiet the man, then he pulled the covers back over him. He turned and looked back at Ezra with a level even gaze.

"I should have too," Chris told him.

He looked as if he might have said more, but the door swung open and both men shifted, instantly alert. Josiah came in, carrying the turkey Ezra had shot earlier that morning. "Gentlemen," he announced with a grin, "I believe we need to cook this thing."

Part 101

Mary pushed the hairs that came loose from her bun away from her face. She had published the paper again. She sighed deeply. She hadn't missed an issue and this issue was particularly difficult to publish. She couldn't help but feel some responsibility for the deputy's death. She had thought he wasn't an imposing presence. She had thought there wasn't an Indian threat. He wanted back-up and she didn't support him. And he was dead. Never mind her assumptions, it didn't change the facts that she possibly had a role in his death. It was with a heavy heart yesterday that she had sent the wire to Eagle Bend to notify the sheriff's office of the death. A representative would be arriving this afternoon to escort the body home.

Mary looked out the front window onto the street not really seeing it. She was feeling awfully alone. True, she had confided in Yosemite, the liveryman, and Gloria Potter about the apparent plot against the seven and consequently, the town. They had asked pointed questions and Mary had tried to answer them the best she could. In the end, Mary was happy to talk it out but left the conversation feeling unsatisfied that she had not made the case for the conspiracy.

So where did that leave Four Corners? Was there a real threat and what was its source? Or no threat but now the town was exposed with no law presence?

And where were the seven? None had returned. It had been three days ago when she had waved good-bye and watched Ezra and Nathan ride out of town. She had begged them to send word -- when they had word. There had been none.

Mary dropped her head into her hand, feeling if she could just let herself cry. She wanted to cry and she wanted strong arms to envelop her, and comfort her, and tell her it would be 'fine', and keep her safe. He had become a crutch. Steven was gone almost four years now. She hadn't needed anyone then. It had been her son and her husband's legacy that had kept her going. Chris said that it was her will that had rescued Four Corners when it seemed destined to fade away as the shopkeepers and settlers wanted to drift away looking for the proverbial better place. Mary had pleaded, cajoled, threatened and convinced many to stay and Four Corners was thriving like never before.

"You're as bad as Casey," Nettie's dry observation broke Mary's reverie.

"How's that?" Mary peered over, cocking her head sideways at her longtime friend.

"Pinin'."

"Pining?" Mary asked skeptically.

"Yup, pinin' over a man. I've never in my days seen two sorrier examples than you and Casey. That far off look, not really lookin' at anything. Your woeful expressions. If you two were the type to take to cryin', Four Corners would have its worst flood in years." Nettie observed.

Mary couldn't help but grin and of course, she was so tired she couldn't think of a fitting rejoinder.

At that moment, the bell over the door tinkled. Wyatt, the telegraph operator, entered with a sheaf of wires.

"Mrs. Travis," he nodded his head in greeting. He handed the telegraphs over and appropriately did not convey their news.

Mary rapidly checked the three wires and her shoulders slumped. "There's no word from them."

Nettie patted Mary's back comfortingly, "I'm sorry, honey."

Mary nodded her head and then, slowly read through the wires she had received. "The wire from Yuma says they have heard no word of Indian troubles nor are there unexpected or unusual problems. The commander is away and they've sent word to him. We should hear more tomorrow but not to expect assistance immediately. They do not have the resources."

"Well, I for one am not convinced troops are needed. Yosemite told me it was a white man tried to sell him my horses and now, he's lit out of town."

Mary frowned at Nettie, "I hadn't heard that."

"I am not surprised," Nettie harrumphed. "Much easier to put a red face on that of an enemy."

Mary nodded her head in morose agreement. "The Judge wired. He hopes to be here in three days but that will be the earliest. He doesn't know about the dead deputy but there isn't more he can do. The last wire is from a border town saying that they had see a man with Chris Larabee's description pass through four days ago. He had been looking for a man, asked some questions and then, left. No further word from him."

Mary let the wires fall to the counter.

Nettie nodded her head at them. "Don't have much use for telegraphs. Never seem to have good news." Nettie wagged her finger mockingly at Mary, "might remember that girlie, and not look so defeated when there is no good news."

Mary couldn't help but chuckle at Nettie's admonition but the laughter was quickly swallowed when she realized the escort for the deputy's body from Eagle Bend had arrived.

Mary hurried around the counter to open the door for them.

"Ma'am, are you Mrs. Travis?" A tall gentleman inquired with a star on his coat.

"Yes, you are from Eagle Bend?" Mary opened the door wider to let him enter. He accompanied a young woman and a boy about Billy's age.

"I'm Sheriff Shane Kilbride. This is Mrs. Davis and her son, Matthew."

Mary looked the woman over. This was the deputy's wife and son. The Sheriff didn't need to tell her, she knew. Four years ago that had been her shattered countenance.

"May I offer my sincere condolences?"

Mrs. Davis nodded her head in acknowledgement.

Billy walked into the office at the moment and peered at the boy around the counter. Mary was convinced Billy had some type of tracking system built in, he always managed to find any new child in town.

Mrs. Davis looked up at the sheriff. "Mrs. Davis would like to see her husband," the sheriff accurately reading the unspoken request.

"Yes, certainly. Maybe it would be better if Matthew stayed here with Mrs. Wells." Nettie nodded her head. Mary tousled Billy's hair; "this is my son, Billy."

"Mrs. Wells, we would appreciate that."

Mary walked around the counter to escort the sheriff and Mrs. Davis to the undertakers. She looked over her shoulder to see Billy offer a wooden horse that Chris had made him to Matthew and Billy put his arm around the boy's shoulder. 'He knew.' Mary swallowed the thick lump in her throat realizing how mature her son was for six years old.

Until she left the office, Mary didn't realize that two other lawmen had accompanied the new Eagle Bend sheriff. Mary was introduced to the two lawmen and told they would be staying behind as long as needed. Mary looked inquiringly at the sheriff.

A slight smile crossed the sheriff's face. "Buck Wilmington and I go way back," he offered as way of explanation.

Mary thought 'uh huh,' she could just imagine. "Thank you, Sheriff Kilbride."

The sheriff let the subject drop as he offered his arm to Mrs. Davis. Mrs. Davis maintained her composure but as soon as she saw her husband she fell to her knees wailing. The sheriff comforted her as well as he could. He looked up at Mary, "is there a preacher available?"

Mary shook her head no -- Josiah was gone. The seven were gone and if they'd been here Deputy Davis would not be dead.

The sheriff lifted the grieving widow in his arms and carried her out of the undertakers. He was able to calm her, talking to her constantly, that by the time they returned to the Clarion's office, she was calmed and able to stand. Her son rushed out and she wrapped her arms around him and kissed his head.

Mary offered her tea while the coffin was placed on the wagon. Nettie sat with Mrs. Davis and Billy played with Matthew while Mary briefed the sheriff and his deputies on what had been happening. She refrained from calling it a conspiracy thinking the lawmen would think her some overwrought female. The sheriff indicated he needed to leave so he could get to Eagle Bend by nightfall.

The sheriff shook Mary's hand. "Thank you for your assistance."

"Take care," Mary offered a hand to Mrs. Davis who nodded her head tremulously.

Mary felt a tear slip as she closed the door behind the grieving family.

Nettie wrapped an arm around her shoulder. "She will survive this. She will survive this for her son."

Mary patted Nettie's hand. "I know."

Mary walked to the kitchen. Billy rushed up and wrapped his arms around his mother. It was just what Mary needed.

Part 102

There was darkness everywhere. Endless darkness. And Buck knew it would never be light again. He'd been lost. No... He'd been trapped. No...that wasn't right either. And he knew if he could just see even half a foot in front of his face, things would become clear to him. But there was no light. There would never be light. He stuck his hand out--he could feel the muscles in his arm tighten, feel his shoulder rotate--but he couldn't see his hand.

His fingers curled into a fist. Damn you! He felt like screaming in the darkness. Sullivan was dead. That was right, wasn't it? But maybe he'd been wrong about that. Maybe he'd dreamed the whole thing. And this was the only thing left that was real. The darkness.

Vin! He looked around. But there was only darkness all around him. He'd misplaced Vin somehow. Things had gotten so bad that now he'd lost that one thing, the thing that made it worth going on and fighting. But then he remembered that it hadn't just been him and Vin anymore. There'd been other things: Chris yelling, Nathan, a strange woman he'd never seen before, a storm and lightning and dogs.

Dogs! His heart leapt and he sat up and opened his eyes all in one motion and the place he was in looked so different from the place he'd expected that he just sat there for a minute silenced by the strangeness of it and by the fact that his leg had exploded with the sudden movement, changing from a wide, dark ache that had been there all along he realized now, even in the darkness, to a sharp crack of pain that struck like lightning and sent urgent messages to his brain--don't move! The room spun dizzyingly and Buck felt a hand on his shoulder pushing him back down.

"Take it easy now," Nathan said.

Buck lay back wearily, grateful at least that he was warm and dry and that finally they seemed to be in a clean, well-lighted place. Not the cellar. His eyes snapped back open at that thought. He saw Nathan, and Chris standing a little way behind him. "Vin," he asked sharply. "Where's Vin?"

Chris's lips thinned down and he looked annoyed for some reason Buck couldn't figure, but then he blinked and the look went away, replaced by a quieter emotion of some kind and Buck couldn't even be quite sure he'd seen the first one. Nathan looked at something outside Buck's immediate line of sight and said, "He's all right, Buck. He's sleepin' and his fever's down."

Buck struggled to sit up. What time was it? What day was it? Why was he still so tired? "I want to see him," he said.

"He's fine, Buck," Chris said reassuringly.

At the same time, Nathan said, "Settle down now. Settle down! I ain't havin' you do any more damage to that leg. If you lay still for a minute I'll get JD to help me raise you up a little bit. You're goin' to need to eat anyway. Need to start buildin' your strength back up."

Buck closed his eyes again. He felt weaker than a baby, he thought with disgust. Useless to anybody. It was a good thing he hadn't had to rescue Vin by himself. It was a good thing no one had counted on him. He heard the scrape of a chair on the wooden floor and opened his eyes a minute later to find JD standing over him. It startled him enough that he didn't even say anything for a minute.

"Hey, Buck," JD smiled at him cautiously as if he was afraid that too much exuberance would send the wounded man right over the edge. "Josiah's going to lift you up so I can shove some logs under the mattress."

"I can do it myself," Buck started to say, but he couldn't. He was too weak and too tired and that knowledge made his mood even blacker. Josiah lifted the top end of his mattress and Buck could hear JD shoving logs underneath so that he sat at an angle now, not so flat and out of it as he'd been. He lay there for awhile with his eyes closed and listened to the conversation swirl around him.

"I don't like it," Nathan worried. "If they come here, they'll smell the smoke. They can smell this turkey cooking. We need to be real careful."

"I told you," JD said. "They've already looked. They won't be back."

"Tell me what we have for supplies," Buck heard Chris say to someone.

At the same time, Nathan said to JD, "We gotta be careful." And there was an edge in his voice that Buck wasn't used to hearing.

"We are well-supplied with food." Buck identified Ezra's voice. "Mr. Jackson has brought an ample supply of medical goods. We've retrieved Buck's and Vin's and your saddlebags. And this cabin is extremely well-stocked. We could stay here indefinitely as long as Mr. Michaels' men do not reappear."

"JD."

"Yeah, Chris."

"I want you to take some food with you and go back to one of the front cabins. Keep watch there. Josiah'll relieve you in a couple hours."

"Sure thing, Chris." Buck could hear a low discussion with Nathan, some scraping and rustling and the sound of JD drawing his pistols one by one and checking that they were loaded. Then the cabin door opened and closed and Buck knew that he was gone.

There was more talking and scraping and moving and Buck wasn't sure that he didn't fall asleep for a little bit, but then Nathan was beside him again, pushing gently at his shoulder. "Buck," he said quietly. "Buck, you gotta eat something."

Buck opened his eyes and turned his head and looked at the plate of food that Nathan had brought him, a turkey leg and beans and bread. It didn't even look appealing. He started to shake his head and Nathan said sharply. "No! You gotta eat it, Buck." He shoved a fork into Buck's hand. "You ain't never gonna get your strength back if you don't get some good meat into your system."

Buck took a bite of the turkey and realized only when the meat touched his tongue how hungry he was. Starving, in fact. He dug into the food and Nathan nodded in satisfaction. "That's right," he said. "That'll help."

He got up and returned to the table with Chris, Josiah, and Ezra where there had apparently been a conversation already taking place.

"We have to warn them," Josiah said. "We can't get back to town, not with wounded men. There's not much we can do to take care of Michaels at the moment. But we can stop that stage."

"Really, a simple operation such as this would not require more than one person. I could--"

"No," Chris said sharply, cutting Ezra off in mid-word. "What do you think would happen if you ran into those men? We'd be worse off than we are now. No. We send as many as we can."

"Four," Nathan said.

"And leave you here with just Buck and Vin?" Chris looked decidedly unhappy at that prospect.

"I can use a gun," Buck said sharply, startling the others who'd seemingly forgotten that he was awake.

"You ain't gonna walk on that leg," Nathan warned. "Not for a while."

Buck just looked at him. His eyes darkened and no one other than him knew what he was thinking of, of what he would do when he could walk again and this was over. "I can use a gun," he said again quietly.

Chris looked at him for a minute, considering. "I don't like it," he said. "But," he rubbed his hand across the stubble on his face. "Maybe it'll be all right. Michaels may not be looking to kill anyone. He kept us alive in that cellar, rode all three of us in over a long distance. If worse comes to worse, you could always surrender."

"No."

Buck's voice was as flat and dark as any of them had ever heard it. Even Ezra turned around in his chair to look at him. "I. Never. Quit." He said each word separately and distinctly and each one came out black and cold and hard.

Chris shifted and there was a tight set to his jaw. "Listen," he said and it was clear he was talking to Buck, as if no one else in the room mattered at that moment. "We've got Vin to think about. Now I know," he held up his hand as if he thought Buck would interrupt him though he showed no signs of doing so. "That you did the best you could for him. I know that." He looked Buck straight in the eye, but he couldn't tell whether Buck understood what he was saying or not. "But he's still got a fever, Buck. He's got to be protected."

"I won't quit on him. Ever. It's not what I do."

Chris's eyes narrowed and he half-rose from his chair. "No," he said in a brittle tone that seemed sharp enough to cut glass, "You ride out when things get tough. Leave all your friends flat, trying to figure out where the hell you went."

Buck's eyes glittered in the afternoon light. "Damn! I thought that was you, Chris. Rode out on your own father-in-law, didn't you?"

Chris shoved his chair away from the table. "I came back," he said tightly.

"Well, I ain't you."

"Stop it!" Nathan's chair fell back with a clatter. He slammed his hand on the table. "Both of you stop it right now! This ain't gettin' us anywhere."

Chris closed his eyes and opened them again. Even when he tried to make things better they just got worse. He looked at the men sitting around the table. He looked at Buck last, but Buck just looked at him and gave him nothing. 'I don't know where you are, Buck,' Chris thought, 'But I need you back here.' Finally, he said. "Ezra, JD and I will ride down the mountain and warn the stage. Josiah and Nathan will stay here with Buck and Vin." He felt something cold grab hold of his heart and squeeze at the thought of leaving these men behind and riding out. He looked at Buck for some response. The pale gunslinger laid his head back and closed his eyes and turned away. And the cold gripped Chris's heart even tighter.

Part 103

Things were quiet again, and Nathan sat back in the chair he'd been perched on to sponge down Vin's fever, and looked around the room with satisfaction. Buck had eaten fairly well and then fallen asleep again, which was the best medicine Nathan figured there was. Josiah had come back from the forward cabin when JD'd relieved him there, only to stumble his way into a top bunk and drop into rhythmic snoring, one long arm hanging down over the side of the bed. Ezra was even quiet for a change, laying on his back on another of the top bunks with only the top of his black hair showing there was anyone there.

"How's Vin doin'?" It was Chris who spoke, his voice very soft and low. Nathan allowed himself a small smile.

"Better." Nathan was silent a moment, thinking. "In fact, he's doin' enough better that I'm beginnin' to worry he'll try to sit up or somethin' an' hurt that shoulder more by accident, the next time he comes 'roun'."

"What about a sling?" Chris leaned forward, sitting at the table nursing a cup of coffee. Nathan stood up and stretched the small of his back, and walked over to the table shaking his head.

"I wanna' keep that wound opened a while yet, to drain an' so I can keep puttin' compresses on it. A sling'd block that." He set the basin of water he'd been using on the table. "Might be able to wrap 'is arm somehow, though, to stabilize it." The healer looked back at Vin thoughtfully.

"If you need help . . ." Chris pushed the cup of coffee away from him as Nathan turned back around.

"All right." The healer nodded. "If you can sit 'im up an' hold 'im a minute, I can wrap somethin' clear around 'im that'll hold 'is arm steady so he can't move it by accident."

"Just show me what to do." Chris was already getting to his feet.

It took only a few minutes of them working together to do it: Vin hardly even stirred when Chris gently raised him from the bed into a shallow sitting position and then sat behind him, holding him up, so that Nathan could wrap a long bandage all the way around the lowest part of the tracker's ribcage several times. He folded Vin's injured arm across his own body before he began wrapping so that the bandage encompassed his entire forearm and hand within it, and held his upper arm tightly against his own side to keep it from accidentally moving. When they finished and Chris carefully lowered Vin back to the bed, they were both pleased by the improvement they'd made.

Chris went to the stove to feed more wood into the firebox so Nathan could make more of the teas and compresses he kept running through, while the healer leaned forward to feel of Vin's face once again, to check his fever. Just as he sat back, Vin suddenly shuddered with what was obviously a shock of alarm, and jerked awake and into motion at the same instant. His eyes flew opened, unseeing, as he thrashed his legs about as though to push off the blankets.

"Easy, Vin. Don' move," said Nathan, calmly.

"What?" Vin's voice was confused, and Nathan could see that his heart was pounding by the way the pulse leaped at his throat. The tracker looked at Nathan with wild eyes and repeated the word: "What?"

"Everythin's fine. It's ok, Vin."

Vin closed his eyes a moment, then opened them again, and Nathan thought he was going to calm down. Then he shifted slightly on the bed in discomfort and all hell broke loose as he came up against the restraint of the wrap around his arm.

"No!" Vin tried to sit up with a sudden surge of strength Nathan wouldn't have guessed he had, and the healer restrained him. Vin just struggled harder and in rising panic, shaking his head. "I can't . . . No . . . Just let me . . . Just stop for a minute, just one minute."

"It's ok, Vin," Nathan realized he was saying the same thing over and over. "It's ok. Don' get excited. It's ok."

"What --" Vin was staring down at his own arm, suddenly, his eyes seeing and not seeing at the same time. He tried to pull his arm from the bandage wrap, and when he couldn't do that he made an inarticulate sound of rage deep in the back of his throat. Nathan had laid one hand on Vin's good shoulder already, and now he put the other carefully on the wounded man's bad arm to keep him from moving more. Vin's gaze shifted at once to Nathan's hand on his arm, and he winced and tried to pull away even harder. "Lemme go," he growled, "I swear, if you hit me . . . I'll . . . kill . . . Git that offa' me. Lemme loose." He suddenly started struggling harder to get up, and Nathan called to Chris in a voice that was much calmer than he felt:

"Chris, I need a little help here."

Chris was already there, right behind Nathan and looking at Vin with eyes dark with concern. Now he leaned in over the healer who was nearly wrestling with the tracker to keep him from getting up, and added his own hands and voice to the struggle. "It's all right," soothed Chris. "It's all right, Vin. Just re--."

"No. NO! You damn . . ."

"It's all right. Listen to me, Vin. It's all right."

Vin stopped struggling against them, panting from exertion. Sweat had matted the hair on the sides of his temples, and his face was flushed.

"It's just a bandage." Nathan's voice was patient and smooth. "Look," he said, "it's just a bandage, Vin. I wrapped your arm like this so it won't move for a little while. But it's ok. Nothin's gonna' hap--"

"Son of a bitch," growled Vin.

Chris's face flashed a look of worry towards Nathan. "Is it the feve--"

Just at that moment, Vin suddenly grabbed his friend's forearm with his good hand and shoved hard. The gunman rocked backwards as Vin struggled successfully to a sitting position and immediately began to pull at the dressing that was wrapped so tightly around his arm and middle. Just as quickly, Chris was trying to push him back down, and Nathan was leaning in more closely to pull Vin's good hand away from the bandage before he could get it any looser than he already had. Suddenly the tracker called out, "BUCK! BUCK!!!" and then he did his level best to sock Chris with his left fist, yelling as he did so: "Damn it to Hell! Get this thing OFF a' me! Lemme go!!"

"Hey! Hey, what's--" It was Buck, his face dark from heavy sleep. Vin's shouting of his name had awakened him when the rest of the commotion hadn't. The moment he saw the struggle going on in the next bunk, he started to swing his feet over the side of the bed to stand up. Nathan rounded on him almost furiously.

"No you don't!" he said. "One at a time a' ya' actin' up like this--"

"What's the--" Buck started to ask. But Vin's desperate, hoarse voice answered him before he could finish the question.

"Jus' try that when I ain't tied up, you bastard," he hissed. He struck again at Chris, then broke off, panting, as Chris successfully shoved him down onto the pillows.

"Oh _God_, Nathan!" Buck's voice was so horrified that Nathan and Chris both froze, their hands still restraining Vin, and looked at the other man. "You gotta' undo that thing you got on 'im. Honest to God."

Chris saw that Buck was shaking, and exchanged a quick, puzzled glance with Nathan.

"Why?" Nathan's voice was very low. Vin lay on the bed, exhausted, panting, sweat rolling down the side of his face.

"Stop," moaned Vin. "Don't--" He shuddered and then closed his eyes, and said once more, with banked fury: "Let me _go_."

Nathan looked long into Buck's dark eyes, and then turned and immediately cut the bandage off Vin's arm. Then he gently said, "You're free now, Vin. Your arm's loose. It's not bound up any more."

Vin didn't even open his eyes, but simply sighed as he put his good arm up to gently cradle the injured one across his chest. A few moments later his breathing slid into the even rhythms of sleep, and Nathan looked across the room at Buck. He threw the wrappings he'd taken off Vin down on the table as he walked over to the taller man's bunk with Chris at his heels. He was aware of Josiah's and Ezra's faces looking down from their bunks, concern and alarm etched on both of them.

"You mind tellin' me what that was about?" His look at Buck was penetrating. Buck swallowed.

"It's taken care of now," he began to protest, "so--"

"I need t' know," said Nathan, simply. His face shifted into a look that was more sympathetic. "I need t' know, or I can't do my job."

Buck looked at his own hands, laying in his lap where they'd fallen when he'd sat up. He rubbed his face with one of them, suddenly, and then looked up at Nathan, then slid his gaze to Chris. He looked down again, and his voice was very soft.

"Sullivan . . . tied our hands, on the way up." He paused to swallow again, and his face clouded. "All the first afternoon, that night, the next day. An' most a' the time -- all but a coupla' hours once -- we were tied to the horses, too. We couldn't move at all. An' Vin . . . Sullivan hurt . . ." His voice trailed off. How could he explain it, how helpless they'd been; how much pain the tracker had been forced to endure, simply because he was bound, because he couldn't get off his horse, because he couldn't make it stop walking or change its direction or do anything at all. It seemed impossible to explain: the complete loss of control, the sense of powerlessness and rage and panic that had dogged both men for all that long time. He raised hollow eyes to his friends and saw that Nathan was looking at him with an expression of deep sorrow, and that Chris's face had grown tight with anger and he had looked away. Buck shivered. "It was just a hell of a long ride." He swallowed. "You can't tie his arm right now, Nathan," finished Buck, lamely. "You just can't. That's all. Not right now."

Nathan nodded, looking back across the room at Vin, then into Buck's eyes once more.

"I won't," he said softly. "Thanks for explainin' it to me."

Chris looked at the floor and then his eyes raced past Buck's face on the way to study the wall. Then he turned and walked away.

Part 104

JD Dunne leaned back in the hard wooden chair and slid down so that the back of it was supporting his shoulders. He looked at Buck's pale face, the blankets pulled part-way off his shoulders and chest by the way he'd moved now and then in his sleep. Then his gaze trailed over the sleeping forms of Chris and Nathan to come again to Vin. The tracker was resting much more quietly than he had been, even just in the few hours that JD had been watching so that Nathan could sleep some more.

Frankly, JD was relieved. When Josiah had come to trade off watch with him again, he'd told JD about the bandage and how upset Vin had gotten. Then he'd told him what Buck had said and -- far worse, left unsaid -- in the way of things that were too hard to say. It had made JD scared for both men, that somehow they were hurt in ways he couldn't understand and couldn't help them with. He'd been afraid for the whole first hour he'd watched the two that any moment one of them would suddenly be only half-awake and angry or upset, and that he wouldn't know what to do. But they'd both slept deeply, and Vin had even been quiet and hadn't been tossing around like he had when they'd first gotten him out of Michaels'. Even as he thought that, though, the tracker's head rolled to one side and his eyes opened; he started to roll farther, onto his side as if he was going to get up, but then gasped as that movement pressed his injured shoulder into the mattress. JD hurried over and pushed him back down flat.

"You gotta' lay still, Vin," he whispered. "Nathan's orders."

"Huh?" The tracker blinked slowly, raising his eyes to JD's face. The youth pulled the chair to him by hooking one foot over a lower rung, and then sat down with his hands still on Vin's arms to make sure he didn't move any farther.

"Nathan says you gotta' lay still for the fever to go down all the way."

Vin was silent a long moment, his eyes slowly clearing. Then he blinked more rapidly and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Who all's here? Where are the others?" he asked weakly. JD let go and settled back farther in his seat. Should he make Vin drink the tea Nathan had left? Water? He glanced over to where the healer was sleeping and then looked back as Vin repeated his question. "Who's here, JD? Besides you?"

"Chris an' Nathan, an' Buck," said the young man in a low voice. He made up his mind about what to do and poured water from the heavy pitcher on the table nearby into a tin cup and held it forward. "I think you oughtta' try to drink this," he added. "For the fever . . . an' stuff."

"Yeah, that 'stuff' can be pretty bad." Vin's eyes flashed with a liveliness, suddenly, that JD hadn't realized had been missing until just then. It was gone immediately, but it made him smile to see it all the same. JD leaned forward with the cup, unsure of what to do or how, and then realized Vin was still too weak to do anything to drink it himself. So he lifted his friend's head carefully with one hand and held the cup to his lips, and then laid him back down on the pillow just as carefully when he seemed to have finished. He set the cup down, trying not to think of how much that had reminded him of caring for his mother, the last few . . .

"Where are Josiah an' Ezra?" JD looked again at Vin as the tracker's tired voice drawled softly once more.

"Josiah's on watch, up near the lumber road. An' Ezra's gone to watch the mining camp, to make sure we know what's goin' on there."

"I hope that ain't s'posed to make sense to me."

JD smiled. "Nope. Don't see how it could. We'll fill you in later, when Buck's awake again. It's been . . . kinda' confusin'."

Vin was silent for a long moment more, his eyes closed, and JD began to think he'd fallen asleep again when he said very softly: "Is Buck gonna' be ok, JD? Did Nathan say?" JD nodded his head, and saw Vin open his eyes to look at him as he answered.

"Yeah. He says he's gotta' rest an' eat meat an' drink lots a' water to build up his strength again, 'cause he lost so much blood. But he says if he behaves himself an' don't act like a fool he'll be right as rain."

Vin smiled faintly. "Behave himself? Tall order for a man like Buck. Think he'll do it?"

"If he don't, I'll make him," replied JD. Vin chuckled softly, and then grimaced slightly. "You want some a' the pain medicine Nathan brought?" the young man asked gently. Vin shook his head slightly, and tried to smile reassuringly even though his eyes had darkened.

"It'll be ok. An' that stuff makes me sick t' my stomach."

"Me, too." JD looked back at the other men sleeping and then drew his chair closer to the bed. "Vin, what's the matter with Chris an' Buck?"

The tracker had closed his eyes into furrows, and now he opened them a fraction in the narrowing of his face and shook his head again. "Wish I knew for sure," he said softly. "There were things that happened in town . . . before Buck left, but--"

"Hey now. Stop that." Nathan's soft voice slid into the quiet conversation between the two men, and Vin rolled his head to one side on the pillow to regard the healer, who had sat up on the bunk across from him and was shaking his head at the two men.

"Nathan," said Vin softly. "Buck said you . . . got into the house. . .came down . . . " Nathan threw back his blankets and stood up, then padded over in his bare feet with only his trousers on, to stand peering down at Vin.

"Listen to how you're usin' up your stren'th talkin'," he admonished gently. He turned to the youngest, on the chair, and said hard words in a gentle voice. "JD, I tol' ya' t' keep him quiet. He won't shake this fever otherwise."

"I'm sorry, Nathan." JD threw an abashed look at Vin as the healer leaned down to place one hand on JD's shoulder and the other on Vin's forehead.

"It's all right," he said softly. "It was Vin that started it. I heard 'im." He smiled at the expression that ran across the tracker's face at his words, and then lifted his hand from Vin's forehead and picked up his good arm to feel of the pulse in that wrist. After several silent moments he laid it back down on the bed and pulled the blankets up higher. Vin swallowed and sighed.

"You're not much fun," he said softly.

"Gotta' get that fever down," said Nathan. He slowly sat down on the very edge of the mattress, facing his patient. "How about a little turkey broth? Think you could handle it? It'd help you a lot if you could."

Vin nodded, and Nathan started to get up, but JD put a hand on his arm before he could.

"I can get that," he said. "You go back to bed an' rest some more. You need it."

Nathan looked steadily at the youngest of their group for a long moment. The boy's eyes were serious, dark with things he knew and remembered that no one that young should know. Nathan smiled gently and nodded as he rose.

"Sounds good t' me," he said. "I am still tired."

Vin knit his brow and nodded towards the healer. "Y'ok, Nathan?"

"Yeah." The healer looked at Vin, then at JD, then at the others sleeping in the cabin. He looked back at Vin, finally, and smiled in a way that lit up the cabin like sunlight streaming in a window. "I was havin' a kinda' hard time, but I'm fine now."

Part 105

The big black woman rapped gently on the bedroom door with two knuckles, and a soft voice inside said meekly, "Come in."

"Brought ya' some breakfas', Miss Belle." Miz Ruby bustled in with a breakfast bed tray on which were dishes of French china, and carried it across the room to where the other woman half-reclined in an enormous canopy bed, propped against several large feather pillows. Her violet eyes were swollen, and Casey would have been surprised to see the redness of her nose and cheeks as she sniffed and pushed herself up higher in the bed. The large woman set the serving tray down across the silk comforter over Belle's lap, and fluffed the pillows behind her.

"Crępes? You made me . . . crępes?" Belle looked from the plate before her to the serious face of the cook, and Miz Ruby's eyes softened.

"Ain't y'all always said that's yo' fav'rite?" The voice was gentle.

"Yes, but --"

"Ah put some a' them good blackberry preserves that y'all like so much in the little jar, there. An' the coffee's good'n hot. So set to, an' eat them little French flapjacks befo' they gits cold, now, Ma'am. They'll make ya' feel lots better." Miz Ruby smiled, and then bustled over to the window to raise the shades and draw back the lace curtains. Belle squinted as the light fell in across her, even though it was still heavily overcast outside from the horrendous storm of the previous night. She raised an arm briefly to shield her eyes, and Miz Ruby noticed the dull discoloration of a fresh bruise on the white underside of it. She shook her head to herself, her eyes darkening. Marse Sterlin' had no call, she thought to herself. No matter what, he had no call. Belle lifted a silver fork carefully, as though it would slip from her fingers, and poked timidly at the tender pastry.

"Has Master Sterling . . . Has he gone out yet this mornin'?"

"Yes'm." Miz Ruby was standing at the opened doors of the inlaid mahogany wardrobe now, gently sliding out a lavender silk dressing gown. "He done headed out 'bout two hours ago."

"Where . . . Did he say where he was goin'?" Belle managed to get a piece of the crępe in her mouth, and even swallowed it with a dull expression in her eyes.

"Ah reckons it had t' do with them men what escaped las' night." Miz Ruby laid the dressing gown out across the foot of the bed, spreading the skirts smoothly and then patting it. "He had that Mister Striker with 'im fo' a while. Last Ah seen, they was headed down t' the bunkhouse where them rough-necks hangs out. Y'all knows which ones Ah means."

"Yes. Yes, I do." Belle raised the porcelain coffee cup in her two hands and sipped at the black liquid, and shivered. "Will you tell me, please, if . . . when he returns to the house?" Belle tried to shift her voice into something less plaintive, more imperative as she asked. But her voice quivered at the end, and she looked down at the tray miserably, her eyes filling with tears.

"Heah now," said Miz Ruby, clucking, "whatch'all needs is a nice, hot bath with some lavender in it. Why don' Ah--"

"No. No, thank you just the same." Belle set the tray aside and slid out of the bed, grabbing the dressing gown and wrapping it around her slender shoulders as she did so. "Is there anyone available to drive my carriage? I . . . I need to go somewhere."

"Wal, Ol' Thomas is prob'ly 'roun' here somewheres. Reckon Ah could scare 'im up if ya' needed someone quick-like."

"Yes. I do. Please get him, Miz Ruby. Tell him to hitch up my carriage and have it out front as soon as possible. I will be dressed and ready to leave in less than fifteen minutes, so ask him to hurry."

Miz Ruby started for the bedroom door, but drew up short when the opening was filled by the form of a man. Sterling Michaels stepped into the room with a tight smile on his face, his eyes glittering.

"Why didn't you tell me, if you needed to go somewhere, Belle?" He crossed the room to the woman, who quailed and cowered away from him. He touched a single finger to one of her quivering curls.

"I need . . . It's time to go back to San Francisco. The new revue opens in less than a month, Sterling, and--"

"Now, Belle." Michaels' smile widened. "I thought you were going to stay here for a while. At least until we'd formally announced our engagement."

"No. No, I--" Belle's curls swung as she shook her head, pulling the dressing gown more tightly around her shoulders.

"Then at least let's discuss it after things are settled here. I'm so close to victory. I want you to be here to share it with me." Michaels lowered his face to the nape of Belle's neck, and she closed her eyes tightly and pressed her lips together. Michaels, regarding the woman with a smug expression, smiled when he saw her reaction, and then he straightened. "Let's have no more talk of leaving," he said.

+ + + + + + +

Miz Ruby's step was weary, and her back ached from being too tired. She lowered herself to the little wooden chair at the kitchen table, and groaned as she shook her head to herself. Dear God, she thought. What am I gonna' do?

She heard the men's voices again, in the yard and in the front of the house, both: excited, orders being given, groups forming and breaking off and the sound of galloping horses after. They'd been coming and going all day. All day. And all day Marse Sterling had been pacing up and down in his library like a caged beast, his hands clenched in fists, his face shining with fury like it was a blast furnace. It had been like that ever since the first groups of searchers he'd sent out had come back empty-handed mid-morning: he'd sent men out and then paced waiting for them to return, and then interrogated them and sent out more. The bunkhouse was empty, its occupants all riding the mountains, and still there was no sign. It was as if the men had vanished into the rain and wind of the night before, and were gone.

"Miz Ruby?" It was Coco, one little bare brown foot on the floor and the other perched on top of it and twisting back and forth nervously.

"What is it, Coco, chil'?" Miz Ruby tried to smile at the girl, but Lord! she was so tired.

"Esta la . . . Is there . . . Well, is there going to be supper tonight?"

Miz Ruby closed her eyes and groaned again. "Lawd, chil', Ah hadn' even looked at the time." She opened her eyes again, to look the girl up and down with affection. "Where'd Ah be without y'all? Hmm?"

Coco shrugged her thin shoulders wordlessly, and then hunched them shyly. Miz Ruby laughed softly.

"That roas' beef from yesterday, it's been simmerin' in the stewpot on the back a' the stove. We'll set out somethin' fast, an' say it's so them fella's can keep on with their workin', eh? Y'all runs an' gits Bitsy, an'--"

"Bitsy say she's sick," offered Coco, her eyes growing sad.

"Sick?" Miz Ruby looked around the kitchen as if she might suddenly see the girl standing there. "Where is she?"

"In our room," said Coco softly.

"Wal," Miz Ruby placed her broad hands on the table and pushed herself from the chair, shoving it back as she did so. She sighed. "Y'all start cuttin' up some a' that bread in the pantry for san'wiches, an' some a' that yella' cheese, an' Ah'll go see what's got int' Bitsy. Ah'll be back direc'ly."

"Sí, Miz Ruby."

The woman turned to leave the kitchen as Coco slid opened drawers and began to lay thing on the table, and then looked back at the girl to say something else -- and froze.

"COCO!!"

The girl gasped at the sound of horror in Miz Ruby's voice, and the knife she'd been holding in her hand clattered to the kitchen floor. The woman shook her head and began to speak even as she hurried over to the girl and the knife she'd dropped.

"Ah didn' means t' scare ya', chil'. Ah jus' . . ." She stooped to pick up the knife and then turned it in her hand with an odd expression on her face. "Where'd y'all git this, Coco honey?"

"From the drawer." Coco pointed to the drawer with confusion and fear still etched on her features. What had she done now? Everything was so strange today. All the men, the way Marse Sterling was behaving, Bitsy saying she was sick, and now this, now Miz Ruby acting like she'd seen a rattlesnake when it was just the kitchen knife they used every day of the week. Coco shivered.

Miz Ruby felt her breath catch in her throat, and it seemed for a moment like the kitchen got a lot darker. She knew this knife. She knew it very well. It hadn't been in the drawer since she'd taken it out herself, to give to Nathan in the cellar when he'd needed it to doctor his friend. And the last time she'd seen it, after that, it had been buried halfway up its hilt in the body of a dead man, in the body of that horrible Mister Sullivan.

So how had it gotten back in the drawer?

"Don' use this knife," said Miz Ruby, suddenly. She set the blade on the edge of the stove, pressed the big iron skillet down on it, and bent the haft down sharply to snap the blade in two with a quick, decisive motion. She tossed both pieces in the dustbin and drew out another knife to hand to the astonished Coco as if she did something like that all the time. "Use this one instead," she said.

Then she went to check on Bitsy.

The girls' room was dim, there being no windows and the space being only barely big enough for the two little cots that sat against either wall. Miz Ruby squinted as she bent down over the girl laying in one of them, and she shook her head.

"Coco says y'all feels sick?" She laid a broad hand on the girl's forehead, and Bitsy sighed and nodded silently. "Ain't got no fever. Sit up, chil'. Where's it ache?"

Bitsy sat up and laid a hand on her stomach, right beneath her heart, and looked down at the floor. Miz Ruby stood up straight, and then her eyes kindled with emotion.

"Bitsy, chil', d'y'all knows the difference 'tween feelin' sick and feelin' scared?"

Bitsy shook her head silently.

"Remember las' spring, when ya' had that fever an' couldn't hardly breathe?"

Bitsy nodded.

"That was sick. The way you feel now? Honey, that's scared." Bitsy looked up, surprised, her eyes wide and startled. Miz Ruby sat down next to her on the cot, and put her arm around the girl's shoulders and squeezed her gently. "Ain't no cause t' stay abed, though. Shoot. Ah been scared off 'n' on most a' mah life, but Ah ain't give in to it yet." She smiled reassuringly. "Now y'all comes in the kitchen with me, an' help me'n Coco fix supper for them men what Marse Sterlin's got runnin' in an' outta' here. Men what's got good food in front of 'em ain't gonna' think 'bout nothin' else."

"All right." Bitsy slowly pushed herself off the edge of the cot to stand up, and smoothed her shift down. She glanced up at Miz Ruby's face. "If you're sure."

"Ah's as shore as Ah _can_ be, but I ain't gonna' lie an' tell ya' that we's perfec'ly safe, neither." Bitsy blanched, and Miz Ruby shook her head at the girl. "Don' go duckin' out on me now, chil'. Ah needs ya'. We gots Coco an' Pedro t' consider, an' both of 'em is in there on they own while we's sittin' here talkin'. It's when a body's scared that they mos' needs t' be facin' things, so they ain't took by surprise. Understan'?"

"Yes, Miz Ruby." Bitsy smiled a tremulous little smile, and looked up at the older woman's face. "I won't let nobody hurt Coco. Nobody." She paused. "Or Pedro, neither."

"That's it!" Miz Ruby opened the little door to gesture Bitsy into the back hallway that wound towards the kitchen. The two women walked in silence a moment, and then Miz Ruby asked: "Bitsy, did y'all put my good kitchen knife, the one with the black handle, in the drawer today?"

"No, Ma'am." Bitsy glanced over her shoulder at the woman following her. "I ain't seen it in a coupla' days, in fact. I was wonderin' where it'd got to."

"Wal, it's gone for good now. The blade's broke. Ah was jus' askin'."

"How'd the blade get--"

"Never ya' mind, chil'. Some things ain't good too look too close at."

The women went on and entered the side door of the kitchen, where their voices could be heard joining that of Coco's as they laid out things for a buffet supper for the men in the library with Marse Sterling. Striker stood up from the dark corner where he'd been squatting behind a broken chair relegated to the dim back passages of the house, and smiled.

Coco didn't know. Bitsy didn't know. But Miz Ruby did. She knew the knife hadn't been there, and she knew where it had been last, before showing up in her drawer again. It had surprised and upset her. And she'd broken the blade and thrown it away rather than use it. Striker couldn't say he blamed her. After all, it hadn't been a particularly pleasant job to cut the damned thing out of Sullivan's stiffened body, nor had it been easy to clean it up. But the fact was that now he knew for certain: she knew the knife had been used to kill Sullivan. And that meant either Jackson had told her about it after taking the knife himself, or she had given it to him to begin with.

Striker leaned back against the wall behind him, listening idly to the women's voices down the hall. There was only one thing left to do right at the moment.

Striker strolled down the hall towards the kitchen himself, on light feet, and when he entered the room he ignored the shocked stares of the three women. Silently he walked over to the dustbin and lifted the lid. Reaching inside, he lifted out the two pieces of the broken knife, wiped them off, and slid them both into an inside coat pocket. Then he raised his eyes to look directly into the terrified gaze of the old cook and hold it for a good, long moment. Dropping the dustbin lid back in place with a soft bang, Striker turned away and walked out of the kitchen without a word. He smiled to himself when he heard the commotion that broke out behind him, as the girls' young voices urged the woman to sit down and to drink some water, and put her head between her knees.

'Go ahead,' Striker thought. 'and let it sink in. I know now. I have you.'

Part 106

"C'mon, Buck. Eat some more a' this turkey."

"You'd better." Ezra's voice sounded nearly bored, but the cadence was too sharp for that. "I had to go out hunting at a God-awful hour to get that thing."

Josiah's deep laughter tumbled through the cabin, and Vin opened his eyes again to see that night had fallen and that several lamps were lit, their wicks turned down low. He started to crane his head around to see where people were, but a hand on his forearm got his attention instead, and he looked to one side to see that Chris was sitting next to him again. The lean gunman looked a little better than Vin remembered him looking before -- whenever the hell that was. He shook his head slightly and started to try to hitch himself up into a sitting position. Chris put his hand on Vin's chest immediately and smiled very pleasantly in a way that brooked no opposition.

"No you don't," he said softly. "You're gonna' lay right there, just like that, for at least another 24 hours."

Vin gave up and lay still, and then looked to one side as he heard footsteps sound on the punch floor. Nathan. The healer squatted next to Vin's head and studied his face a long moment, then touched a broad palm to the tracker's forehead and nodded to himself.

"We're startin' to get somewhere," he said approvingly. "How you feelin'?"

"Like I been through a stamp mill," answered Vin.

"Look what you started, JD." Nathan grinned and stood up. "Yeah, there's a stamp mill not far away, but if you'd been through _that_ we'd be puttin' what was left a' you in a pine box."

"More like a letter envelope." Vin started to try to sit up again, and again Chris put a hand on his chest just hard enough to resist the movement. "I just wanna' sit up a little, Chris." Vin looked at his friend with narrowed eyes. "How about backin' off a bit so I don't have to slug ya' to do it?"

Nathan's voice was gentle but firm. "I know you feel like you can, Vin, but you really ain't got the stren'th to do that yet."

"Which one: sit up, or slug Chris?" Vin eyed Nathan evenly and the healer chuckled softly.

"Both, but I was thinkin' a' sittin' up. An' if you try it this early you'll get worse again right away. You've come too far for that."

Buck's voice floated across the darker side of the room. "Might as well give up. Nathan's bein' a bully tonight." Vin chuckled and looked at Nathan with brightening eyes.

"How 'bout if we prop your head up some instead, like we did for ol' Buck?" suggested the healer. "If we do that, will you stay still?"

Vin looked at the healer and then Chris, and nodded his agreement that this would provide an acceptable solution. In a few moments the men had raised the head of his mattress and slipped several logs of the stacked wood under it so that the whole thing was higher, and Vin smiled as he looked around at the room and began to feel like maybe he was really going to get on his feet again at some point. Chris backed away a little, smiling down at his friend's face, and turned towards the table, which Vin now saw was littered with various cups and dishes. Almost the moment he saw that, Nathan was holding a cup of broth out to him and cocking his head to one side, asking silently whether or not Vin could handle it by himself.

He could, and he was delighted by that.

He began to sip the broth as if it was coffee, listening to a conversation that began in such a way that it was clear his waking had interrupted it.

"OK," said Josiah. "If I'm gonna' stay here with Nathan an' the others, I'll need you to leave me a good pile of the ammunition. In case."

"Agreed." Ezra rose from the table and went to a bunk over which a saddlebag had been hung. He pulled it down and brought it back to the table with him and began to pull boxes of shells out of it, sliding them across the table to Josiah as he did so. "Will this be adequate?"

Josiah laughed. "If we gotta' fight more than what this would do for, I'm surrenderin' to begin with!"

A low chuckle ran around the room, and Buck moved on his bunk in such a way that Vin suddenly saw where he was. The man was still horrendously pale, and he had been propped up the same way Vin had. He was waving a turkey wing in one hand, though, as he began to speak.

"Buck Wilmington don't surrender," he said. "God damn it."

Vin had thought maybe Buck was joking around until he heard him swear; he lowered the cup of broth from his mouth and peered at the moustached gunslinger more closely. Buck looked actually cross. Real cross. Vin shifted his gaze over to the men at the table in time to see Josiah blanch and Chris bite his lips and look away. Well damn, thought Vin. Now Josiah was in it, too. Had to be that town stuff after all. When the hell were they going to get that worked out?

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," said Ezra in a placid voice. "The issue is how we will reach this impending attack in time to prevent it. We are over 20 hours away from town and the attack is scheduled for tomorrow, probably close enough to town to incite outrage."

"Head 'em off before they ever get that far," said Chris quietly. Vin caught a flash of his green eyes as he glanced at Buck and then looked at Josiah and Ezra, then JD. "We can meet 'em just this side of Eagle Bend and turn 'em back. That's close enough we can get there in maybe 8 or 9 hours if we take the steep way down outta' the mountains, an' it will prevent the attack altogether."

"Then we'll ride on to meet the attackers and take 'em in?" JD shifted in his chair and tried not to act excited. Chris studied the coffee cup in his hand a long moment before looking up at the youth and shaking his head very slightly.

"Then we come back here an' clean out this pest hole while half a' Michaels' hired thugs are somewhere else." He bit off the words in a way that Vin recognized as concealing real anger.

"My," observed Ezra, "won't they be disappointed to discover they've gone to the trouble to don war paint and buckskin for nothing."

"War paint an' buckskin?" Vin set the cup of broth down on the blankets over his chest, still cradling it with his left hand. "What're you talkin' about?"

"Sterling Michaels, a big mine owner, has arranged to have some of his men dress as Indians and attack the stage to Four Corners," explained Chris evenly. Vin glanced at Buck and then back to Chris.

"That man . . . the one I told you about . . . he tried to make it look like Indians had attacked Buck, too."

"He did?" Chris sat up straighter.

"Yeah." Buck chimed in from his bunk, still sounding surly but at least talking. "Shot me with a God-damned arrow. I was so sure it was Indians that--" The gunman broke off and when it was clear he wasn't going to continue, Chris cleared his throat.

"They're tryna' set it up so Kojay's people get blamed for somethin'," said Vin. "There were strange rumors already, when I left town. What happened to Buck, and now this, it proves this Michaels fella's doin' somethin' an' that Kojay's people are innocent."

The men at the table regarded one another silently a long moment, turning over the new information they'd learned. Finally JD shook his head.

"But . . . what could that POSSIBLY have to do with --"

Chris pushed himself back from the table and stood up. "We'll figure that out later," he said firmly. "Right now we have to pack up an' get ready to ride early. It'll be a long hard trip to get down there an' then back up again in a single day, but we've gotta' do it. _Then_ we'll get the answers to our questions." He pressed his lips together and sparks flashed in his eyes. "From Sterling Michaels himself, if need be."

Part 107

As he started to get to his feet to check his ammunition and pack up for the next day, Chris glanced over at Vin and was shocked to see that he was about to let go of the cup of hot broth he'd been cradling on his chest. It wasn't two steps to the bunk, but even then Chris got there barely fast enough to keep the hot liquid from spilling onto the blankets. Vin's face was suddenly beaded with sweat again, and his fingers were limp as Chris pulled the cup from them and set it aside. Nathan was next to him right away, lifting Vin's wrist to feel of his pulse as the man's eyes closed slowly and then, just as slowly, opened again.

"Pull them props out from under his head," ordered Nathan softly. Josiah held up the head of the mattress with Vin on it, while JD and Ezra removed the logs beneath, and then lowered the wounded man flat again very carefully.

"What happened?" Chris looked up at Nathan from where he had squatted on the floor next to the bed after setting the cup of broth aside.

"Too much, too soon," replied Nathan gently. He pulled up the chair and sat down on it so that he could remove the dressing on Vin's shoulder. The tracker jerked slightly in response to Nathan's touch, and the dark man shook his head. "I'm gonna' make you a fresh compress for this," he said. "You lay quiet an' I'll be back in a few minutes."

Vin nodded wearily, and looked at Chris. The gunman tried to smile reassuringly. "It's gonna' be ok," he said. "Just give it a little more time."

The room had fallen silent when the others had realized what was going on, so that now Vin's soft voice was clear even though weak. The only other sound in the room was the crackling of the fire.

"You gotta' straighten it out . . . before you leave. Buck . . . ain't guilty," he said.

Chris felt something like a shock run through his frame at those words -- words he certainly hadn't expected to hear right now. And certainly not from Vin. He remembered suddenly their last conversation before Vin had gone after Buck, the harsh words hanging in the air once again between them. Buck wouldn't _do_ something like that, Vin had said. He'd been so sure. A new voice behind Chris's shoulder startled him.

"We know that now." It was Josiah. Chris turned in his chair enough to see the man's somber face as he came closer to the bed to stand looking down at Vin. "He was takin' care a' Casey when . . . It doesn't matter, all that. The thing is, Belle lied to me."

Chris shook his head and felt dizzy. "I think Belle was . . . in the house," he managed to say. "In Michaels' house." How had he forgotten that? It had struck him like a blow at the time Miz Ruby had said it, but somehow--

Now it was Nathan speaking, from the stove where he was laying out things for a new compress while his water heated. "She was," he said grimly.

"Are you sure it was . . . you know, the same 'Belle'?" JD looked from one of the men to another, then at Buck. Buck was laying absolutely still, his eyes dark holes in a white face, looking at Chris and Vin.

"Yeah," said Nathan. "I heard 'er talkin'. It was the same woman." He started setting leaves carefully into the hot water and glanced quickly at Chris before turning to face Josiah. "She was part a' whatever all this is," Nathan continued. "Michaels sent 'er to Four Corners to do just what she did. I'm sorry, Josiah."

"I'm the one who's sorry," murmured Josiah. He looked at Buck, who hadn't moved a muscle since the turn of conversation had headed his direction. He seemed about to say more, but hesitated. Then Buck turned his face away, towards the wall, and Josiah sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He walked back over to the table and drew out a chair, sat down, and put his head in his hands.

Vin licked his lips and sighed, a soft sound that turned into a sort of moan at the end, and Chris laid a steadying hand on his friend's forearm. Vin shook his head that what was bothering him wasn't physical. "You can't . . ." He paused, his eyes fixed on Chris's, completing the sentence his voice had left hanging. The gunman stood up suddenly and went to the cabin door, opened it, and stood looking outside into the night. JD gaped in astonishment and stood up, started to go sit with Vin while he waited for Nathan's medicine, but then sat down again as Ezra cleared his throat meaningfully.

"Gentlemen," he said firmly. "Some of you are aware -- and others are not . . ." His gaze strayed pointedly to Chris as he said the phrase, and the gunman turned around to face him, leaning back against the frame of the opened doorway with a look of patiently-banked anger on his face. Ezra blinked unconcernedly and went on, ". . .that we have been in some measure the victims of an elaborate conspiracy designed to break up our group. Presumably so that we cannot function well enough to do our job." He paused and looked from one man to another as Nathan began to layer the leaves onto the muslin and fold it over into a compress.

"Well, then it's workin'," observed Chris caustically.

"Don't let it." Vin's soft voice from the bunk made Chris blink and unfold his arms.

"Tomorrow," said JD thoughtfully, "we have to split up again, though. Seems like we can't help but let it work."

Josiah looked up and laid his broad hands on the table in front of him. "It's not the same, JD. Unless we let it be." His sad gaze enfolded the youth in such a way that JD suddenly sighed and glanced over at Buck, to see that he was now looking back towards the rest of the group, listening.

"I don't much like leavin' you here," said Chris softly, suddenly to Josiah. He came into the room all the way again and shut the door behind him. "If Michaels' men find you, with Buck an' Vin still down . . . "

"He ain't found us yet," observed Nathan. He looked steadily at Chris for a long moment and then moved to Vin's bedside with the compress. He set it on the man's shoulder and then pressed it gently into place, causing Vin to gasp very softly and raise one knee beneath the blankets. Chris came over again, and saw that the tracker had balled his left hand into a fist that was already beginning to relax a little. He looked at Nathan and shook his head.

"We'll hurry," he said grimly. "We'll be back as soon as we can."

"I know that." Nathan was watching Vin's face closely again, and Chris realized suddenly that he was counting Vin's pulse by looking at the man's throat and the gentle throbbing on one side of it. Vin closed his eyes, and his breathing changed, and Chris saw that he wasn't looking grey any more, but had some color back to his face again. He closed his own eyes a moment, feeling something indefinable race through his chest like a hot streak of flame, and then he turned to go sit down at the table across from Josiah.

"How can we split up, an' not make it work to Michaels' benefit?" he asked flatly. It was Ezra who answered him, strolling to the table to stand beside Josiah as he did so.

"Be aware," he said. " Never forget for a moment that you've been manipulated. Make sure to do whatever you do by your own will, instead of because it just seems to happen that way."

"This isn't just seeming to happen this way?" Chris looked up at Ezra, his face expressionless.

"No." The gambler shook his head firmly. "The way it should _seem_ to happen now is that you should ride off. Alone. Like you almost did, a moment ago."

Chris jerked at those words, suddenly remembering the way he'd felt when he'd gone to the door and stood looking out into the darkness. He HAD been thinking of just riding away from everything -- from Buck's bitterness and Josiah's despair and the sense that nothing could work right any more. He felt a long clutch of fear turn in his gut. Was that how well Michaels knew him? Was that who he really was -- a man who lit out alone whenever things got snarled up? He looked at Ezra again, appraisingly, noticing the way the gambler was standing: matter-of-fact, his face lined with fatigue, but every article of apparel in place. Chris smiled.

"No wonder you can win at cards without cheating," he said.

Ezra laughed, showing his gold tooth. Chris stood up and walked to the bunk where Buck lay, and the gunman stared at him, wordlessly.

"I'm sorry I doubted you, Buck. I had to swear out the warrant, given the circumstances. You understand. But I'm sorry it came to all this. I should've known you wouldn't do a thing like that."

Buck didn't move, didn't speak. Chris stood there a long several minutes waiting for a response, saying nothing more, and finally Buck turned his face away from Chris and looked at the wall, silently and pointedly. Chris sighed and backed away at the gesture, then turned and went across the room, realizing suddenly that Buck was laid up and couldn't leave, and that this gesture was simply as close as he could get to walking out.

Again.

Chris felt a sting of surprise run through him when he realized it wasn't "again" at all though; it was "still." He looked back at his old friend's face from across the room and thought about the long time in the cellar, and realized Buck hadn't ever really been there. He'd been gone then, too. And as soon as he could sit a horse, he'd be gone now. He had never come back, and he didn't plan to.

JD slipped in behind Chris as he left to lean close to Buck and whisper very softly, but clear enough that everyone could hear him: "I always knew it was a lie. The minute I heard it, I knew it wasn't true."

Buck turned his face to look at JD's, and smiled with sad eyes. "Thanks, Kid," he whispered back. "I knew I could count on you."

Chris blanched and glanced at Josiah, whose eyes had darkened with pain. Ezra looked from one of them to the other and opened his mouth as though to say something, but then apparently thought otherwise and let it go. Nathan suddenly spoke from where he sat next to Vin.

"Just calm down, now, Vin. You need to rest. There'll be plenty a' time later for other things," said Nathan.

The tracker softly protested from where he lay, but Chris went over to him and looked down.

"Go to sleep," he said gently. "We'll be back as soon as we can. You pay attention to what Nathan says, an' get well." He looked at the others. "Get your gear ready, and get some sleep. We've got a long way left to go."

Part 108

The men who were leaving--Chris, JD and Ezra--packed for the trip in silence. They'd be riding long hard miles and they'd be leaving well before the sun was up. Nathan tried to give them fully half the food in the cabin and even Chris had to laugh at that. He'd clapped Nathan on the shoulder and looked him straight in the eye and said, "Thanks."

Josiah, who had been watching the exchange from where he was redistributing ammunition into saddlebags, figured there was more to that one word than just food they didn't need and he was glad for both of them that Chris had had the chance to say it.

After the bags were packed and the food was settled and everything that could be done had been done, the men settled down to catch a few short hours sleep. Only Josiah stayed awake to watch for trouble and keep an eye on the wounded men. Buck woke once, sitting half-up with a quick intake of breath and then settling back down again. Josiah watched from across the room, thinking he should go over there, just be there in case, in the dark black time before dawn, Buck wanted to talk about the thing that had awakened him or about the dogs or the cellar or any of the other endless bad things that had happened to him lately. But, Josiah sighed inaudibly. As one of the endless bad things himself, he was no longer someone Buck wanted to talk to. And he had no one to blame. He, Josiah, had made things that way. And because he had done what he'd done and thought what he'd thought Buck and Vin and all the rest of them had suffered.

An hour later when the fire had burned low and it was still two hours before dawn, Josiah slipped quietly between the bunks and woke the men who were leaving. Nathan woke too and helped them gather their things. And then, Josiah realized that both Buck and Vin were awake and he might as well light all the lanterns.

JD walked up to each of the men who were staying behind and solemnly shook their hands. Vin offered his left hand and winked at JD which made him burst into a grin. Buck clasped his hand tight and held it for an extra minute and said, "You take care now, you hear." JD responded with a quick nod that Josiah figured revealed as much as he could bear to show. He wanted to pull the young man into a big hug himself but he kept with the quietness of the moment and merely returned the handshake with a hearty grip and a warmth in his eye that he hoped JD could read in the lantern light. Nathan simply took his hand and gave him a slow nod, as much as promising that he would take care of Buck and Vin, that they would be all right until the others got back. And, Josiah realized, you couldn't help but believe what Nathan promised because he believed it so implicitly himself, or at least believed that he would do anything at all to make it possible.

Ezra gave both the wounded men a quick salute, like he was thanking them for something. And even Buck's face brightened a little at the cocky way he did it.

Chris stood in the doorway as JD and Ezra went out ahead of him. He looked at each of the men in the cabin, one after the other, Josiah and Nathan and Vin. He looked at Buck last and Josiah saw his expression darken when Buck returned his look and then looked away. And that's my fault too, Josiah thought, whatever misunderstanding there is between them is there because of me. He didn't know, right off, how to fix it, but he figured there had to be a way. Before this was over, before he rode on to wherever he was going afterward, he'd put right whatever needed putting right.

There was quiet in the cabin for a long time after the sound of horses' hooves faded into the night. Nathan shook his head and turned away from the window and started to snuff the lanterns.

"Aw, hell, Nathan," Buck said, shoving a blanket up behind him along with a pillow and struggling to sit up, "we ain't going back to sleep now and you know it. Leave that damn lantern lit!"

"Now, Buck," Nathan said softly, "you need your rest. Need to build up your strength."

"Damnit, Nathan!" Buck said in a voice that sounded really tired and finished in some way. "You think I don't know what I need? Who the hell do you think took care of me all those days I was stuck in that cellar. You?"

Nathan looked stricken. "Buck, I--"

"Buck!" Josiah said sharply, worried that Vin might be getting agitated. "Settle down."

"You know, Josiah, I don't need _you_ telling me what to do either!"

"Now listen here, Buck," Nathan said. "Ain't nobody here that isn't trying to help you. You ain't gonna get better if you don't--"

"Oh, hell, I don't care, Nathan! I been lyin' here all day and I don't feel one damn bit better and it ain't likely gonna make any difference one way or another if those lanterns stay lit or not."

"Nathan is just tryin' to help you, Buck," Josiah said.

"Leave it alone, Josiah," Nathan's voice was unusually sharp. "If Buck don't want my help, then that's fine. Maybe I should light _more_ lanterns. Maybe what we need is _more_ light in here."

"Buck," Josiah started again. "You haven't got the sense God gave a mule. Nathan has been doin' nothin' but helpin'--"

At the same time, Nathan was saying, "Do you ever think maybe if you weren't so hotheaded these things wouldn't happen to--"

"Leave him alone." At first the words were so quiet that none of the other three men heard them. They were too caught up in their own anger and frustration. Vin repeated them, trying to speak louder this time. "I said, leave him alone."

Buck and Nathan and Josiah all stopped talking and looked across the cabin at the tracker. He turned his head to face them. "Buck's been through enough. He don't need you two pullin' at him like that."

Josiah looked shame-faced for letting himself get drawn into a useless argument, but Nathan's face was still grim and tight, and, Josiah noticed for the first time, tired. "You don't need me, that's fine," he snapped. "You don't, either one of you, want any help from me?" He threw up his hands, "That's just _fine_. Because I don't need this." He turned and walked out of the cabin, letting the door bang shut behind him.

A frown creased Josiah's forehead as he stood in the center of the tense quiet Nathan's departure left behind. "You happy now?" he said to Buck.

"Yeah, I think I am," said Buck in a voice that sounded exhausted and almost defeated.

"Well, good," Josiah said and then he left to find Nathan.

After a moment's silence, Vin said quietly, "Reckon we showed them."

Buck gave a dry laugh. "You think they'll let us starve to death or just come back here and shoot us?"

"I'm thinkin' shootin's too good for the likes of us," Vin told him.

"I reckon you're right at that."

Josiah found that Nathan had only gone as far as the porch. Leaning against the wall of the cabin Josiah reached into his vest pocket and offered Nathan a cigar. For several long minutes the two men smoked and watched the tips of the cigars glowing in the darkness.

"They didn't mean that, any of what they said in there," Josiah finally said.

Nathan shrugged. "Don't usually get to me," he said. "Men can't do the things they're used to doing they get angry."

"How Michaels treated you...that isn't who you are."

Nathan's hand froze with the cigar partway to his mouth. "I know that," he said softly.

"Because I was thinking that a man in that situation might easily start to feel as if he was losing his identity. He might start seeing every failure as a sign that _he's_ a failure."

"What are you saying?" Nathan asked him quietly.

"I'm saying you weren't _ever_ perfect. Even before you went into that house."

Nathan chuckled. "That supposed to make me feel better?"

Josiah eased himself up and went to the edge of the porch and looked up at the clear night sky. "There was a lot going on. You were trying to stay alive and rescue three men and save Vin's life. That was enough, Nathan. You don't need to go beatin' yourself up because you didn't know Buck was hurt as bad as he was."

"I should have known."

"I should have seen through Belle."

"Well, no one'd ever mistake you for perfect either," Nathan said.

"Ain't that a fact," Josiah said. "Ain't that a fact."

A little while later when they went back inside the cabin they found that Buck and Vin were both asleep again. Josiah put some more wood on the fire and Nathan quietly snuffed out the lanterns and the two of them pulled off their boots and crawled back into their bunks for a last few hours of sleep before another day began.

Part 109

The wind rushing upslope through the pines to meet him was cold, and Chris pulled his neck down farther into his coat, turning up the collar with one hand. His black picked its way through the clumps of agave and short grass, down the little shelving outcrops of stone in the aisles between the pinion trees, its head held low to look at the dim ground and its ears swiveling here and there as it listened to the creatures that rustled past unseen, fleeing the silent riders. No one spoke.

The stars overhead were brilliant in the clear mountain sky, Venus as bright as a signal fire just above the eastern horizon. The only sound was the steady soft thumping of the horses' hooves on the ground, the occasional grating scrape of a hoof on stone or a soft blowing out of one of the horses as it shook its head and rattled its bridle hardware. They went down at an angle most places, working their way back and forth across the steep southeast slope of the mountain. But sometimes they went down more directly when they had to, their horses leaning back over bunched haunches as they slid and hopped down slopes that sent loose stones rattling away into the darkness to raise puffs of damp, dewy dust that didn't go very far before settling again. They kept riding, kept going down, kept going southeast.

And after a while, the eastern sky began to pale and grow translucent, to shimmer with the shades of mother of pearl, and to glow warmly where it touched the far mountains that were so close to home. Home, thought Chris idly, his mind turning in lazy loops as his saddle shifted and tipped beneath him on the carefully-stepping horse. His legs and hands and hips and back were riding. His mind was disengaged, trailing along behind, turning to look back and look back towards the lumber camp and the helpless men he'd left behind there. But there were helpless people ahead of him, too. Too many people needing his help, not enough of him to go around, always someone left hanging, in need, in trouble. Holding him responsible.

Chris lowered his hand and relaxed the reins more so the black could have its head, and felt the animal drop its neck even further in response, lowering its body to feel its way over a long series of rock shelves. When had he become so responsible for everyone else? And why? He shook his head, not even wondering if JD or Ezra behind him would notice and wonder why he did it, or what he was doing shaking his head at no one in particular, riding down a steep mountainside in the dark. He hadn't been the one held responsible before, he thought. He was certain of that. He and Buck had been young hellions together, raising dust and raising hell, and proud of it. They'd shaken out of the embrace of anything that threatened to claim them and ridden away with their own version of a war-whoop, side by side, to the next scrape and the next all-night drunk and the next fistfight . . . and Chris had somehow thought that's where they were going to pick up again, when Buck had landed at his feet in Four Corners.

He'd really kinda' figured they wouldn't come out of that fight with their skins intact anyway, and it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to have Buck with him again on his last ride straight into the jaws of hell. It was how they'd always said they would go out: guns blazing, backs together, havin' a hell of a fight. It had made a kind of crazy sense, to come full circle that way and close off the time that was Sarah: a time of quiet and good living and family that had been like a little island in the turbulent sea that was the rest of his life.

Only the man he'd fought with his back against had turned out to be Vin. And Buck had gone down to protect the kid who'd tagged along, someone that wasn't any older than they'd been, way back when they'd not had any more sense between the two of them than what God gave a jackrabbit. And on top of all that, they'd ridden into hell and faced down the devil . . . and lived to ride out again. Chris could still remember sitting on his black, and looking at the other men as they rode up to him like they'd all just naturally go back together to that God-forsaken little town they'd hooked up in, and thinking, 'Well now what the hell do I do?'

He hadn't known then, and he didn't know now.

He really doubted he'd ever know, and that was the hell of it. They looked to him like he was the leader, though he'd never made that claim and never asked for it either. Yet they didn't listen to what he said and did as they pleased nine times out of ten. And Buck and Vin were the worst of the lot. Tell Buck what to do and he'd be damned sure to do the opposite, a wild spark in his eyes and a shit-eatin' grin on that big mug a' his. Tell Vin what to do and he'd just look you quietly in the eye and turn around and do whatever the hell it was he'd had a mind to do on his own, anyway, and if you were lucky it just happened to be close to what you'd asked for.

It had gotten to him, finally, the last week or two before everything had fallen apart. He'd watched the other six men going around, doing whatever they damned well felt like doing and ignoring him, but expecting him to have some sort of control over everything and know what was going on, and he'd just suddenly had enough. When so much trouble had come down the road into town all at once, Mary and the other townsfolk had looked at him like they'd expected . . . well, he didn't know what they'd expected, but it sure had looked like they'd expected _something_, and he didn't know what it was or how to deliver it. And it had made him feel like throwing a table clear across the room or breaking every bottle in the saloon and then pounding all the broken glass into tiny, gravelly bits.

But Ezra had said . . . What was it Ezra had said, exactly? That all that same time, those last couple of weeks, someone had been manipulating them, had been manipulating HIM, by God. He'd thought it was just something with Buck and maybe Josiah, something almost beyond reckoning but still -- something just between them. Vin had gotten into it somehow, at some point, although he couldn't seem to place just when or why or how that had happened now. He'd just realized all of a sudden that he was standing in the saloon as mad as he'd ever felt, watching Vin walk out and knowing that things were just all going to hell. Could someone have engineered _that_, manipulated _that_? It seemed impossible. Yet: they'd used all the things that he held most dear, most private, most sacred to beat him before he'd even known he was in a fight. And it was undeniable that Belle had been in on it from the beginning. Belle. And the things between Josiah and Buck traced back to her, and from her, back to Michaels.

It was . . . Chris shook his head, feeling almost dizzy. It was damn near unthinkable. And also, apparently, true.

Did that mean that the way he'd felt hadn't been real, that it had simply been the product of some plot instead? It had certainly _felt_ real. And judging by Buck's reactions, it had felt real to him, too. Chris thought about Josiah and how he'd been so head-over-heels in love with that woman, and shook his head. Josiah walked around head-over-heels in love anyway, he thought, just looking for the woman who fit the part, so that was different. The love was real, it was just the woman who wasn't. Then he gasped as his mind leaped nimbly across the gap to ask him: isn't that how it is with you, that you walk around feeling betrayed by someone, just looking for a person to fit the part?

Something rolled over inside Chris at that thought, like a heavy sleeper turning his face to the light for the first time. He felt for a moment like he wasn't breathing, reaching out to try to catch what was there, elusive, just beyond his grasp. He had a sudden image of Buck: facing Sullivan almost bare-handed, ready to fight him. Why? To get out of the cellar? To escape? He knew _now_ it hadn't been so; Vin had made that more than clear. But then? Had he somehow not seen things he should have seen, assuming instead that Buck had betrayed him and then Vin? Chris knit his brows, as he saw again, as if for the first time, the expression on Buck's face -- and it wasn't a wanting to fight and run kind of look at all. His eyes had darted down towards where Sullivan's boot was crushing Vin, and then he'd winced . . . winced, by God, with a look of pain as real as if it was being done to him . . . and then he'd looked back up and his eyes had hardened and his body had lowered as he'd prepared to receive the other man's attack --

Chris suddenly reined in his horse and his thoughts, both. Buck's face vanished from his mind and his attention was jerked back to the moment by what lay before him. 'My God,' he thought, 'we'll have to work our way back and go around this.'

Almost immediately, though, he realized there _was_ no going around this.

A long shelf of rock that marked a limit to the slope they'd been riding stretched as far as he could see, both ways. And everywhere, beneath it, was a long slope of scree, loose rock broken off from the shelving outcrop over years and years of weathering. Nothing grew on the shifting stones, not one spot of green . . . only here and there a single tree standing up out of the pile of loose rubble, its branches strangely lopsided and its feet buried in stone. He heard the two men behind him draw up as well, and all three sat silently waiting as Chris scanned the steeper descent below them for a safe way down.

Finally he sighed and turned to look back at JD and Ezra, their faces barely visible in the grey light. "Spread out," he said softly. "Pick your own way down an' try to keep from rollin' rocks down on anybody else's head. It's the last steep spot, though, so we'll meet at the bottom an' go faster from there."

The other two men nodded, as Chris turned back to eye the slope. He let almost all of the reins slide out of his hand, and knotted the very ends so he could keep hold of them, sat back against the cantle, and legged the black over the steep side. Picking a way down one of the narrow channels that scored the rock buttress above the scree wasn't too bad. Then he felt his horse's legs sink into the pile of loose stone, felt it dig in its hindquarters even as the whole mass began to slide with the animal, and he was on his way down: riding a horse that was itself riding the side of a moving mountain of stones.

Chris smiled a tight, cynical smile. He saluted one of the bedraggled, survivor pines as he slid past it in a roar of rolling stones and a cloud of grey dust. And finally he put back his head and let the laughter just shake its way on out of him as he and the black let go and gave up and just rode the damn thing all the way to the bottom together.

Part 110

"What are you thinking about Mary?"

"Just how quiet it is." Mary looked over at Casey Wells and smiled ruefully. "On most days, Vin would have stopped in and grabbed a cup of coffee and Chris would have picked up a paper by now."

"And JD would have made rounds and stopped in and checked that everything was okay." Casey added to the list of normal events. She paused and got a far off look on her face. "I miss him."

"Me too," Mary quietly concurred. Casey bit her bottom lip and nodded brusquely.

The bell over the door tinkled and one of the Eagle Bend deputies stepped in. "Sheriff Roberts wired and wanted to let you know they got back to Eagle Bend without incident."

"Thank you, deputy. I appreciate his consideration."

"Here's the message from Yuma's commander," the deputy handed the telegraph wire to Mary. Mary looked hard at the deputy already suspecting the news was not what she hoped.

"No reports of Indian troubles from any other communities stop Cannot afford to send troops at this time stop Notify of any change in status and will assist as necessary stop Colonel Frank Rawlins, Commander, Fort Yuma." Mary read the telegram aloud.

"Can't say I blame the man," the deputy observed.

"Neither can I. But the problem isn't Indian troubles but how a vigilante mob reacts to the perception that there is Indian troubles," Mary commented.

"I don't understand," Casey asked.

"The troops aren't needed to control the Indians. They are needed to control the white man from an unwarranted attack. There are proper channels to handle these disputes. Unfortunately without troops to enforce them, *IF* they'll enforce them; vigilante mobs often have their way," the deputy quietly explained.

"You sound like you speak from experience," Mary commented, realizing that the deputy probably had some Indian ancestry. 'Funny,' Mary thought, 'until he had said that she hadn't really noticed.'

A flash of pain crossed the deputy's face, "yes, ma'am. It's how I lost my family. If you'll excuse me, I need to make rounds." The deputy left quickly obviously not willing to pursue the subject.

Casey waited till he left. "Mary, what do you think happened?"

"I think that man has experienced an injustice that we can never really understand," Mary patted Casey's back. "Let's go for a walk and see what talk there is about town."

+ + + + + + +

Hammersmith eased away from the window when he heard the doorbell over the newspaper office and the deputy stepped out onto the porch. Hammersmith had listened to the conversation in the office. 'Well, it was a relief there weren't any troops around today. No, that wouldn't work at all.'

Hammersmith chuckled. He was looking forward to today. He was getting tired of Four Corners and a little mayhem just might make him feel a lot better. Dressing up like a redskin and attacking a stage. Oh yeah, just what was needed to relieve a little boredom. And shake the complacency of this damn town.

You would've thought that killing a lawman would create anxiety on the streets. And what do these folks do? Wire Fort Yuma. Be reasonable and wait and see what they say. *Jesus!* How reasonable can you get?

After the stage attack, he_would_have to return and make sure this town got riled. Bland would be good for that. That should be real interesting.

Hammersmith eased into the shadows as the editor and the Wells girl left the newspaper office. It was the editor that held Hammersmith's interest. She was rapidly becoming an obsession.

Hammersmith tracked her with his eyes. Mary Travis. She was a widow with a six-year old son. Except for some loose talk about her relationship with the seven protectors of the town, she had not been claimed. She must be very discreet. Hammersmith had seen her with Standish. Definitely, something there. Well, that would be it then. Kill Standish and Mary Travis was his.

Standish. Hell, with that healer Jackson six-feet under by now, where had the gambler gotten to? Hammersmith would need to figure that out. He had kept an eye on the delightful Mrs. Travis and any wires she had received -- she apparently didn't know where Standish got to. And if she didn't know, no one else in this town would.

Larabee, Wilmington, and Tanner were probably dead by now -- he envied Striker and Sullivan, he would love to have been in on that play.

So who was left? The gambler. The preacher. And the kid.

Hmmm, figure the preacher had pulled up stakes and was long gone, mourning for his great love, Miss Belle Corydon. Believe me, preacher, I bedded her -- you didn't miss a thing. Selfish, vain bitch. Hammersmith would give Belle credit for one thing -- she sure could act.

Where was the kid? Actually, Hammersmith found himself surprised that it really bothered him that he couldn't account for the youngest member of Larabee's gang. If Hammersmith was a betting man, okay - so he was a gambler, his links were Wilmington and the young Miss Wells. Hell, he wasn't really sure of that but more frequently than not when he observed Dunne; he was with one or the other of them. Damn, he wished he'd paid more attention to him.

And the gambler had apparently pulled up stakes. If Mary Travis was to be his, he'd have to make sure. He was the real threat. Make sure Standish was gone. Even better yet, dead.

Hammersmith watched the lovely blonde walk down the boardwalk till she started to enter one of the stores. He slowly closed his eyes imagining Mary with him. Oh yeah, Mary Travis would be his.

Hammersmith sighed. Well, there would be time for that. Right now, he had a stage to attack.

+ + + + + + +

Mary paused before entering Potter's store. She looked back down the boardwalk feeling that eyes had been on her.

"Mrs. Travis, are you all right?" Casey asked when she realized Mary wasn't following her through the door.

"Yes, I guess everything is. Does the town seem quiet to you, Casey?"

They both looked up and down the streets. Normally, by mid-morning, there would be a lot of pedestrians and horses and carts clogging the main street of Four Corners. Except for the deputy and one other man walking to the livery, there was no one. Mary found herself trying to place the stranger and where she had seen him. He was tall, moustached, with dark hair. He wore a grey duster but had the carriage of a gentleman. 'That was it.' He had been playing cards with Ezra when she had interrupted him to look for Nathan. Mary shrugged, strange that he was still in town.

"Mary . . . Mary . . ." Mary felt a light tap on her arm.

Mary shook her head, "I'm sorry, Casey. What were you saying?"

"I was just agreeing with you how quiet town was today. Reminds me of a Sunday."

Mary nodded in agreement and thinking it was just as well. If no one was about, there were no men to round up for a vigilante gang and ride out against the reservation. Mary sighed, what a way to be thinking.

Quiet. Mary was thinking this was good but really wishing that the quiet from the seven would be broken.

It had been four days with no word. Quiet.

Part 111

The late morning sun was still at a low enough angle that it shone through the papered-over windows, making them glow like luminarias. Josiah paused, tipping his head to one side, and was surprised to realize what he was thinking about: las posadas processions, firecrackers in a whitewashed town square, the soft red glow of novena candles, juarache sandals slapping against the dust.

"Whatcha' thinkin' about, Josiah?" Nathan was laying a wrung-out cloth over the back of a chair, smiling in a friendly way, and Josiah shrugged and grinned.

"Mexico," he said softly. "A mission I know there."

Nathan nodded, smoothed the cloth beneath his hands. "Well, Vin's sleepin' again. I think I'm gonna' go out and grab a smoke an' stretch my legs a little. That ok with you?"

"Sure." Josiah turned away from the window and drew up a chair, then lowered himself into it with a satisfied groan. "We'll be fine in here. Take your time."

The preacher pulled a thick piece of kindling from the wood box next to the stove and turned it over several times in his hand, then drew his knife, tipped back far enough in his chair to cross his feet on the table, and began to whittle. The cabin was silent, with only Vin's soft, regular breathing to offer any counterpoint to the sound of sparrows feeding in the pines outside. Josiah focused on the long, slender strips that peeled off with each stroke of his knife, the new wood fresh and white beneath, the tangy pine odor rising to sting his nostrils. After a while, he began to speak softly to one in particular.

"Spent a lot a' time in missions, growin' up," he said. The knife curled up another shaving of wood. "My father bein' a missionary an' all." The wood strip fell to the floor and he started a new strip. "We'd go there for food . . . Bibles . . . cast-off clothing rich people had given for the poor." Josiah's hands paused for a moment as his vision turned inward, remembering. "If there was anything left after we gave it away, my father would let me see if it fit me. If it did, then I had me a new pair a' pants or a shirt." The preacher chuckled mirthlessly and began to strip the wood again. For a long moment after that, the only sound was the long scritch of his knife blade against the soft pine. Then there was a soft sigh from one of the bunks not far away, and Buck's tired voice spoke softly.

"You ain't the only one. I wore my share a' hand-me-down's," he said. He was silent a long moment, and Josiah paused in his whittling but kept his eye on the wood, then started up again when Buck started talking once more, as though playing him an accompaniment. "'Course, my mama always bought things, too. I remember this one pair a' knickers--" Buck choked suddenly, and then continued. "Well, I know what you mean about hand-me-downs from strangers."

"They ain't real comfortable," observed Josiah.

"No, they ain't," agreed Buck.

Several more moments went by, only the sound of the knife against the pine and the tracker's even breathing. Then Josiah turned the stick over in his hand and started on the other side.

"I never knew my mother," he said in a deep, sad rumble. "She died right after I was born." He paused to throw a rapid glance to Buck's face from under his lowered brows, then shook his head as if to himself and resumed his whittling. "I don't think there was ever a soft or feminine thing in our house. The whole time I was growin' up. Eventually drove my sister mad, I think." He turned the stick a bit farther when the knife caught on a knot, and then worked the strip of wood free and shook it to the floor. "My father didn't believe in softness. . . or beauty. He made it his personal business that everythin' was black in our house: our clothes, Bibles, hymnals, hats. The only things white were the sheets on the beds, and the towels. And the crockery. Things were black, or they were white. Period." Josiah lifted the stick up and scrutinized it with squinted eyes, turning it in the light. Then he laid it down on the table and stretched, stood, and walked to the doorway to open it and stand looking outside. His voice, when he spoke again, floated back into the cabin over his shoulder.

"I remember one time, when we were in India, I fell down a flight a' stone steps. Banged my knees up pretty bad, cut my forehead, here, over my eye." He gestured with one finger, half-turning to show Buck where the cut had been before looking back out at the forest. "By the time I got home, I was a bloody, sorry-lookin' mess. I'd been cryin' the whole way, too. Couldna' been more'n four years old, I reckon. I'd been thinkin' the whole way home, that when I got there things would be all right. That my father would grab me up in his arms and hug me, and tell me how brave I'd been to make it home by myself like that. An' then that he'd take care a' me, make it all feel better somehow. Put things right again."

Josiah bowed his head and clenched one fist, and was silent a long time. Then he continued, and his voice was tight. It broke in the middle.

"Instead, when I got there, he beat me for bein' late. An' for cryin'. He said I'd made a terrible example for all the heathens there, showin' 'em that a Christian boy wasn't any stronger than anyone else, after he'd told 'em they'd be stronger if they brought God into their lives. He sent me to bed without supper, without even washin' off my face. He never did hug me -- not then, and not once, in all the years before he died.

"I used to see other children . . . there, an' here in the cities an' towns we visited . . . with their mothers. Women who held their hands . . . " and Josiah paused to regard his own massive hand with wonder, his eyes sparkling suddenly, " . . .an' who walked with little steps that children can keep up with. With beautiful dresses a' lace, an' silk . . .beautiful colors, like butterflies an' flowers an' everythin' that's beautiful in the world. Smellin' like flowers, too. With light, pretty voices, an' sweet words for their children. I used to dream about my mother . . . that she woulda' been that way if she'd lived. I used to wish I was one a' those other children. I . . . I even prayed over it, prayed I might be adopted or somethin', an' get a mother." Josiah chuckled in a suddenly embarrassed way, and lowered his chin to his chest, and fell silent. The cabin was quiet a long time, and then Buck said softly, his eyes shut:

"A smell a' lilacs, an' a dress that makes her eyes look as blue as the sky . . . Knowin' what a man likes, how to make him feel like a man. Knowin' even better just how to love her little boy child, how to make him feel more special than any other man in her life."

"Yes," agreed Josiah. Buck opened his eyes.

"That's my mother," he said. "That's just exactly what my mother was like."

Josiah turned slowly from where he stood, to look at his friend with sad eyes. "I know," he said. "And I've _always_ envied you that."

Buck caught his breath, the afternoon spinning to a slow halt around him, as Josiah blinked slowly and then rubbed one thick finger against an eyelid. He came back into the room slowly, shutting the door behind him, and sat down again at the table, facing Buck. He spoke without looking up.

"I'm sorry," he said. His voice trembled. "I'm sorry, Buck. For what I did. An' thought." He looked up then, and his blue eyes swam with grief. "But most of all, I'm sorry for what I said t' ya'. If I could take the words back, I would. It's that temper a' mine. It's just plain diabolical. Now you know . . . why I'm not fit to ride with." His face darkened with shame, and he looked down at the table again, at the piece of wood laying on it in a pile of wood chips.

"I thought . . ." Buck broke off, and then cleared his throat and tried again. "I thought you figured _I_ wasn't fit t' . . . ride with. Bein' what I am, an' all."

"What I called you." It was a statement, not a question, and Buck nodded somberly. Josiah shook his head. "An' I'm the son of a missionary," he said softly. "Now THAT's what should be an epithet. Never known one yet that was any good." The preacher shook his head and laughed. "Just goes to show, you can't tell what a boy's gonna' be like by how it sounds. We each make our own destiny. Our parents included." He fixed Buck with a steady look, and licked his lips. "I'd be proud t' ride with you any day a' the week, Buck Wilmington. I don't reckon I can call you my friend no more, but--"

"I'll deck the man that says you ain't." Buck's voice had taken on a velvet tone that made Josiah look up in surprise, and then smile as relief spread over his features like the rays of sun spilling over the horizon at dawn. He nodded, then picked up the stick and began to whittle again, whistling softly under his breath.

"Son of a missionary," mused Buck, one arm beneath his head. "Son of a . . . _mish_?"

Josiah laughed. "Now _that_ one might catch on."

"I'm back," announced Nathan, opening the door and stepping inside. He stopped when he sensed the difference in the room, and looked from Josiah to Buck and then back again. "You two ok?" he asked.

"Yes, Mother," snickered Buck. "We played nice while you were out."

He exchanged a sly glance with Josiah, and both men burst into low chuckles. Nathan nodded to himself and just stood where he was while they finished what they were doing. It sounded, he thought smugly, like his timing had been perfect.

Part 112

"Get up."

Bland groaned and pulled his blankets up higher over his head as someone kicked roughly at his booted feet again. "Go 'way," he mumbled angrily.

"Boss's orders," said the same voice. This time the kick that was delivered rolled Bland halfway onto his back, and he sat up with a snap of the blankets that threw dust across the campsite. Several men complained loudly, one of them chunking a stone in Bland's direction. The man who'd been waking the others grinned down at Bland smugly and took one step back from him.

"The damn sun ain't even half up!" yelled Bland. "An' the stage ain't due into Four Corners 'til nearly _midnight_. What's the matter with you?"

A second man spoke up calmly from where he squatted by a small fire, a tin cup of coffee cradled in his two hands. He looked across the fire and the open space to John Bland and said: "We ain't attackin' the stage when it arrives in town, you idiot. But if you wanna' stay here, I think we can arrange that." He held Bland's gaze for a long minute, until the smaller man cleared his throat and looked away.

The man squatting at the fire watched Bland shake out his blankets with a lot more fuss than was called for, raising a cloud of dust that drifted through the whole camp. He looked at the film of dust that was settling out of the air into his coffee as a result, threw it out with disgust, and stood up to go saddle his horse. There was a long way to ride yet today, and a lot to do once they got where they were headed. He looked back at Bland one more time as the man rolled up his bedroll, muttering crossly, and tied it shut. Suddenly, he realized he'd had enough.

Several long strides carried him to the fellow; then he grabbed Bland by the back of his shirt collar and swung him around so that he could deliver two swift, hard punches to the man's midsection. He let go and Bland dropped gasping to the ground, his face purple.

"Shut the fuck up," he said to Bland.

Then he went on about his business.

+ + + + + + +

Chanu stood at the edge of the river, facing east. The sky was pale overhead, but glowing with life and warmth where the sun was about to slip above the mountains. He raised his arms and closed his eyes as the ball of light slid into view over the distant peaks and the warmth of a new day raced across the desert to envelop him and everything else in its embrace. He opened his eyes, then, and sang his morning prayer song, and then stepped down to the edge of the river and washed, and thought about the new day as he did so, as he always did.

This one was an unusually important day, though, for some reason Chanu couldn't quite lay a finger on. He'd had strange dreams, some of them troubling and some of them feeling good. But it was clear that there were things moving that were unsettled and unsettling, and that they were things that Chanu was being called to pay attention to even if he couldn't figure out what they were yet. He rose from having washed, the cold water sluicing off his body as he did so, and shook it off him with a laugh of joy, his wet hair slapping against his shoulders. Ha, he thought, if life runs so strongly in this river and in the sun, then the truth will run, too. I must talk to my father, and he can help me find it.

The young man turned his steps away from the river and climbed the bank, his eyes scanning the ground and the landscape. He noticed the lizard tracks in the sand beneath the tamarisk, and smiled when he saw the marks where the little brother had himself greeted the sun only a moment before. He let the flittering of several doves draw his attention to a small bush that was heavy with berries, and stopped and touched his fingers to one of them after the birds flew away at his approach. Early winter, he thought, and hard. It fit with the other signs that had been noticed lately. Kojay had even pointed up into the mountains a few days before and said that the storms they could see gathered there were no longer those of summer. "It will snow up there before the next moon has passed," he had said. Now, looking at the fat dark berries of a bush that usually bore much later in the year, Chanu nodded to himself. His father had been right. He was right so often. He would, indeed, know what to do about the half-remembered dreams.

+ + + + + + +

The group of silent riders crested a rocky hill and looked down to see a knot of horses drowsing in the shade of several ironwood trees. The men who'd ridden them there showed up here and there on the surrounding rocks as the larger group loped down into the declivity and approached them, and when they reined in there were nearly thirty men from Michaels' mine compound facing fourteen more who'd been in Four Corners and stationed here and there around Eagle Bend as well. Hammersmith strolled out of a hidden cleft in the rocks behind the trees, and eyed the leader of the larger group up and down coolly.

"Things on schedule?"

"They were when we left Apex yesterday mornin'." The man who answered glanced suddenly at Bland in a way that created a small shock of awareness in Hammersmith. Something had clearly happened between those two men on the trail, and the leader of the arriving group was checking to see if Bland, being a special hire of Michaels', was going to complain about it now that he had Hammersmith to appeal to. But Bland simply looked elsewhere and remained silent. A sneer raced quickly across the face of the man sizing him up, and he turned back to Hammersmith and grinned ferally.

"Good." Hammersmith glanced once more from the hired gun to Bland and back again, curious about what had gone on between them. He shrugged then. No business of mine, he thought, just so they get the job done. "All of you get down an' come back here. There's a spring and some shade. I've got the things Belle ordered for us, with me. We'll dress here, and then ride to the attack site."

+ + + + + + +

"Warriors."

"Yes." Chanu nodded. "There were warriors."

"But you cannot remember what they were doing. Why they were dressed for war. Only that they were there, and then not there."

"Yes." Chanu sighed and looked up at his father, who sat across the lodge from him, his gaze fixed on something unseen.

"Hmmm." Kojay closed his eyes, the wrinkles folding shut on his face as he lifted it towards the smokehole. Chanu looked down at his own hands, and tried to remember more. But nothing more would come. He could see the warriors, mounted on their horses . . . and then nothing seemed to happen. They'd just simply dispersed. The whole dream had vaporized with them, trailing away into long tendrils of smoke that rose to the morning light and was gone. Kojay cleared his throat, and Chanu looked back up at him, expectantly. The old man opened his eyes, and looked at his son.

"All I can think of," he said slowly, "is to honor the dream by making it so. If it is important . . . " He shook his head, looking down into himself. "It _is_ important. I don't know how or why. So we will do this." Kojay stood up, and Chanu with him. "Gather the other men," he said, "and tell them that those who feel they are right in themselves and should participate in this, should prepare for a sweat. I will tell the crier to go through the people and tell them what is happening."

+ + + + + + +

"Lookie here!" The man shook out a buckskin shirt with a spray of short fringe standing up along the sleeve seams, and a chorus of whistles and catcalls greeted the sight.

"Whoo!" A dark-haired man put his head back, whooping, and then threw his hat to the ground with a wide grin. "This is gonna' be FUN!"

"Handle those things carefully," cautioned Hammersmith. "There's barely enough of 'em to go around. And they're really made just for struttin' around a stage in, not riding. So don't tear 'em up."

Several more loud whoops sounded raucously as the men broke opened a crate of wigs and waved them about. "I got me a scalp!" yelled one man, and the others laughed and reached in to get one they could wave about, too. Several tall bottles were passing through the mass of men, and Hammersmith was watching them closely. A little was ok; it would help the men loosen up and act the part. But too much could scuttle the plan. He looked up and locked eyes with Thompson, who was standing on the far side of the area with his arms folded across his chest and a look of pure disgust on his face. Hammersmith scowled.

"Hey! What's with all these clothes!" A blond-haired man stood up on a rock so he was above the group and shook a pair of pants in one hand a shirt in his other at Hammersmith. "All the Injuns I ever seed was half nekkid!"

"If you was half-nekkid, Sal, they'd see you wasn't red!"

"Yeah!" yelled another man, "They'd yell, 'Hey! We're bein' attacked by white-skins!'"

The crowd of men roared its approval at these comments, and Sal was tugged unceremoniously down from his perch to be decorated in buckskin. Hammersmith looked up at the sky and the sun, and figured it had to be nearly three o'clock. They'd better hurry. There was a long way to ride after they were dressed.

He started unbuttoning his own shirt. Thank God, he thought, I don't have to run around like a filthy, half naked savage.

+ + + + + + +

The men who'd stood forward to honor the dream had prayed and done a sweat. They'd fasted all day, and now each man went to his own lodge and stood looking at the things he'd thought perhaps he would not see again soon. For the women of the lodges had laid out their war things, and the breechclouts lay on the sleeping robes, and the feathered lances leaned again against their shields, on the racks before their lodge doors.

Chanu slipped from his usual garments and laid them solemnly into the arms of the woman who cared for his lodge. It should have been his wife, he thought briefly, avoiding saying her name in his mind so as not to disturb her in the afterworld. But she was there, and he was here, and what could anyone do? He looked at his bare arms and legs and chest, and sighed a long sigh, and then rubbed his hands briskly on his own skin. The way to go into battle was without any more clothing than a man had to wear; no one knew why, but if one was wounded through clothing, the wound tended not to heal well. Often the man died after a long sickness. Some thought that this was because the arrow or bullet that struck through clothing pressed some of the hide or material into the wound and so soiled it somehow, but no one really knew. They just knew that the way to fight was without anything like that in the way. Then any wounds received tended to heal quickly and well.

Chanu finished rubbing his skin and smiled at how alive it felt after the sweat and then the rubbing. The long breechclout he wore in battle had a tail that hung down almost to his heels in back, and he had forgotten how heavily it rode on his hips. It felt good, too. The woman held out his heavy war moccasins, which were beaded with the signs of things that were sacred to him, personally, and which came up almost to his knees to protect him from brush he might have to ride through. They felt good, too, when he put them on, and he straightened then and looked at the woman once more. She lowered her gaze and held out the pouch to him that had his special things in it, the things only for war, things to keep him safe and make him strong and brave for the people. She left the lodge after she gave it to him, and he opened the wrappings and began to take out the few feathers that were his right to wear, and the paint made of earth and animal fat that was also his right to wear. War had ceased when he was still too young a man to have won many honors, but Chanu had been a good fighter and a brave man even then. The pouch was not empty.

He dressed his hair carefully, the way it had been shown him in his young-man's vision years before, and then painted the top half of his face dark to show that he had lost a member of his heart's own to war with the whites, and then put the small white circles of hailstones that represented the power of Spirit in his life upon the skin of his shoulders and chest. He plaited into his dressed hair the clipped feather that meant he'd been wounded in battle, and the red-tipped that meant he had killed an enemy hand-to-hand, and the others with other meanings. He dipped his fingers into the ochre last of all, and made the signs on his arms and lower face that meant he was of the Fox Society, warriors who would not abandon the helpless of the village, even at the cost of their own lives, and then he stood looking at his own reflection in the shiny bit of metal he used as a mirror, and wondered what it was all about, that he should dress so again, after so many years.

He picked up the quiver of arrows, his hand running thoughtfully and with powerful memory along the beaded and furred war-quiver that tailed long with the whole skin of a fox. Then he went outside and took up his war shield and feathered lance, and got onto his war pony, and rode towards the center of the village.

The boys who were too young to remember seeing warriors before ran before him and before the others, shouting in excitement. Small dogs yapped and were silenced. The women watched quietly as their men rode past them, and then one of them raised a trill of pride, the strong-heart women's war song of the old days, and one by one the other women picked it up and the village rang with the sound of remembered strength.

+ + + + + + +

Hammersmith looked at his own face in one of the mirrors they'd hung around the spring on the scrubby trees, and scowled. The wig looked authentic enough; it had long braids that hung down over each of his shoulders, and the headband was made of red and white beads in some sort of geometric design that was very convincing. Belle had done a good job figuring out what to order. Nevertheless, it really was the dregs of the whole job, this part. It was bad enough he'd had to dress like an itinerant cowboy to bait Standish into a game without being recognized . . . but this. Hammersmith frowned, shifting his gaze to Thompson, who was still standing unconcerned at the far edge of the group, his arms folded. He'd made it clear he wasn't going to shave off that red beard for anything or anyone, and that pretty much ruled him out of the whole game. Still, it just made Hammersmith want to go over there and shave it off the man, himself.

Twisting opened the pot of grease paint in his hand, the gambler returned his gaze to the mirror and began to daub on bright red war paint. Ah, he thought, now this could be interesting. He drew a line across his cheeks that ran over the bridge of his nose, and grimaced to see how it worked. Very threatening. He recapped the red paint and took out some that was yellow. Two lightning bolts on either cheek made him even more prepossessing. Hmmm. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. He looked around him at the other men, all of whom were likewise engaged in decorating their own faces to hide their identities, or poking tall feathers into one-anothers' headbands, and couldn't help but grin. Well, Thompson was a stick in the mud, and he could just sit this one out and welcome to it. He reached out quickly to snag the bottle as it made another round, took a long drag that laid liquid fire down into his gut, and passed it along with a satisfied belch.

"C'mon!" He picked up his rifle, which he had earlier hung several feathers from, and pointed over his own head towards the horses. "Finish up! Time to go!"

Forty-some-odd men began to whoop and holler, and move towards their horses. Several of them danced in a mocking fashion, patting their hands over their mouths. Thompson, watching, shook his head and couldn't help but smile. That Michaels was pretty smart, he thought. They did look like a bunch of Indians, and by the time the lone survivor of their attack got to town and told what he'd seen, the whole territory would be in an uproar. The reservation village wouldn't see many more days of peace and quiet before it was burned to the ground.

+ + + + + + +

The village was silent, even the dogs quiet. Not a child cried, not a bird sang.

The men rode into the center of the village from the four directions, their lances up in war-position, shaking their shields before them so that the honors hanging from them rattled loudly. That and the muffled thumps of the war ponies' hooves were the only sounds.

The four groups came together until they stopped with an empty square between them, and stilled their shields. The feathers hanging from their lances fluttered in the wind that rose to blow from the west, and the old people among the village raised their faces at that and made soft sounds of approval. Then the group of warriors that had ridden in from the east raised their lances and shook them. They shook their shields, and they sang their war songs loudly, and then they fell silent. The group on the south followed, repeating the same actions, and then they, too, fell silent. Then the west did it, and finally the men to the north.

Then the warriors did as they had done in Chanu's dream, and they sat quietly without fighting or doing anything at all that you would expect warriors to do, and lowered their lances and backed their ponies and separated to disappear among the lanes between the lodges.

Kojay stepped into the place that had been a square before, that was now only a place like any other, and looked about him at the people. "It is done," he said.

Everyone went back to their lodges, and the women began to ladle out food for the men who had fasted all day, and the drums came into the center of the village and began to talk, and after a longer while the people came out and began to dance and to honor their warriors and the one who had Dreamed. The warriors who returned to the circle wore their everyday things, for no one knew yet how the Dream ended.

But their war shields and lances remained on the racks by the doors of their lodges, ready. And the war ponies remained separated from the rest of the herd, tethered close by the lodge of each warrior.

+ + + + + + +

The forty-some-odd men in buckskin and war paint and feathers sat on a low ridge above the stage road between Eagle Bend and Four Corners. They'd been in place, ready, since late afternoon. Just in case. The stage had been supposed to go by at about 6 pm. Hammersmith closed his watch and tucked it back into the pocket of his buckskin pants. It was just after 7 now.

Where the hell was the stage?

Part 113

Lottie Gray was twenty years old and on her way to her first position. She'd finished her course work at the Pennsylvania Normal School in Lancaster only two months ago, and everyone had told her how lucky she was to have already landed a job. Granted, it was in the distant dusty town of Tucson, and the pay wasn't all that much, but . . . Miss Gray lifted her chin and pressed her lips together. Well, it's what had made the job something a young woman fresh out of teacher's college could get, so she wasn't about to complain.

"Goin' fur?" The older woman sitting across from Lottie in the bouncing stage had to repeat her question before the young woman heard her, and then Lottie blushed and nodded.

"To Tucson," she replied. "Sorry; I didn't hear you at first."

"No never-mind to me," said the woman. She settled back against the dusty cushions behind her again and smiled genially. "Figured you was wool-gatherin' somewhere. Where you from?"

"Lancaster, Pennsylvania," answered Lottie. The sudden sound of the words dragged a catch into her throat as images of green pastures and grazing sheep and little white church steeples suddenly rose in her minds' eye. Oh, it was so far away!

"Maybe on your way to meet up with a beaux or swain or some such?" The woman's eyes gleamed mischievously and Lottie blushed again, shaking her head, the images of Lancaster blowing away on the dry wind.

"No, ma'am. I'm a school teacher. On my way to take up a position in Tucson."

A large man in too small of a suit grinned from the far corner he'd pressed himself into some hours before when he'd squeezed in at Eagle Bend. "You won't be teachin' long!" he said.

Lottie stared at the man coolly. What on earth did he mean by that? Her pique must have shown on her face, because the woman across from her reached out and patted Lottie's hand reassuringly. "He means, dearie," she said, "that one a' them Arizonie boys'll sweep y'off yore feet afore the year's out."

Lottie found herself blushing yet again, and lowered her face to hide it. The big man laughed.

"They always do!" he boomed. "Them Arizona range riders snatch up any filly smart enough to teach school who's purty t' boot, fast as a hen on a grasshopper! An' yo're sure purty!" He laughed again, not unpleasantly, and the others in the stage's crowded coach chuckled with him, eyeing the pretty young school teacher's innocent distress with affection. A middle-aged man who was traveling with his wife and young daughter shook his head at the larger man in the corner, although his eyes were crinkled with friendliness.

"I think we've managed to tease our young immigrant enough," he said. "We outta' leave off before she decides Arizona territory folks are just too forward an' goes back east."

"That's right, John." The man's wife leaned around the little girl sitting between herself and Lottie. "Don't you let them galoots scare ya', honey. You'll never meet any finer men than the ones in Arizona territory."

"WHOAAA!!!" The occupants of the coach didn't need to hear the driver's call to the team to know that he was drawing the barreling conveyance to a halt. The people on the forward-facing seats half-tumbled into the laps of those across from them, and two of the women had to grab their hats not to lose them.

"Gracious, John!" The woman whose daughter sat next to Lottie threw a protective arm around the child and drew her close. Her husband produced a long pistol from somewhere, as did the heavy man in the corner, and Lottie gasped when she saw them do it. She looked outside again then, as the coach rolled slowly to a halt, and heard the woman across from her say in a low, worried tone:

"There's no stop here. We shouldn't be stoppin'."

"No cause for alarm!" called a voice outside, but even so the two men swung opened the door on the other side of the coach and the heavy one leaned out as the one called John stepped to the ground with his pistol clearly visible, his eyes sharp. Lottie leaned her head far out the window on her side of the coach, ignoring the low calls of the other women not to do so. She couldn't bear not to know what was going to happen. Her heart was in her throat.

She saw the driver leap to the ground suddenly from above her line of sight, and he was walking towards a rider in a bright red coat, his hand outstretched in greeting, but shaking his head. "Don't tell me you're gonna' regulate how fast I can go out _here_!" he called.

The man in the red coat looked at another sitting a black horse next to him, and fidgeted. The man on the black horse, who was dressed head to toe all in black himself, looked at the other fellow like he was almost enjoying his discomfort. Then he dismounted to walk up to the driver and shake his hand. The man they'd called "the shotgun" appeared then, too, and John with him, although the heavy man remained hanging from the coach door with his weapon drawn.

Lottie saw the men talk for some time in voices too low to hear. The man in the red coat remained on horseback, and when she saw him glance behind her she turned to discover in great surprise that a third rider was sitting his horse just behind the back wheel of the stage on her side.

"Oh!" Lottie was so surprised that she jumped and bumped the back of her head on the top of the window opening. The young man had been grinning at her when she first turned around, but now his face fell with dismay.

"Miss! Are you all right?" He leaped lightly to the ground to approach the window, and Lottie drew back, afraid.

"Oh! It's Mr. Dunne!" The woman across the way from Lottie suddenly thrust her hands out the window. "I shoulda' reco'nized you from the get-go! What're you all doin' way out here?"

"Just some law business," replied the young man. He stood on the ground with his horse's reins in his hand, looking up at the woman with an open, friendly face. Lottie put her head back out a little farther and glanced at the woman speaking to him.

"My, where are my manners! Mr. Dunne, I'd like you t' meet a new schoolteacher on her way out west for the first time! Miss . . . "

"Gray." Lottie's mouth was suddenly dry. "Lottie Gray."

"Miss Gray, Mr. Dunne. Mr. Dunne, this is Miss Gray. She's from Pennsylvania."

"Is that right!?" Young Mr. Dunne stepped up closer to the window. "You gonna' be teachin' around here? 'Cause if--"

"JD!" Lottie and JD both turned to look at the call, and Lottie saw the man in black walking towards them. He stopped to eye Lottie steadily for a fraction of a second, and in that second the young schoolteacher felt like the pale agate eyes had taken her measure, all the way to her marrow. For a moment, she forgot to breathe. Then the man shifted his gaze to the young man and Lottie sagged in relief. "We're through here," he said in a soft voice. "Mount up."

Mr. Dunne touched the brim of his hat with two forefingers and smiled at Lottie, then leaped lightly into his saddle and nodded. The man in the black and the one in the red coat swept past on their horses at that moment, and the third man whirled his horse to join them. Lottie put her head out farther and watched as the three men left the road and raced their horses up into the low hills to the north. She was called back to the present as the coach dipped and shook when the two male passengers got back in.

"We'll have to turn back to Eagle Bend," the man called John was explaining.

"Trouble?" The woman across from Lottie threw a glance to the girl as she sat back down on the seat looking almost wind-blown, and then looked at the man again.

"Apparently someone was planning to hold us up, ahead there somewhere. But those men found it out. We'll just go back to Eagle Bend and there'll be no trouble. We may have to lay over there a day or two until the trouble's cleared up, but then we'll be able to go on."

"A day or two!" Lottie felt like all the normal things she knew about were suddenly shaken to their core. The coach was starting to move again, and turning in a big circle to go back the way it had come.

"Well," the woman across the way patted her hands again, "it's better than bein' held up, ya' gotta' admit!"

Lottie nodded, still feeling a little numb.

"An' besides," said the man called John, "you got to meet one of the finest examples of an Arizona territory rider there is."

"Mr. Dunne?" Lottie's voice was very small when she asked it, and the man shook his head, smiling.

"Oh, he's comin' right along," he said, "but I was thinkin' of that man dressed all in black. You'll be able to tell your children someday that Chris Larabee saved your life."

"Don't you forget that now," added the woman across the way. "Larabee's the fastest gun around these parts, an' as square as they come."

"Sad, though, what they say happened to his family." John's wife's voice was somber, and the conversation shifted to stories of pioneers and ranchers and gunmen they knew of.

But Lottie Gray didn't hear what they said. She was staring at the sage going past, her mind elsewhere, wondering with amaze what else was going to happen now that she was in the real West.

Part 114

The late afternoon was quiet. Josiah was out gathering firewood. Nathan had stepped outside as well, leaving the cabin door open to let in air and so he could hear the men inside if they needed him.

Buck stared at the slats of the bunk above him in a kind of lazy, half-relaxed way. Afternoon sunlight slanted in through the open doorway, spilling onto the floor in a pool of liquid yellow. In that single quiet moment, it was possible to believe that there had never been an endless mountain ride or a dark dank cellar or Sullivan or even...Chris.

Last night, before he left, Chris had apologized to him for sending Vin after him, for letting Belle swear out charges. Before that, he'd said, clear enough so he figured Buck would understand him, that he knew what had happened in the cellar with Sullivan. And Buck was pretty sure he was probably sorry about that too. But--and in a way this surprised Buck as much as it would surprise anyone--it didn't matter. Whatever had been was finished. Whatever there was, was waiting on something that would never come. Vin and Josiah had told Chris about Belle. Buck had to figure that Vin had told Chris about Sullivan too. It wasn't trust or friendship or anything else, just facts someone else had laid out in front of him.

It wasn't that Buck didn't appreciate the effort. It made him downright glad to hear Vin speak up for him after everything that had happened. But...Chris had known him for a long time. They'd been in more gun battles together than Buck could likely count. Buck knew when Chris would hold and wait, when he would fire, how low he would crouch when he ran and exactly where and when to lay down covering fire. He knew the kind of horse Chris preferred to ride, what sort of gun he'd choose out of a rack, where his blind spot was in a fight, and just exactly what he'd stand up for no matter what the odds. Even though Buck tried not to count on people too much, even though he figured what he gave had no bearing on what others might give back, he'd somehow thought that Chris knew who he was, that he at least knew the most important things.

Sure, there'd been times that Chris hadn't been there, had walked away mad about something Buck had stepped straight into, had been in the saloon when hell broke loose, or drifting down along the border where not even Buck wanted to find him. But Buck had always figured that when everything fell completely apart, when his back was flat against the wall and he had nothing left, that Chris would be there.

And now he knew that wasn't true.

He closed his eyes, breathed in deep and let it out. There must be better thoughts than these, he told himself.

Vin's quiet voice floated to him across the still air in the cabin. "What do you think about, Buck?"

Buck was startled by the question, not sure what the tracker meant. "Ever?" he asked.

"Now."

'You don't want to know what I'm thinking now,' Buck thought. What he said out loud was, "I think about women." And he made himself smile so Vin would hear that in his voice. "There was this one gal down in--"

"That ain't it."

"Ain't what?"

"What you've been lying there thinkin' about."

There was silence for a minute as Buck tried to figure the best way to answer. "You got shot because of me," he finally said.

"I got shot because a fella with a long rifle set up and fired at me. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you."

"Yeah." There was a low bitterness in Buck's voice making a sharp contrast to the bright afternoon outside and the still cool air in the cabin.

"I meant," Vin said, his voice still quiet, but carrying easily across the cabin. "That I wouldn't be alive."

"Hmmph," Buck said, crossing his arms over his chest. "How do you think you ended up out in the desert somewhere where some fella could take a shot at you?"

"Because I chose to be there."

There was silence for a moment. "Thank you for that."

Vin could hear a breeze blowing through the nearby pine trees, shifting the branches and leaving a soft rushing sound behind. It felt good here. So different from the way it'd felt back there in that cellar. "You killed Sullivan," he said.

"Yeah."

There was still something about that man that Buck couldn't quite shake free of. Just the name itself set up a flash of remembering--of his hands tied hour after hour, of sitting in that cellar with one ear always listening for the sound of the bar across the door scraping upward, of looking at Vin and knowing that everything that happened was his--Buck's--fault somehow, that Vin suffered because Sullivan hated him. Buck didn't think he'd ever been so glad to see anyone as he'd been when he'd seen Chris instead of Sullivan standing over Vin. It'd been so long--just Buck and Sullivan and Vin in the middle--that he'd forgotten there were other possibilities. It had been as if the world had opened up again to see Chris standing there. And then--Buck's expression darkened--yeah, and then...

"...sorry I let him get to me."

"What?" Buck hadn't even realized Vin was talking to him.

"I was sayin,'" And Buck realized the tracker's voice sounded tired. Wearin' himself out again, Buck thought, and wondered if he should call Nathan. "That I'm sorry, Buck, for lettin' Sullivan get to me like that. He just kept..." Buck could hear a sharp break in Vin's voice and he knew he should speak up, stop this conversation before it went to all the dark places it was threatening to go, but there was something about it, some need to see it all laid out in sunlight that made it impossible for him to say anything until Vin was finished. "He just kept coming at me, Buck. He _used_ me," there was disgust in Vin's voice when he said the word, "to get to you."

"Yeah."

"I shouldn't have let him."

Suddenly, Vin could hear the sounds of movement in the other bunk. He looked over. Don't be gettin' out of bed now, Buck, he thought with alarm. Nathan'll kill you. But Buck was just sitting up, leaning his back against the wall, his face tight with pain and something else Vin couldn't quite figure. "You listen to me," he said to Vin, and there was a snap in his voice that hadn't been there a moment ago. "There wasn't nothing you could have done. Do you hear me? You held on. Jesus, Vin! That's all anyone can ask in a situation like that. To hold on."

"All anyone could ask of you, too," Vin said.

There was silence again. "Nah," Buck said after awhile. "That was different. I made him hate me somehow and he took it out on you. And I'm damn sorry about that."

"It's Sullivan who should be sorry," Vin said.

"Reckon he is now," Buck commented dryly, hoping that maybe they were done with this conversation. There was something inside him that wanted to be anywhere but here, maybe in a saloon somewhere flirting with the pretty senoritas and not thinking about anything darker than whose bed he'd be sleeping in come nightfall.

Vin closed his eyes. He was tired and he could feel the fever burning just behind his eyes, waiting for a chance to push him down again. But there was something that wouldn't let go of him, something more that needed to be said. And he didn't even know what it was or how to say it. Nothing was right anymore. Things were skewed in a way that wouldn't be made right in the usual way of things, just by watching out and being ready and standing up when needed. And somehow, for reasons that maybe he couldn't have said out loud if someone asked, it was important that things be made right.

"Think they'll make it in time?" he asked.

"What?"

And Vin had to wonder if he wasn't still half-dreaming, because it seemed like every time he said something Buck had no idea what he was talking about. "To warn the stage," he said. "Ezra and JD and Chris. Do you think they'll be in time to stop the stagecoach from runnin'?"

"Oh, Chris'll get there on time," Buck said in a cool, sort of dangerous voice that didn't seem to Vin to fit the topic at hand. "He does that real well."

"For _other_ people, you mean?"

There was silence from the opposite bunk. "I don't mean anything," Buck finally said quietly. "Forget I said it."

'Let it lie,' Vin thought. 'Let it lie.' Buck and Chris were grown men. They'd known each other longer than Vin had known either one of them. He should leave it alone and let them work it out themselves. But, from the moment he left Four Corners to look for Buck, Vin had been smack in the middle of it. And it was too late now to get out.

"You oughta talk to him, Buck."

"Yeah," Buck said, as if he were clearing something hard and bitter from his throat. "I could tell him and he'd say he's sorry, but...ah hell, Vin, I've known that man for twelve years." Buck shifted on the bunk and Vin heard him pull up short at the pain the sudden movement set off in his leg. When he spoke again his voice was tight and Vin couldn't tell if it was from the pain in his leg or something else. "I've known him for twelve years," he repeated quietly. "If you asked me, I'd have told you that he knew me, too. But that ain't true. Do you see that? This ain't something that can come clean just in the telling."

"It'll come right, though," Vin said, wanting to say something, wanting to _do_ something, actually, that would set things back the way they'd been a week and a half ago.

"Nah," Buck said in a voice that sounded almost pensive. "I don't believe it will." Then, before Vin had a chance to respond, he spoke again and this time Vin could hear amusement in his voice. "It ain't so bad, you know. It ain't like I'm gonna shoot him or anything like that."

"What will you do?" Vin asked him quietly.

Buck let out a quick breath, almost like a quiet laugh. "There are other towns, lots of women I ain't met yet."

"So you would leave...just like that?"

Buck was quiet again for a long moment.

"No," he finally said, with a sadness in his voice that Vin didn't think he'd ever heard before. "Not 'just like that' at all."

Vin could hear Nathan out on the porch as he shifted in his chair and he wondered if he could hear the two men talking and if he could, what he would think of what they said to each other. And it occurred to Vin right then that no one else knew why Buck had left town; they all had ideas, maybe, but they didn't really know, would think it had to be over now. But it wasn't. It wasn't anywhere near over.

Part 115

The pale horse stepped over a fallen pine and its rider legged it into a jog again, his eyes scanning the forest closely. He was followed by nine other riders spread out in uneven fashion to either side of him, scouring the forest for sign of the missing men who'd escaped Michaels. It would be dark soon, and they were looking hard, their faces tight and grim, reluctant to go back to the mine compound with a second full day of nothing to report. Michaels was getting angry enough that someone might well pay for repeated failure with his life. Suddenly a man on the far end of the line raised a hand warningly as he reined in his bay. The others converged on his location carefully, from behind him, and dismounted far enough away to approach without disturbing whatever he had found.

It was hoofprints: three separate trails leading down the side of the mountain, towards the southeast. The man who'd dismounted from the pale horse dropped its reins and walked up closer, to kneel and study the tracks a long moment. He turned to look at the other men gathered. "Made this mornin' or thereabouts," he said shortly. "Scott, you, Sloan, an' Darnell folla' these tracks down the mountain an' see if you can catch up with whoever made 'em. But don't go farther than you can get back from by mornin'; they're prob'ly long gone. The rest a' you come with me. Some a' them men we're lookin' for can't travel yet so I'm figgerin' they musta' split up. We'll just see where the fella's who made these tracks came from, an' I betcha' we'll find them wounded ones an' that darkie Michaels's is so particular set on gettin' back." He stood up and walked to his horse, mounted, and gathered the reins. Three members of the group split off to ride downslope, and the other seven rode upslope.

An hour later the sun was setting, and the men had followed the trail into the outlying areas of one of the mine's lumber camps. The leader reined in and looked at his companions, then silently nodded towards one of the more distant cabins, from which a thin stream of pale smoke rose into the sky. The others nodded.

"What's the plan?" asked one of them in a low voice.

The man on the pale horse sat back against the cantle of his saddle and looped his reins over the saddle horn, then took a pouch of cigarette makings out of an inside vest pocket. He glanced at the cabin through narrowed eyes as he silently shook out a line of tobacco into the paper and then licked it shut to seal it, put the pouch back into his pocket, and struck a match. He eyed the man who'd asked him the question before he lit the cigarette, the match flaring between his fingers.

"Reckon we need t' know for sure it's them, before we send word to Michaels. Don't wanta' make a mistake on that." He lit the cigarette, shook out the match, and dropped it as the others nodded their agreement. The man on the pale horse began to smoke thoughtfully. After a few more moments, he gestured towards the cabin with the hand that held the cigarette, trailing a thin streamer of smoke behind his fingers. "Think you could git close enough to peek in one a' them winda's there, Hardy? Looks like they got 'em papered over to block the light some, but I betcha there's a gap somewheres." He turned around in his saddle to fix a sharp eye on a small, wiry man who sat astride an appaloosa behind him.

"Sure thing, Dutch. No problem at all."

Dutch nodded silently, closing his eyes briefly, and took another drag on the tobacco as Hardy slithered down from his saddle and seemingly vanished among the pines.

"Damn," whistled one of the other men softly. "Where the hell'd he go?"

"Hardy's half snake or somethin'." Dutch's laconic voice rose on the still air in a cloud of pale white smoke. "If he can't sneak up somewhere, it can't be snuck up on."

The men waited a long fifteen minutes in the silence of the evening forest as the afterglow colored the sky a pale, clear lavender-grey behind pines that were rapidly turning into brushy silhouettes. A barred owl called its low double-hoots from somewhere deeper in the gathering dark, and one of the horses stamped its foot heavily, the saddle creaking as it moved on the animal's back when it shifted its weight. Hardy materialized silently at the shoulder of the pale horse, his eyes gleaming up at Dutch.

"Two men layin' on bunks in there, look to be wounded," he said breathlessly, grinning. "One more -- a darkie -- cookin' somethin' at the stove."

Dutch stubbed out his cigarette against the cantle of his saddle, which was pock-marked with circular burn marks from previous cigarettes, and smiled. He looked back at the other men. "That's them," he said with satisfaction.

Dutch settled his hat lower on his head and pulled himself into a tighter body set. He licked his lips and his eyes gleamed in the dim light. "Wilson, go get Michaels an' some more men. The rest a' you: load up, git down, an' come with me."

+ + + + + + +

"We got trouble." Josiah's voice was low and breathless as he slipped rapidly in the side door of the cabin and shut it noiselessly behind him. He ran to the window and stood up against the wall next to it, then rolled his face far enough around to see out the edge of the glass between the wall and the paper they'd stuck into the sash. "Lower the lamps, Nathan," he said as he did.

The light inside the cabin dimmed as Nathan trimmed the wicks low enough that both lamps went out with one soft pop followed by another, and then the only light inside came from the shifting flames in the fireplace. They'd been using the stove for heat, so the fire on the hearth wasn't very high, with only small runners of orange dancing weakly along a bed of glowing coals. Nathan slipped over to stand near Josiah after picking up a rifle. He kept his eyes on Vin and Buck as he spoke to the preacher.

"How many?"

"Not sure yet. At least four, though." Josiah's voice was very low, and he pulled at the paper over the glass and dropped it to the floor. Vin found himself searching the darkness for a weapon. He might not be able to use a rifle, but he could damn sure--

"Vin! Heads up!" The whisper was nearly a hiss, and it was Buck's voice. Vin raised his left hand to catch a pistol that Buck was tossing to him across the short space between their bunks, and a belt filled with ammunition that followed it. He scrabbled his way into a sitting position, turning so that his back was against the wall to support himself, and facing the door at the other side of the room. His face and chest were deep in the shadows cast by the bunk over his head.

Buck levered himself off his own bed onto the floor and scooted closer to the doorway himself, a shotgun in one fist and a gunbelt with his heavy Colt in the holster trailing from the other. He had grabbed the nearest shirt to throw around himself before leaving his bunk, and it was the white one Josiah had taken off the night of their arrival and hung up to dry by the fireplace. Now the long tail on it trailed behind him on the floor as he inched his way to the wall, and the pale fabric coupled with the pale skin on his face and legs gave him a spectral appearance in the low light. Nathan glanced over at him silently, his eyes dark and his skin shining dully in the low, ruddy light of the coals.

"Buck," he whispered, "no weight on that leg."

The gunman nodded somberly, and then looked at Vin. The tracker leaned his head back against the wall behind him, and swallowed. His shoulder throbbed like hell from sitting up, and he had to admit that the light and dark patches in the cabin were sort of dancing around in his vision like ripples on a pond. But he'd be damned if he'd just lay abed while his friends risked their lives to defend him.

A sudden high scream was the whine of a bullet piercing the window glass to embed itself in the wall four inches from his head, glass shattering. Josiah poked his rifle out the hole that had been made, returning fire right away. He shot twice then held up, the smoke blowing back from the muzzle of the weapon as he pulled it back in the window, staring into the darkness outside.

"In the house!" The voice was distant, but they could hear it clearly in the stillness. "Surrender now an' we'll let ya' live! We know ya' got wounded! Throw out a white flag an' let us in!"

"Hope I don't have to remind you boys about what I said -- about Buck Wilmington and surrender," said Buck softly.

"Not a chance, Brother," smiled Josiah grimly.

The men in the cabin waited silently then, for the men outside to realize they weren't going to surrender. After that, they knew, there would be plenty of noise for a while.

Vin closed his eyes. The only sound in the complete silence was an occasional hiss as one of the coals on the hearth fell apart, exposing its glowing white center for the brief moment it took it to begin to cool and darken. Suddenly he heard a sharp intake of breath, and opened his eyes to see that Josiah and Nathan had raised their rifles to their shoulders and were even at that moment thrusting the barrels through the window glass. Long flames erupted from both weapons as their sudden thundering filled the cabin, the sound of breaking glass lost almost immediately in the din. Vin looked over to see that Buck had opened the door a small amount and shoved his pistol through the space, down low near the floor, and even as he looked the gunman fired and then fired again, and someone outside screamed in the darkness and in the crash of gunshots that was like hail on a roof.

Vin looked at the pistol in his left hand and then suddenly up. Tiny puffs of dust were visible in the reddish darkness just beneath the low rafters, and as he looked at that, puzzled, he saw a new puff form farther to his right than the others. And then, watching more intently, he saw another one form in line with the others, even farther to the right. Raising the pistol in a shaking hand, Vin brought up one knee and braced the pistol butt on it, and pointed it up in front of the last puff and in line with it. He couldn't hear a thing over the thunder of the weapons around him, but his sight was suddenly clear and focused and narrowed to a single place on the ceiling no larger than the palm of his hand. As he watched, seeing the slight quivering now of the boards above the cross-beams, the space he focused on grew tighter. Then he pulled the trigger: once, and then again, then a third time, in rapid succession. The loud crash of something hitting the roof and sliding down was followed by the short, cut-off scream of a man plummetting to the ground outside.

Vin swallowed, laid his head back against the wall, and tried to steady the sudden dancing of dark patches crowding the edges of his vision again. He laid the pistol, still clasped tightly in a slick hand, on the mattress next to him and tried to steady the shaking he could feel running through his frame. Josiah and Nathan were alternating shots now, one firing steadily out the window while the other reloaded, then reversing their positions. Buck sat amid a pile of spent shells, and kept stopping to reload and fire again. Vin knew they had to be firing at the bright spots made by the weapons of the men outside, but he couldn't see any of them from where he was.

His eyes fell again to the pistol in his hand, and he reached slowly with his right hand for the ammunition belt to replace the three shots he'd fired, gasping as the movement caused a sharp pain to rip through his shoulder like a flame. He got hold of it though, and then laid down the pistol and reached across himself to pull one shell from a loop in the belt, paused to pull his bad arm up and closer to his chest, then snapped opened the cylinder of the pistol awkwardly with his left hand and started to reload it. It flashed an image suddenly through him: of heat and rocks, and Buck down, of trying to reload a pistol left-handed through a haze of pain that had been almost unendurable. Vin bit his lips and drew out another shell. This wasn't half so hard, and he had done it that time. He could do it this time.

And around him, the thunder and roar of his friends' weapons reminded him that it was different this time in other ways, too.

+ + + + + + +

"What the HELL is goin' on in there!?" Dutch screamed and ripped off his hat and threw it to the ground. "Stop! Stop!" He got the men at the front of the cabin to stop firing, and when the ones at the back realized that had happened, they stopped too. There were a few more desultory shots from inside, and then the whole place fell silent, white gunsmoke drifting slowly through the trees around the cabin. Dutch motioned to the closest men and they approached, faces dark.

"That AIN'T one man," hissed Dutch to no one in particular. One of the men standing nearby laughed mirthlessly.

"No shit," he said in a low growl.

"Hardy! You SAID there was only the darkie and the two hurt guys in there! Where the hell did all this firepower come from?"

"Like I know!" Hardy's eyes glittered in the darkness. "Maybe the colored fella's a crack shot. Maybe the wounded guys got well or somethin'. How would I know? I only told you what I saw, an' they was layin' down on bunks an' lookin' puny!" Dutch ran furious eyes around the cabin area and talked almost to himself.

"Two men dead. Two wounded. This is ridiculous. I'll burn the bastards out. I'll burn 'em to the ground where they stand, right this minute."

"Dutch . . . Mr. Michaels. . . " Hardy's tentative voice shook but he stepped up into the leader's face and shook his head at him and insisted he think on what he was saying. Dutch had been shaking a single, tight fist as he spoke, his face corded and dark, but at Hardy's words he lowered his arm and stared into the other man's eyes a long moment.

"You're right," he said. "Burned bodies won't prove nothin' to Michaels." He looked around at the other men -- the ones left of the five who had started this fight with him after Wilson had left, which was to say himself, Hardy, and two wounded men -- one shot in the arm and another grazed on a temple. "We'll just wait 'til Mr. Michaels gets here to do that. Meanwhile, keep a close eye on the cabin an' fire at anythin' that moves. An' shoot through the winda's here an' there to keep them fella's inside squirmin' a bit. Damned bastards!" He walked off into the forest, pulling out his tobacco fixings and rolling a cigarette, kicking savagely at the fallen branches from the storm two nights before.

+ + + + + + +

"What's goin' on out there?" Buck's voice was low, his face at the narrow crack in the door.

"Can't tell." Josiah pulled his rifle back in the window but kept looking out for another moment. Then he stood the rifle on the floor, leaning it against the wall, and rubbed a hand through his hair. "Looks like maybe they're takin' a break to refigure things."

Nathan set down his own rifle and crossed the cabin to the bunk where Vin was sitting, the blanket wrapped loosely around his legs and the loaded pistol in his left hand but laying on the bed. His eyes were dull but he was still sitting up. Nathan shook his head.

"At least get down lower," he whispered. "You're sittin' up higher than anyone in here." Vin nodded and started to move, then grimaced and lowered his head, and Nathan slipped the pistol from his hand and said: "Josiah, give me a hand here a minute." Together they got Vin wrapped in several blankets and into a sitting position on the floor, in a corner formed between the foot of the bunkbed and the wall, and then Josiah went back to the window to keep watch while Nathan slipped over to Buck.

"Wrap this 'round your legs," he said softly, handing the gunman another blanket.

"Thanks. Gettin' cold in here," answered Buck. He tucked the blanket around himself, his eye still to the crack in the door. Nathan felt of his face and Buck shrugged away the contact. "I'm all right," he said shortly. "It's Vin that has the fever, not me."

"So far," said Nathan. Buck turned to look at the healer steadily, and Nathan shook his head. "Stay warm so you don't get one," he admonished.

Then he worked his way to the woodpile and back towards the center of the room. "I'm gonna' open the stovebox to feed in some more wood. Mind your heads; it's gonna' be more light in here for a minute." The others nodded and crouched lower as Nathan used a cloth to open the firebox door and yellow-orange light flooded the cabin. He shoved in several sticks of wood and then ducked as bullets spanged against the stove and ricocheted into the room; then he reached up from the floor to push the door shut again and plunge the room back into relative darkness as Josiah and Buck returned fire.

Silence again, and the chill that had been steadily creeping into the room lifted as the fire in the stove crackled and licked at the new wood.

"Everyone ok?" whispered Josiah.

"Yep."

"So far."

"I could use a beer," drawled Vin softly.

Part 116

Six passengers, the driver, and the shotgun -- eight people. They had made a difference for eight people.

Chris Larabee had given him a chance. Mind you, he had forced his way onto the team back at the Seminole village and now he was making a difference. The passengers had recognized him. Him! JD Dunne.

Hah! And Buck Wilmington thought he needed help with the ladies. JD smiled remembering Miss Lottie Gray of Pennsylvania. Young and pretty. They had a lot in common. He was an Easterner who had made it out here. If she wasn't going to be so far away, he could show her around. Teach her about how things were out here. Casey always thought she could out ride, out spit, and out throw any man. Casey was hard to impress. But oh, that gal on the stage she'd been right impressed with JD Dunne.

Oh, he knew he was no Chris Larabee. But when he came west to make something of himself, the opportunity he now had was beyond his wildest dreams. Riding with Chris Larabee.

JD looked ahead at the man he was riding behind. JD had ridden enough behind Chris Larabee to know something wasn't right. Chris almost seemed to be having a running conversation with himself. His head would jerk so suddenly that he had JD reaching for his gun time and time again until he realized that whatever problem was out there, the demons Chris was fighting on this trip were in his head. JD chuckled softly at his thinking, he_definitely_had been spending too much time with Josiah.

Ezra pulled up beside JD. "Care to enlighten me as to what you are finding humorous. Mr. Larabee seems intent on inflicting serious injury upon us."

"Ah, come on, Ezra. You know we need to get back to the others as fast as possible."

"I most certainly agree, Mr. Dunne. But some obstacles were never meant to be traversed. Some mountains never summitted. Some rivers never forded."

JD started laughing at Ezra, "we're in the high desert, Ezra, ain't much water."

"You miss my point, Mr. Dunne."

"Naw, I thing I got it." JD reined his horse in at another steep incline as Chris surveyed for a route down.

"There," Chris pointed to a narrow animal trail, probably elk, "we'll follow that."

Ezra rolled his eyes.

JD whispered to Ezra, loud enough for Chris to hear, "just don't think its me you need to be talking to."

JD could hear Chris chuckling as he took the lead down the narrow steep trail. Damn, he's enjoying this. All conversation halted for Ezra and JD as they concentrated on getting down to the valley below. There was almost no light now and they just wanted down. Both let out audible sighs of relief when they got to the valley floor.

"We'll let the horses drink and rest up here a few minutes," Chris ordered.

JD audibly groaned as his feet hit the ground. He winced as he started to walk, damn, he had been doing a lot of riding this past week. And they weren't heading home.

+ + + + + + +

Fuck, who were these men -- mountain goats?

Darryl Scott hated this. He had a bad feeling about all of this. These men were unhurt and in a hurry. And nothing was stopping them. He saw some of the terrain these men covered and had to wonder -- why? They'd ride over cliffs, down scree-filled slopes, climb steep ridges. Any obstacle, no matter how difficult, these men rode through them, not around them.

The only good news as far as Darryl was concerned was these men made no attempt to hide their trail. Even though Darryl and his men had to ride around some of these obstacles -- after all, it was only prudent -- they easily picked up the trail.

Where were these men going in such a hurry?

+ + + + + + +

"Where the hell is that stage?"

Men were asking what Hammersmith had been thinking for some time. It was almost dark now and the stage was at least two hours past due. Forty men dressed as Indians and no stage to hold up. This was getting ridiculous. What could've happened? Almost anything, Hammersmith thought sardonically. A robbery, a broken wheel, a felled horse, flash flood, delays, . . . okay, he got the point -- almost anything could have happened to prevent the stage from coming through.

"We need to make some decisions here. Bland, you come with me to Four Corners. We'll wire The Compound and get instructions. The rest of you wait here till midnight. If it doesn't come, it doesn't come. Before you change out of these gigs, raid some of the outlying ranches. Grab some livestock, burn some buildings. Just don't get caught."

"You sure you want Bland with you?" The leader of the men from the mining compound asked skeptically.

"Oh yeah. He's perfect for riling up the town. We'll ride out to the rendezvous tomorrow with Michaels' instructions."

The leader nodded.

"Come on, Bland. Let's ride."

+ + + + + + +

"Let's ride," Chris capped the canteen he was filling from the creek. There was no protest from Ezra or JD. They were as anxious as Chris was to get back to the lumber camp.

Their luck had held. It wasn't that Chris didn't have confidence in Ezra and JD. In fact, Ezra was surprising the hell out of him. He figured Ezra had given that talking to Old Pete about his stage driving. Mary had been nagging him for weeks to say something to Pete driving like a bat through hell. He knew it. He just hadn't wanted to deal with it. And Ezra had stepped into the breach.

Chris also knew better about Ezra's complaining about the riding they were doing. Ezra understood the stakes and Chris sensed they couldn't make the trip fast enough for either of them. But the kid had needed a break. And Ezra had told him without putting JD on the defensive and refusing to stop.

JD had rarely been off a horse lately. He had made three trips to Delano's, the ride to the compound, the running back and forth from the lumber camp to the compound, and now, this trip. Some of the toughest riding men faced in the territory. JD was doing some good work.

Yet, it was different than riding with Buck or Vin. It didn't matter which, just one of them. Of all the men, they understood how Chris fought. They knew when he'd break cover, his blind spots, his preferred strategies. He didn't need to yell out orders, they understood what he wanted and they executed the plan. Simple.

Not so simple was fighting with Ezra and JD. Ezra was a fine shot, extremely fine. He wanted him on his left. Did he know that? He'd worry about JD in a fight. He wanted him on his right so he'd could keep an eye on him and protect JD's blind side. Did he know that?

Why was Chris thinking these thoughts? Chris's head jerked up with sudden realization. Because they were returning to the mountain lion's den. If it was him, he'd be actively looking for his enemies. He'd hunt them down. That's what Chris Larabee would do. That's what Sterling Michaels would do.

Chris was thinking he needed to tell Ezra and JD . . .

+ + + + + + +

Where were these men going in such a hurry?

The thought kept turning in Darryl's head as he followed the trail of Larabee's men. They were headed almost straight east from The Compound to the Indian reservation. The reservation that was central to Mr. Michaels' plans. They were trying to stop the stage attack. That had to be it. Somehow Larabee's men found out about the stage attack and they were trying to stop it. But the attack should have happened hours ago.

So one way or the other, Darryl wasn't going to stop that play. Three men against forty. These men weren't fools. If they couldn't do anything, what would they do?

Some of Larabee's men were hurt. They had left comrades behind. Larabee had to know that Michaels would hunt them down. Darryl's head jerked up in sudden realization. Larabee's men would go back for them.

Darryl was thinking he needed to tell Sloan and Darnell . . .

+ + + + + + +

*Damn* I wish Chris would stop jerking his head like that. JD felt foolish that he had drawn his gun at another one of Chris's head jerks.

JD fired the first shot and wheeled his horse to the right off the trail as he reacted to the muzzle flash on the ridge above him.

A fusillade of bullets had Ezra leaping off his horse and scrambling for cover to the left of Chris and JD.

*Shit* They were almost on him. If JD hadn't fired, Chris could well have been dead now. And if Chris wasn't desperately scrambling for cover, he'd really be bothered wondering how JD beat him to the draw.

Chris looked for Ezra and JD. Ezra to his left. JD to his right. Ezra was close enough that Chris could see him hold up three fingers and deliberately point up a rock face to where the first shots were fired from.

Three men on three men. Not so bad. But the enemy had the high ground and Chris and his men would have to maneuver themselves to dislodge the men from the ridge.

Chris had to move from this spot. He had cover but nothing else. He needed to move to gain a better angle to shoot the men off the ridge. Chris started to break cover but was diving to the dirt when bullets rained down from on high and rolling behind a boulder. Ezra and JD laid down cover fire and the guns from the ridge were eventually silenced.

There was a pregnant pause while all the men were reloading. As soon as the bad guys were done, they laid down some fire, reminding Chris that they were still up there and held the advantage.

"Ezra, I got to move from here," Chris called over to the man to his left. Ezra raised his rifle and kept up a continuous line of fire on the ridge allowing Chris to gain a better site and move closer to JD and the only obvious way up the ridge.

"JD, move forward on three."

"One. Two. Three."

JD broke cover but only could gain a few feet before gunfire forced him to find immediate cover.

Chris reloaded.

Ezra indicated he was going to move, and Chris yelled "cover fire," as Ezra moved. But he never managed to break cover.

Quiet descended in the valley. All gunfire ceased. None of the men in the valley were lured to break cover. It was obvious those men were up there with a bead on Chris, Ezra, and JD.

Chris started looking around for some advantage they could gain. The valley was a near horseshoe. Any move that they tried to make just brought down gunfire. Retreat wasn't even an option. They had tried to pull back but their only escape route was visible to the men on the cliff. And they weren't going to let them just leave. They were going to see this done.

"YO, YOU IN THE VALLEY."

Chris smirked, another thing about all fights, the call for surrender. Somehow, Chris didn't think the men on the ridge were going to give up.

"Yeah," Chris called back.

"My name is Darryl Scott."

"Never heard of you. Though I do like to be acquainted with the men I kill."

"I'm thinking the same thing. I know you men are part of Larabee's gang."

"Chris Larabee."

"Yeah, I know Larabee's gang. But who are you?"

"Chris Larabee."

There was a long pause. "Oh."

Ezra had startled chuckling. Chris looked sideways over at him and smirked. "Somehow, I don't think he was expecting that answer."

"Don't suppose you'd consider surrendering?" was called from the ridge.

Chris didn't answer, he didn't need to. The men on the ridge knew the answer.

Chris considered their options. But there was only one option -- to rush the ridge. And that was one shitty option. Again, he thought of Buck and to a pitched battle during The Wilderness Campaign. It was the first of many times that Buck would save him. Twenty-four men had rushed the hill. Two survived.

"We have to rush the ridge," Ezra was the first to say it out loud.

"Our best option is that narrow path directly in front of JD. We'll synchronize the attack. Ezra, see if you can gain their flank. JD, you're with me."

Neither Ezra nor JD said anything for a moment.

"That's it then," JD said solemnly. It was meant as an acknowledgement that he understood the plan but just as both Chris and Ezra knew, JD knew that the men on the ridge held all the cards and this would be one desperate attempt to dislodge them.

"That's it," Ezra confirmed.

"We'll go on three."

+ + + + + + +

Hammersmith picked the lock to the telegraph office in Four Corners and he and Bland slipped inside.

Hammersmith penciled the first message and handed it to Bland.

No stage stop No attack stop Hammersmith

"Well, that's mighty eloquent."

"Shut up, Bland, and send it."

Understood stop Will relay to Michaels stop Keep tensions up stop Direct attack on reservation ordered stop New order - Thompson assigned to kill Indian Chief Kojay stop Apex

"This will be fun." Bland chuckled and handed the wire up to Hammersmith.

"Hmm. This will take some time to set up," Hammersmith mused.

"Yup. Won't happen for a couple days. We will need to keep building up tensions that when troops do come they'll blame the Indians for bringing them down on themselves."

"Send confirmation that orders received and understood. Guess, we'll need to stay here. Gauge the mood of the town in the morning."

"Oh yeah, twist my arm. A bed versus the ground. Lead on, Vincent."

+ + + + + + +

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

Ezra moved to the left in an effort to flank Michaels' men. Gunfire pinned him and if anything his position was more precarious than it had been. He couldn't rise up because the enemy had perfect sight on him. He was reduced to lifting his gun over a boulder, firing blindly in hopes that he was at least providing some cover.

JD broke cover and gunfire rained down on him. As he sprinted across an open space, he went down hard and immediately curled into a fetal position.

Chris wanted to rush over to JD. If Buck hadn't wanted to kill him before, there was no way he'd forgive him getting JD killed in a fight. But that wasn't an option.

A yell full of fury erupted from his chest and Chris started to sprint up the ridge firing his peacemaker in all directions in one desperate effort to gain the ridge.

Part 117

Wilson galloped into the house yard, leaped to the ground, and ran up to the ornate front doors of Michaels' big house. He pounded on them so hard that it set dogs to barking somewhere, and then they were swept open angrily by the big man himself, his eyes glittering dangerously.

"We found 'em," stammered Wilson, suddenly terrified. He'd been so sure Michaels would be pleased, but now . . .

"Where?" Michaels' features leaped up like a hawk striking prey, and Wilson swallowed.

"The lumber camp up on Talisman Ridge. We've got the ones you especially wanted."

"The wounded ones an' the colored man?"

"Yessir."

Michaels lowered his face a moment, then looked up again to fix Wilson with a deep stare of fury. "I told Jenkins to check out that area. He told me he searched it. Thoroughly." He paused, and Wilson wondered how he should respond. He opted for silence, and after a long moment Michaels shook himself. "Go down to the bunkhouse and get the men there. Meet me at the base of the hill in ten minutes." He turned and went back into the house, then paused, turned to face Wilson again, and added: "Say nothing to Jenkins about all this. I will deal with him later. Myself." Then he was gone, shutting the door behind him. Wilson let out a long, shaking breath, and went to do as he'd been told.

+ + + + + + +

Michaels sat quietly in his silver-worked saddle and watched the knot of riders burst from the yard in front of the bunkhouse to roar upslope in a dark tangle of hats and arms and horse legs. The men reined in their plunging mounts, eyes glittering, and Michaels looked them over silently, his gaze powerful and proud. Then:

"Fifteen," he said, after silently sizing up the group. "Where are the rest?"

"Most of 'em are off on that stage job," volunteered a man in a black slouch hat. "An' a' course some of 'em are in this here search crew that found your--"

"Yes. Of course." Michaels waved one hand and the diamond on his finger shot a tiny flash of flame in the night. "The search crew. You've all been doing that off and on, the past few days. Jenkins. Do you know where these men were found at last? These men who can destroy everything I have worked for?"

"No sir, Mr. Michaels." The man called Jenkins felt his blood drain into his boots suddenly.

"They have been right under our noses all along." Michaels paused, and his horse backed nervously as he tightened the reins unintentionally in anger. "At the Talisman Ridge lumber camp -- all this time."

Jenkins thought briefly of spurring his horse into a hard gallop. How far could he get before Michaels might . . .? His thoughts whirled as he saw something silver flash in the man's hand and, in slow motion, the men around him moving to either side, parting like waves that rippled outward from the destruction that would hit anyone too close. It was the last thought he ever had, the last thing he ever saw.

Michaels' holstered his silver-plated revolver as the single shot echoed down the mountainside. He looked at the remaining men, none of whom had even looked at the body on the grass at the feet of its frightened horse. The animal backed several steps, rolling its eyes, then turned and galloped back down the slope to the barn, stirrups banging loosely, its hoofbeats the only sound in the sudden stillness.

"Let's go," said Michaels. "I have had enough of failure."

+ + + + + + +

"What're they waitin' for?" Buck's whisper sounded tired and flat, and Nathan tried to see him better in the dim light. The bed of coals had steadily burned down in the two hours they'd been sitting there dodging occasional rifle fire, and now it was almost dark in the cabin. The healer moved to the gunman in a low crouch, swiftly, and then dropped next to him.

"Y'ok, Buck?" he asked.

"Yeah. But as long as you're here I sure could use my pants. I keep wonderin' what I'll do if we gotta' run out there, if this fight heats up."

A low chuckle from behind the footboard of the bunk was Vin. "Give 'em a hell of a surprise, is what." He chuckled again, a little heartier, picturing the image.

"Well, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather they didn't have that kinda' target," Buck complained. Nathan chuckled, too, then, and Josiah's deep laugh sounded softly from the window where he was cautiously standing watch.

"OK," said Nathan. "I hadn't thought of it that way. I don' know how you'll get 'em on without puttin' weight on that leg, but--"

"Trust me," said Buck. "I been sittin' here for the better part a' two hours, figgerin' it out." He took the clean pants Nathan had slipped from his saddlebag and began to slide into them from where he sat on the floor, as Nathan gently wrapped a blanket around his shoulders over the top of Josiah's shirt. Vin cleared his throat.

"As long as you're givin' out clothes, Nathan . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'. Lemme find the stuff we brought you. Hold on."

The healer rose to his feet again, his back curled over low, and scurried to Vin's position with a set of clothes. "Don' know how you can get this shirt on, though," he observed.

"Pants'll be fine," replied Vin. "If you can give me a hand with 'em."

Nathan worked a moment to help the tracker get into the garment, his eyes on the wounded man's face. Even in the very low light left in the cabin, he could see that Vin's skin was slick with a sheen of sweat, his hair stuck to the sides of his face and neck again. Damn, he thought. He glanced up to the covered pan of willowbark tea he'd set on the back of the stove an eternity ago, and Vin suddenly shook his head.

"Don't get your head shot off tryna' get me that tea, Nathan. I'm all right." Vin was doing up his buttons left-handed, one of the blankets still around his back and shoulders and the other beneath him on the floor. Nathan didn't say anything in reply, simply waited until Vin was finished and then took up his left wrist to feel of the pulse. Vin sighed in resignation, laid his head back against the wall behind him, and closed his eyes. A bullet spun through the broken window at that moment and embedded itself in the far wall of the cabin in a shower of splinters, the men all ducking instinctively and then sitting up again cautiously.

"I'm gettin' kinda' tired a' that," observed Vin.

"At least they're bad shots." Josiah peered out into the darkness again from the side of the window.

"They're just tryna' keep us from gettin' all uppity an' havin' a party in here," said Buck. "Bastards."

The cabin fell silent again for a long moment, and Nathan's sharp eyes saw Vin shiver. He leaned forward to wrap a second blanket around the man's shoulders and pull the one beneath it around him more closely, and the tracker just opened his eyes wearily to regard Nathan when he did so, then murmured a soft, "Thanks."

'Now would be a good time to get back here, Chris,' thought Nathan. 'A real good time.' But he knew they'd figured the other three couldn't get back to the cabin much before midnight, and probably not until several hours afterwards. He wondered if he could get more wood in the stove without getting any of them killed. It was starting to get cold. Really cold. He looked again at Vin, who was leaning silently against the wall, and then at Buck, who had been sagging farther and farther to one side as the hours had worn by, and hoped again that the others were coming fast.

+ + + + + + +

Michaels and his men rode into the lumber camp in a thunder of hooves, with no need for silence. The roar burst into the tenseness of the existing standoff like a tornado, and Dutch strode out to meet the arrivals with a feeling of having been sucker-punched. He stood in the forest looking up at Michaels, and waited for the man to dismount. Instead, he looked around him at the cabins and then asked, "Which one are they in?"

Stupid question, thought Dutch, but he stepped back so he could gesture anyway, and Michaels' gaze followed his outstretched hand and the man smiled.

"Good." Michaels dismounted then, and threw the reins of his black to the man behind him. "Fill me in. What's the situation?"

"We've had 'em holed up in there nearly six hours, now. Had a pitched gunfight when we first got here, but since then we just been remindin' 'em we're out here from time to time. Makin' life kinda' hot."

Michaels nodded. His eyes were studying the lone cabin, noting the thin stream of smoke issuing from the stove pipe.

"Did you think of sending someone up to block the smoke hole?" he asked.

"Yep. Got shot off the roof for 'is trouble, too. Fact is, them fellas in there is damned good shots, Mr. Michaels. I'm figgerin' the way to get 'em out is to burn the place down."

"Yes. Good idea." Michaels was nodding again. "First, though, I want to be sure they're the men I think they are. How many are in there, how many I still have left to find."

"Don't know how you'll pull that one off, but I'll back your play," said Dutch, dryly.

Michaels walked slowly closer to the cabin, thinking. He hadn't actually seen the two wounded men Sullivan had brought in. It hadn't been necessary. But Nathaniel . . . He bit his lip in sudden fury. Not 'Nathaniel.' Nathan. Nathan Jackson. A traitor. He turned to Dutch, his eyes glittering.

"Who saw them, though the window?"

"Hardy!" Dutch raised his voice to a shout, and the small man was at his side a moment later. Dutch studied him up and down laconically. "Mr. Michaels, here, wants t' talk t' ya'."

"You saw the men, though the window?" asked Michaels shortly.

"Yeah. Clear as day."

"How many?"

"Three. Two wounded fella's an' a darkie."

"The colored man: he was short, fat, balding? Maybe 50 years old?"

"Oh, no sir!" Hardy blanched. Good lord, what had he done? "This'n was tall and thin, younger'n Dutch here, I'm thinkin'."

Michaels smiled, a smile that spread across his face more and more broadly as he stood regarding the entirely confused Hardy and the scowling Dutch behind him. "That is the perfect description of the man I'm looking for," he said finally. "Your honesty has just earned you a bonus next payday."

Hardy relaxed, grinning. Dutch shook his head and snorted contemptuously.

"Tell me your plans for burning them out," said Michaels. "It's too damned cold to stand around long out here."

"Not for long," grinned Dutch. He led the boss to a nearby building and gestured to several things the men had laid out there. "Look here, Mr. Michaels. Found three kerosene lanterns. An' plenty a' fuel." Dutch grinned and raised one of the lanterns by its metal handle. "They throw pretty damned good."

Michaels smiled. "Good plan," he said. "I like it." He looked around the knot of men standing in the darkness close at hand. "I need three volunteers to get up close enough to that cabin to throw them. Three months' salary." The group of men was silent, the only sound the wind tossing in the tops of the pines. Then one man stepped forward slowly, his spurs jingling softly, and reached out a long arm to pick up one of the lanterns sitting on the ground.

"Reckon I could use me some extra double-eagles," he drawled.

A second man followed him, picking up a second lantern with a quick, nervous movement and no comment. Dutch laughed and handed the third lantern that he was still holding to a swarthy man with a white mustache, who hugged it to his chest and grinned like a possum.

"All right then," said Michaels. "Let's go have some fun. I think you men know where to station yourselves for this kind of sport, eh?"

The group of men mumbled fairly enthusiastic agreement, nodding as they split up and began to move to various points around the cabin. Dutch struck a match and held it out to the first man's lantern, cupping one hand around the flame to protect it from the wind.

+ + + + + + +

"I think I see a light out there," said Josiah suddenly, his voice a soft rumble. They'd been under seige nearly six long hours, and he was getting so tired he wondered for a moment if he was seeing things. But Nathan peered out and nodded grimly.

"An' a second one, off over there."

Buck sighed. "I hate to say it, but there's one back on this side, too." There was a scraping sound as he shoved himself against the wall to lever himself into a standing position where he could see better.

Vin sat up straighter and shook his head, picked up his left hand and the pistol still held in it, and laid both on his lap. He looked at the other three men in the dark, the coals in the fireplace long since burned down to ashes. The only light was from the little that leaked through the tiny holes here and there in the stove, around the door and burners.

"They're comin' closer," observed Nathan.

Vin licked his lips and started trying to get his feet under him, pushing his way up the wall to more of a standing position as he did so. The blankets around his shoulders fell opened as he moved, and he shivered as the cold air struck his skin. "Reckon they mean t' burn us out," he said softly.

"'Fraid so." Josiah was raising his rifle and laying his eye along the site as he spoke. Buck looked over his shoulder at Vin, who had laid down the pistol he'd clutched so long and was now standing on shaking legs, his chest heaving from the exertion of getting up.

"What d'you think you're doin'?" he asked.

"Backin' you up, Bucklin." Vin pulled the blankets together with his good hand, leaned against the bunkbed and slid along it until he got to the doorway against which Buck was leaning, peering out. He lowered himself there slowly and then picked up the rifle leaning against the wall nearby, one-handed. "Just in case," he said softly.

"Still too far to be sure a' the shot," muttered Josiah. He was looking down his sites, still, at one of the lanterns.

"Pays to make the first one count at a time like this," agreed Vin.

Nathan swallowed and tried to keep his finger from curling too tightly around the trigger, pulled his hand away for a moment and shook it to relax his fingers, then gripped it once more. The silence elongated, banked low in the darkness.

"On the count a' three?" said Vin.

"Yeah." Buck's breath was coming faster as he sited down his own rifle.

"One," said Vin. "Two. . . . Three."

Three rifles roared as one in a single deafening crash that shook the walls. Then Nathan fired a second time, with Buck's rifle right behind his in syncopation. It was silent again.

+ + + + + + +

Michaels swore as he saw the lantern-bearers go down when almost within throwing distance of the cabin, but then clenched both fists in fierce joy when he saw two of the lanterns burst to ignite the pine needles that carpeted the ground all around. He slammed an enormous hand against Dutch's back and his eyes gleamed with satisfaction as the two sets of flames rose higher into the darkness, their bases white and the tops of their tongues rosy gold.

"Now we've got 'em!" he screamed. "I don't care if I burn the whole damn forest down! We've GOT them!"

The men stood in a silent scattered circle all around the cabin, watching the flames dance in the two little patches, and then slowly they saw them die back a little, and then a little more.

"What's happening?" Michaels rounded on Dutch and grabbed him by the lapels of his coat. "What the hell is happening to the fires?"

"Burned up all the kerosene that spilt, Mr. Michaels," said Dutch softly. He reached into his vest pocket for his tobacco pouch, his eyes steady on Michaels' face.

"But -- we're in a forest! Why . . ." Michaels broke off as Dutch bent wordlessly to the ground to pick up a handful of the litter there and hold it out to Michaels. It was dark, muddy, damp.

"Rained pretty hard, night before last," explained Dutch calmly. He dropped the litter to the ground, wiped his hand on his pants, and went back to fixing his cigarette. "No matter. We'll just find another way to do it." He paused then to eye the dark cabin with narrowed eyes. "Just wish I'd realized how many long rifles them fellas had in there with 'em."

Then Dutch turned again to Michaels and led the way to a shed several cabins closer to the road. He opened the doors to display the wagon they'd found earlier in their searchings. "Hate to burn up a good wagon on top a' everythin' else, but . . ." he paused and eyed Michaels, who nodded.

"All right," he said. "I see what you're thinking of. Do it." Michaels turned to stride out of the shed with a tight face. "There should be plenty of scrap wood you can use as kindling by the mill," he said over his shoulder.

+ + + + + + +

Nathan was kneeling in front of Vin, his hand to the tracker's wrist once again. Six hours, he thought. He looked at Buck, laying slumped down again, with only his shoulders against the wall behind him. Six long, dark, cold hours. He didn't know whether to hope it would end quickly or keep going, though. Depended on _how_ it happened to end or go, he thought somberly. Josiah's voice broke into his thoughts, and the sound of it made Nathan's stomach drop into his boots.

"They've got it figured out right this time," he said grimly. "Better get boots on Buck an' Vin. Right away." He looked at his friends, and they saw that his eyes had grown hard with determination. "I'll cover you while you get out the back."

Nathan dragged the men's boots over and handed them to each one wordlessly; then seeing that Buck meant to help Vin pull his on, he went to the window to see what Josiah had spotted. He drew in his breath.

"Mother a' God," he whispered. "That'll take the place down in five minutes when it hits."

It was a wagon, slowly being pushed towards the cabin by unseen men who were driving it backwards by the tongue. The end closest to the cabin was piled high with shards and splits of wood, and it took no imagination at all to figure out that the wood was soaked with kerosene and would be lit as soon as the whole contraption got going fast enough that the men could let go, get away from the conflagration, and count on it to keep rolling until the cabin itself stopped it.

At which point, the cabin would become an immediate inferno.

Nathan went back quickly to the two wounded men and started pulling things out of saddlebags. "We gotta' get a coupla' heavy shirts on both a' you," he was saying. "Them blankets ain't gonna' work while you're movin' aroun', an' you might be outside a good long while before Chris gets back."

Vin regarded Nathan steadily as he dug through the bags, and then laid a hand on the healer's arm.

"Hell, Nathan," he drawled softly. "We ain't likely to get all that cold. If ya' think about it." He smiled wryly, and the healer sat back to regard the tracker's face.

"Yeah," chimed in Buck. "We've been cold all night, Vin, you notice? An' now that it looks like we'll finally get warm, THAT's when he starts pawin' around for heavy clothes." Buck laughed softly, and Vin joined him.

"Y'all are crazy," said Nathan gently. He looked at Josiah, turning over the implications of Vin's and Bucks' words in his head, and Josiah looked back at him -- a long, steady look that said: 'Don't think. Go.'

But Nathan did think. Boots or no boots, they wouldn't get far. Neither of the wounded men could move across the cabin, much less through a forest filled with armed men who had positioned themselves for a shooting game to begin with. Even Nathan wouldn't be able to escape unless he abandoned Buck and Vin to run for it, and he couldn't begin to imagine doing that. Which meant Josiah would stay behind and face the gates of hell by himself for no good reason. Suddenly he understood how the two wounded men were seeing it. He stood up and faced Josiah.

"Looks like we're gonna' find a way to stay warm an' cozy right where we are," he said.

"That is likely if you stay," the preacher said. He shook his big head and his mouth leveled out and his eyes grew even darker. "Looks like they're gettin' ready to light it. Once they do, the whole place'll be lit up like day. You won't be able to get out then."

Buck put a hand out to Nathan to steady himself and let the healer help him to his feet. He wasn't smiling now, but instead drew himself up and stood as straight as he could. "That's the way it woulda' been when _you_ left, after coverin' us," he said to the preacher pointedly.

"Reckon we'll go together," added Vin, "or not at all."

Josiah sighed, set his rifle down butt-first on the floor, and looked at the other three men. "OK," he said. "But whatever we do, it's gotta' be right now."

"What we're gonna' do," said Vin, dragging himself to the doorway that Buck had been guarding, as the tall gunman left it to stagger slowly towards the window on Nathan's willing arm, "is shoot the hell outta' these bastards an' make 'em wish they'd stayed at home tonight." The tracker slid the rifle barrel through the crack between door and wall that Buck had guarded all night, and rested the weapon across one thigh so that the stock was under his arm and held tightly against his body.

Buck, Josiah, and Nathan peered out the edges of the windows a long moment, Buck leaning against the wall cradling a rifle that Josiah had handed silently across the space between them. Then they saw the sudden rush of yellow flames rising off the wood in the wagon, shadows of legs moving behind it that were dark lines lost in the heat waves roaring off the inferno already building on kerosene and wood. A storm of sparks rose from the top of the bonfire as the wagon bounced going over an exposed root, lighting the interior of the cabin, and Vin pushed himself up from the floor to stand shaking against the wall, tightening his grip on the rifle he held.

"Here we go," said Josiah. "Good luck, boys."

Part 118

Dutch watched the burning wagon bounce across the remaining distance to the cabin and found his heart exalting when he realized the men inside the cabin had opened fire and were shooting the hell out of Michaels' men. It didn't make sense, he thought. He should be madder'n hell after all that had happened. But a man just had to admire courage like that.

He watched as two of Michaels' men went down almost simultaneously, as they dropped the wagon tongue and raced for safety from the blaze, and then a third who was leaning out from behind a tree to site in on the cabin window. Damn! They were steady about it, too, hell roaring down their throats or not. Dutch frowned, suddenly hoping they'd have the sense to back away from that window before the damn thing hit them. He started to run towards the cabin, seeing the dark shadows of several other men doing the same, as the wagon careened off-course the slightest fraction at the very end, to strike the cabin wall just at one end of the window.

The glass burst inward at impact, burning wood cascading through the hole into the cabin interior like a malevolent, nightmarish waterfall. The rest of the burning wood was thrown up against the side of the cabin and partway onto the low roof by the impact, the remaining kerosene on the pieces near the bottom suddenly bursting into flame with a roar that was almost an explosion, tongues of fire leaping five feet high, and then ten. The whole side of the roof was engulfed before Dutch ran far enough to get around back, to try and stop his men from shooting the others down as they ran out the door, however many of them were left at this point. They deserved to be taken prisoner, he had decided, not shot down like rabid dogs.

He drew up at the edge of the cabin's clearing, one hand up to shield his face from the bright light of the flames roaring higher by the minute. He could see the door, saw that it was opened a few inches and still showing a dark interior that grew steadily brighter even as he watched. He saw Michaels suddenly, across the other side of the clearing, urging men to go in the doorway, and then nodded to himself when he saw several gunbarrels poke out that same opening like stacked-up sticks of wood and in the middle of all that smoke and flame and hideous roar the guns brought down three more of Michaels' men before they could get there.

Damn near got themselves outta' this, Dutch thought, just by standin' up to it. Half a' Michaels men down now. Over half of 'em. They might make it yet.

But the door stayed just like it was, and no one came out. The gunbarrels drew back inside, and Dutch looked nervously at the other men standing in a loose circle around the opening, watching the same door, waiting for the easy good time they'd been promised.

And then he saw two of _those_ men go down with violent, jerking motions that threw them to the ground as three dark riders hurled themselves into the clearing like demons in the red light of the burning cabin. Dutch couldn't help but take half a step back when he saw the way those dark forms ran down Michaels' men, knocked one man down and literally sent him spinning into a tree and then crushed him beneath pounding hooves as they went on. Their guns were firing so steadily that another man dropped, then another. The few remaining men turned and fled, any thoughts of fun shattered by the nightmare that had turned on them, any fear of Michaels paled by comparison to the hell he had let loose on them all.

Dutch stepped back farther into the darkness under the trees at the edge of the clearing and watched as the men inside began to come out the door at last. A big man with grey hair that shone like fire itself in the ruddy light, staggered out supporting another who limped heavily and sagged against him. A tall colored man -- Michaels' "darkie" no doubt -- came to the door and looked out, then actually turned around and went back into the maelstrom. Why? He was the third man, Dutch thought. Why had he gone back in when the others were safe, already falling into the arms of one of the newer arrivals? He knit his brows as a narrow form -- a silhouette in black -- raced into the cabin after the colored man. What the hell?! Dutch wanted to leave, to get away before they finished whatever they were doing and came to pound him into the ground, too, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the door. The roof was all in flames now, surely about to fall in, and still the two men hadn't come out.

Suddenly they were there, and Dutch let out a long breath he was surprised to find he'd been holding. And just as suddenly he understood: Hardy's count had been wrong. There had been four men in the cabin. The two he'd seen go in were racing out carrying a third between them, a man whose chest was wrapped in bandages and whose arms hung down relaxed even as the other two men ducked and cringed as the roof fell in behind them and flames roared up twenty feet and then thirty into the night sky.

Dutch watched them lay the man on the grass and then he turned away. He melted into the forest and found his pale horse right where he'd left it tied, mounted up, and rode off for someplace where men like him didn't work for men like Michaels.

+ + + + + + +

The smoke in the cabin had gotten so thick towards the end that it was damned hard to see, and Buck had pulled the door opened a little wider to let in more air and light. The inrush of fresh air had fueled more than the men, though; the flames along the wall the wagon had hit had roared higher and brighter immediately, racing in long tongues across the undersides of the rafters. The heat had been immense, almost alive, and the men had begun to cough as the thickened air started choking them.

Josiah looked out the door again, trying to catch sight of any more of Michaels' men. He glanced back at Nathan, who was almost flat on the floor on his belly crawling the other way and disappearing into the smoke, and Josiah knew why. They had both seen Vin step back a little ways from the door opening, to lean against the side of the bunkbed when the other men had been driven to that side of the cabin by mounting flames. One minute he'd been with them -- the rifle he'd fired dangling from his left hand, blood running down onto the back of his right from where the recoil had slammed into his shoulder -- and the next minute he'd suddenly dropped the rifle and staggered backwards away from the bunkbed, to collapse and spiral silently to the floor. Billows of dark smoke had rolled over him and he'd disappeared instantly. Josiah shook his head and looked back out the crack in the door again, over the top of Buck's head.

That's when he saw it: one of the men at the edge of their rifle range jerked forward like he'd been clubbed in the back right between the shoulder blades. Then another went down next to him. Josiah slapped Buck on the shoulder and pointed wordlessly; the roar of the flames inside the cabin was beyond the possibility of words anyway. Just as he did, they saw the riders -- three of them: dark; horses racing low to the ground with manes whipping back like living flames; hats pulled low and tight, guns blazing an inferno of their own as they ran Michaels' men down into the ground and swept on towards the cabin.

Josiah reached around and grabbed Nathan's ankle, pulled on it, and then screamed over the roar of the flames, "CHRIS!!!" Nathan nodded that he understood and gestured towards Buck. Josiah nodded in turn. He was to get Buck out, and Nathan would go after Vin.

The preacher rose, bent over and keeping his head low, and started pulling Buck to his feet. The man shook his head, and Josiah pointed again to the whirling horses and men flashing past the doorway, clearing their escape path. Buck twisted in Josiah's arms, trying to face back the way Nathan had disappeared, and Josiah could see that his mouth was moving, could feel his ribcage shudder as he screamed in a din that was now deafening, and realized that the word being called out over and over was one syllable: Vin. Buck staggered higher, then, and put his mouth near Josiah's ear and shrieked "CAN'T LEAVE HIM!" And Josiah pressed his face together and hardened up his gut and grabbed Buck in his enormous hands and arms. The gunslinger felt the tightening of Josiah's grip -- one hand on Buck's arm and another wrapped around his ribs -- and began to struggle more desperately, calling again and again, and then finally flailing out with his fists. Josiah ducked, then absorbed a blow that landed on his jaw, then pulled the door opened wider with one hand while he still held on to Buck around his middle and steadily, determinedly, purposefully dragged the man out of the burning cabin.

Buck's voice was suddenly audible as they cleared the doorway and stepped into the much cooler air outside, and Josiah winced at the horrified anguish in it. "VIN!" Buck was screaming, "God NO! Not after all this! You don't understand!! Josiah, you have to let me go back! Oh God! GOD! Lemme go, Josiah!! Damn it to hell, let me GO!!"

He lashed out again, hitting Josiah as hard as he could in the face, pushing against the man's chest, trying to trip him by entangling their legs. But the preacher was locked down on his course of action, set and decided, and he just kept going as the little strength Buck had found in grief and terror wore away to nothing, dropping him against Josiah's frame until he was sagging in the preacher's arms, limping in a slow daze of shock towards JD, who was running across the grass towards him with a look of horror on his face.

JD caught both men in his opened arms, catching Buck as he sank to the ground with a groan, Josiah kneeling behind him and bowing his head and groaning in a whole different way. JD bent over the pair, his heart breaking. He looked up as footsteps ran past him towards the cabin, light and swift and lethal, and saw Chris flash by like a falcon in a dive. "Oh no," gasped JD. "No. Chris, no." He stood up again, leaving the other two on the ground, and watched helplessly as Chris disappeared into the inferno.

+ + + + + + +

Nathan couldn't understand why he couldn't find that damned tracker. He'd SEEN him fall, for God's sakes. He could have drawn a map of the cabin and shown you right where he was. But every time he crawled into the blackness of the smoke and heat he lost his bearings, and up became down, and down became up, and somehow he couldn't find the man where he knew for a certainty that he _had_ to be.

And he was running out of time.

The healer ran to the door in a crouch, his lungs burning from holding his breath so he wouldn't inhale the choking smoke, and stood up and stuck his face far enough outside to fill his panting lungs with good cool air. When he turned around to go back in, the heat and smoke hit him ten times as hard as they had before by comparison, and he looked up as the ceiling timbers cracked audibly overhead within the roaring din around him, realizing suddenly that it would be the last trip before the roof came down. Damn! Where was Vin?

He threw himself into the smoke this time, desperation lending recklessness to a search that had until now been fairly methodical. Creeping as close to the floor as he could get, sweeping his hands in wide arcs, Nathan held his breath and closed his eyes against the acrid smoke and the confusion and the panic and the little spots of flame that were leaping here and there in the pitch blackness . . . and found an arm. Thank God. Nathan grabbed it, pulled the man around slowly on the floor towards to the door, his lungs bursting from the lack of air and his head beginning to spin. He dropped to one knee completely, unable to go on for lack of air and strength.

And then suddenly there was another set of hands there, with his. Another set of legs, strength that wasn't yet exhausted, a will that wasn't yet despairing. And Nathan knew without being able to see through the smoke and the darkness, without being able to hear over the thunder of the cabin exploding all around him and the roof coming apart over his head that it was Chris.

And knowing that gave him the strength to try one last time.

Together they pulled Vin towards the door, together raised him in their arms as Chris shoved the door wide with his foot and cool sweet air surged in to fill their bursting lungs and empower the flames a final time. They carried the unconscious man through the door as the creaking and groaning of the roof grew to sound like screams and gunshots as the timbers gave way and split where they weren't yet burned through, long splinters of wood six and eight feet long popping loose to hurtle to the floor like spears as whole flaming sections began to rain to the floor. No sooner had Nathan cleared the doorway than he heard it give, the whole roof collapsing into the cabin, driving out a hot wind as it hit that shook the walls and nearly knocked Nathan off his feet.

But they were clear, he thought. By God, they were clear. He had Vin's knees in his hands, one to each side of his own legs, and he could suddenly see -- could SEE, Nathan realized with a surge of joy -- that Chris had Vin's shoulders and that they were almost to the place where Buck was laying on the ground, where Josiah was kneeling with his back to them, where JD and Ezra were rushing forward to help.

They lowered Vin gently to the grass, and Nathan lay his ear quickly to the man's chest, took his pulse, and lifted his lids to look at his eyes. He sighed and looked up at Chris with an expression of weary relief.

"He's ok. Just passed out from it all. He'll be all right."

Chris nodded, grim-faced, slid his Colt from the holster, snapped it opened, and reloaded it. "I'll be back in a minute," he said softly, snapping it shut with a tight click.

Josiah turned around slowly, stared at the blackened, bloodied bandage over Vin's shoulder, soot and smoke staining his skin, black streaks of sweat glistening in the ruddy light from the burning cabin, and shook his head wearily. "God bless you, Nate," he rumbled. "I didn't think Buck would ever forgive me."

Buck leaned forward wordlessly, placed a hand on Josiah's shoulder, and regarded the preacher eye-to-eye silently, with dark eyes that somehow reflected only the night sky and not the flames, when the man turned to face him.

Neither of them said a word.

Part 119

Chris stalked the edge of the clearing, which was lit up bright as day by the burning cabin. Michaels. Goddamned Michaels, he thought. This was it! The goddamned end of everything. There would be no more running, no more hiding in the woods. If Chris had to ride through hell by himself, Michaels would pay for everything he'd done.

Michaels had been here. Chris had seen him--just at the edge of the clearing--had seen the look on his face when Chris and the others rode past him. There were a half dozen horses still loose in the lumber camp. Looking at one of them, Chris saw flashes of silver. Had to be Michaels' horse, he thought. And if Michaels' horse was still here...

He found what he was looking for, tracks leading back to the main part of the lumber camp. He followed them quickly, the light from the burning cabin making it easier to see than it might otherwise have been. Fury lent him strength and focus. He'd known, after the attack on the trail, what they might find when they got back here, but nothing had prepared him for the punch in the gut he'd received when he'd seen Josiah staggering out of the burning cabin with Buck,. Then, he'd seen Nathan stick his head outside, take a deep breath and duck back into the roiling smoke and soot and he'd known, like a bright shock running through him, that Vin was still inside.

But, he shook his head harshly, that was done now. Josiah and Nathan and Ezra and JD could take care Buck and Vin. Chris had something else to do. He heard a soft movement to his right and drew his revolver. He slipped further into the shadow of the cabin to his left and he listened. The rustling repeated itself, farther off to his right. It could be one of the other men who'd run off, he told himself. Fine with me, he thought with a grim smile. I can take care of them too.

A bullet whined through the air, hitting the cabin wall several feet above his head. Chris marked the muzzle flash and the tight smile stuck with him as he slipped around behind the cabin. He moved steadily through the camp, figuring that Michaels, as formidable and calculating as he was in the library of his house in the middle of his compound, would be out of his element here. He might take a shot or two, but then he'd run. And if he ran, he had only one place to run to...

Chris slipped noiselessly through the woods until he reached the entrance to the lumber camp. If Michaels gave him the slip here then he'd head back and get his horse and maybe bring JD with him. What he wanted was Vin or Buck at his back, but there was no sense thinking about what he couldn't have. He crouched low against a tree and waited.

Five, almost ten minutes passed and Chris was just about figuring that Michaels had already gotten by him when he heard a twig snap. He froze, his breathing slowed to almost nothing, as if he were no more than a dark shadow on the tree itself. There was a soft rustling of tree branches, followed by the dull, almost inaudible snap, snap, snap of soggy pine branches.

Chris waited.

He'd been in the dark long enough that the outlines of things looked clear to him. He could see the next three cabins down the line, he could see the separate dark shapes of trees, the flat emptiness of the lumber road. And now...just twenty feet away...he could see the outline of a man slowly breaking away from the shadows of a cabin wall. Chris drew in his breath. Come a little closer, he thought. Make this really easy.

The man came closer. And closer. Chris could see him look behind him toward the glow of the burning cabin almost half a mile back. Then, he straightened and seemed to relax a little bit. His pistol was still drawn, but lowered. He turned back toward the lumber road. Toward Chris.

Chris just held, dark as the shadows where he waited. When his prey was within six feet of him he could see the height, the breadth of shoulder, the shape of the head. Michaels. He'd only seen him once, in the library at his house, but he knew. Michaels took another step, then froze at the sound of a horse coming fast through the lumber camp. Michaels turned, and, in the instant that he hesitated, a man rode by fast, leaving Michaels cursing at him, recognizing one of his own men only as he passed.

"Hell!" he swore.

"It is now." Chris's voice was smooth and very, very dangerous.

Michaels had barely begun to turn, hadn't even begun to raise his pistol when Chris slammed him across the face with his arm. Michaels fell, still hanging onto his pistol, still trying to raise it and fire. Chris kicked it out of his hand. Michaels scrambled, trying to get back to his feet. Chris hit him again, knocking him back down. Michaels brought a hand to his bleeding mouth and tried to scoot away from him. Chris drew his pistol and Michaels froze at the cold, harsh sound of the trigger drawing back.

"Trust me," Chris said in a cool and savage voice, "I know how to use this _real_ effectively."

Michaels wiped the blood from his jaw. "You son of a bitch," he said with a growl.

"Yeah," Chris said without any change in his expression. He grabbed Michaels by the collar of his jacket and hauled him to his feet, shoving him down the road, back toward the cabin where he'd left the others.

Michaels stumbled, but caught himself before he fell. He drew himself up tall and looked back at Chris, giving him a flat, dark look, as if he still held all the cards. "You won't get away with this."

Chris smiled then, his teeth showing as a quick flash of white in the darkness. "I already did," he said.

Part 120

Soap and water.

The water was black. The soap was black. Everything was black with greasy soot and ashes and smoke that had congealed into something that clung to clothing and hair and skin, that bore a scent no one wanted to smell ever again. The smell was of more than smoke, although no one knew just what the extra part was, or could put a word to. But there was a feeling that could be put to it, and it involved something cold turning over deep inside in a man's belly. They kept scrubbing.

Josiah hauled the heavy bucket outside and threw the water down the slope behind the cabin they'd moved to, then went to the pump and put a little in to swish around and throw out again to clean it. Then he filled it with fresh water to the top and took it back inside. Nathan had been helping Buck clean up, and was still dabbing at the area around the wound in his leg. The exhausted gunslinger squirmed impatiently on the bed, looking like he had just about had enough. Nathan suddenly lifted his hand triumphantly and stood back.

"There," he announced, "I think that'll do for now."

"It'll do for about six weeks," corrected Buck. "It'll take at _least_ that long for me to grow any new skin for you to rub off."

Josiah poured water into the kettle hanging over the roaring flames in the stone fireplace and set the bucket down on the floor with a hollow thump. "New batch'll be hot soon," he pointed out to no one in particular. He straightened and turned to lean against the sizable stone flashing that lined the wall outside the fireplace and silently regarded Chris and JD, who had together been working to get all the nastiness of what had happened off Vin.

The tracker hadn't moved a muscle since being carried from the burning cabin, but Nathan had assured them several times that it was because he'd done too much inside there, during their fight, and that it had nothing to do with the fire itself, or the smoke. "He's had a set-back, but he'll be ok. Just give it time." And they believed him. Of course, they were still worried, which was kind of an odd thing if you thought about it -- to believe someone and not believe them at the same time. But that's how it was.

Josiah studied Chris's dark face, streaked with thin lines of smoke he hadn't yet scrubbed off himself and probably wouldn't until he was certain all the others were taken care of. A second chance of sorts, Josiah was thinking, was what this man had gotten. Not very common, the opportunity to relive a major story from your life and rewrite the ending. Granted, it couldn't restore his wife and son to him, but they weren't the only ones who'd been lost in that fire. Just like now Vin hadn't been the only one saved.

"Hand me that basin, please, JD." Josiah watched the youngest member of their group hand a basin of clean water to Chris and pick up the dirty one grey with smoke. It had taken a long time to make the water dirty, this pass. A long time of scrubbing to turn it grey, whereas at first two passes of the rag had made it black, with an oily film riding on top of the water. Nathan had told them right at the outset that any smoke or dirt left on Vin would rub off on the bedding and pose a threat of new infection, so Chris and JD had taken their job seriously. Now all that was left was the quadrant of chest and shoulder around the wound itself, which showed an odd patchwork of white and black that almost made it look like it was still bandaged, and even as Josiah thought that Chris turned to face Nathan and said:

"I think we're ready for you, over here."

The healer walked over wearily, put one hand on Chris's shoulder, and gave him a tired but reassuring smile. "Looks like you two done real good," he said, looking at JD as well as Chris. "I'll finish up now."

"We weren't sure how close we could get to that, without hurtin' 'im," explained JD, gesturing at the opened wound.

"You done just fine," murmured Nathan. He was wrapping a rag soaked in hot water around the fingers of one hand and rubbing soap on it. "We'll get 'im fixed. You go wash up now, both a' ya'. An' you need t' change your clothes while you're at it, Chris. Put those in the pile with all the other smoky things out in the yard."

Josiah watched as both men did as they'd been told, Chris pausing at the door to cast a single glance backward at Vin . . . a glance that slid across the room to encounter Buck, who looked right back at him with an unreadable expression in his eyes. The two men just looked at each other that way for a long moment, and then Chris turned and went out into the night and they heard the creak of the pump handle in the yard.

+ + + + + + +

Buck laid back, his wet hair on the pillow beneath his head, and looked at the bottom of the bunk bed above his face. He wasn't seeing the bed slats. He was seeing something else, many something elses, all of them changing rapidly like the frames of a kaleidoscope: Vin, dropping the blankets from his shoulders to the floor as he raised the rifle to the opening in the back door, calmly taking aim as if hell itself wasn't roaring down on them; Chris, running past like a puff of wind, tiny clouds of dust rising from the empty spaces where his heels had just been, his spurs ringing like a millsaw; Sarah, laughing, turning from a table where she'd been rolling pie crust, with flour on her hands; the all-over-dizziness of tumbling off a roof and landing with a hard thump in a dirt street, and looking up to see Chris leaning against a support post like people fell to the ground at his feet every day of the week, like lost souls tumbled back into his life with boring regularity. Buck shook his head, then shook it again.

He looked across the room at Vin. He'd thought his heart would honest-to-God explode when he'd realized Josiah was too strong for him to get away from, when the big preacher had started dragging him from the cabin. He always stuck by people. He _ALWAYS_ stuck by people. He'd only ever left twice in his life, and both times it had been Chris he'd left. And both times Chris had looked at his retreating form and apparently thought only: 'don't let the door hit you in the butt on your way out, Buck.' But that wasn't Vin, and Vin had come after him, and had tried to set things right even though he couldn't. No one could.

And after all that, after all that had happened, he'd had to leave Vin back there in the smoke and darkness and heat, and he'd thought that single moment surpassed in anguish any that he'd ever lived. Only if they'd arrived at Chris's when the cabin was still in flames could he have felt the way he'd felt when Josiah dropped him to the ground and JD had wrapped protective arms around his shoulders. He'd known that grief would come later, and despair, and a darkness deeper than any that resided in roiling sooty smoke. But right at that moment, the anguish had been red-hot and searing, and he had wanted to die, himself, just not to feel it.

He looked again at Vin and swallowed, and knew he'd have done the same as Josiah, if it had played out the other way around. But as it was, he was going to go to a church at some point, he thought, and put some money in their box. Because Buck Wilmington could not have lived with that on his soul -- that he had survived only by sacrificing the life of a friend, by leaving someone helpless behind.

+ + + + + + +

The smell of smoke on his hands, the sight of the black soot under his nails . . . Chris stood at the pump under the light of a waxing half-moon and watched the water tumble over his hands numbly as JD ran the pump handle. The young man stopped pumping then, and ran around to stick his own hands into the stream of water, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows; and then he proceeded to scrub his forearms and hands vigorously with the bar of soap. Chris unbuttoned his shirt, pulled the tail out of his pants, and threw it across the yard into a pile of soiled clothing, then accepted the soap from JD and began to lather up. He knew he wouldn't get the smell completely out of his skin no matter what he did, but that didn't matter. He could get clean enough. The smell was just something he would have to live through until it went away.

Again.

Chris closed his eyes a moment, suddenly dizzy. He saw again bright flames leaping into the night sky, sparks flying off like a glowing cloud of gnats. He relived the way everything had turned inside-out when he'd seen that Josiah and Buck were clear, but that Nathan had turned around to go back inside. Chris scrubbed harder, shutting his eyes tightly against it all, not wanting to see it again. He scraped his nails against the soot on his own arms, stripping it off him, shoving it away. He thrust his arms under the cold water, soaped up his chest and back, stuck his head under the stream and lathered his hair . . .

+ + + + + + +

JD kept running the pump. Every time the flow of water started to dwindle he ran the handle up and down five or six times and got it going again. After a while, he began to wonder if his arms would fall off from doing it so much, but . . . It seemed somehow so important.

He remembered suddenly the way Chris's voice had sounded when he'd first reached the place where JD had fallen during the fight on the way back from intercepting the stage. He'd sounded almost scared when JD hadn't been able to answer his call because his lungs were still gasping wide-opened for air and not getting any. The youth hadn't even been able to roll over far enough to catch Chris's eye with his own, to let him know that he'd be all right if ever he could get any air to come _IN_ again. But falling on the downed treelimb had driven every last bit of air out of his body in a single disastrous whoosh that had left him helpless and undefended, and he had to admit he'd been grateful for Chris's quick drag to a relatively safer position -- and surprised by the fearful way in which he'd snatched aside JD's coat to see if he was injured. The older man had exhaled in relief when it had become clear that the youngest member of the group had been endangered by his helpless position, but not hurt by anything more than the blow of falling itself. And JD had looked at that relief flooding Chris's eyes like a river through a levee break, and wondered at it.

He began to feel then, in the dark reach of a night that had earlier been lit like day by a burning cabin, as if he had come to be somehow in a magic place -- inside a magic circle of some kind, having the honor of running the pump for Chris to scrub the fire off. By rights it should be Buck here, JD thought, but it's not. It's me. I don't know how it's me, but I'm not goin' to let Chris down. Not for anything.

He kept pumping water, and the water kept running through the soap on Chris's head and back and arms. And the blackness that had been wrapped all around him ran down onto the stones beneath the pump faucet, and then away in streams and rivulets to soak into the dark soil of the forest, where it came to rest at last, six feet under.

Part 121

Buck woke and it took him a minute to orient himself to the new surroundings. He looked around slowly. Through the open cabin door he could see sunlight and trees and he figured it was probably close to mid-morning. He closed his eyes and opened them again. He could smell food and he realized that he was hungry, probably what had awakened him, in fact. He looked around at the others.

Josiah had relieved Ezra at the other cabin where Chris had secured Michaels and Ezra had come back and collapsed into a bunk and, as far as Buck could tell, he was still sleeping soundly. JD was awake, carrying firewood for Nathan who was at the stove stirring the contents of several pots. Vin was sleeping in a bunk opposite Buck's and Buck studied him carefully to see if he could gauge his health from across the room. He seemed almost relaxed, so different than those dark days in the cellar. In the next bunk over was Chris Larabee. Chris lay on his back with a blanket only half covering him and one arm thrown up across his face. 'Man can't even relax when he's asleep,' Buck thought.

He started to raise himself up and Nathan noticed for the first time that he was awake. "Take it easy there, Buck," he admonished. "You ain't got the strength you think you have."

JD crossed the room to help him prop himself up with pillows and rolled blankets. Buck's leg hurt like hell, worse probably than it had all day the day before, a throbbing ache that alternated between sharp and dull. He had to sit still for a minute after he sat up, just to catch his breath and blink away the dark spots that flickered in front of his eyes.

JD was hovering over him as if he thought there ought to be something else to do. Or, Buck realized in a quick flash, as if he wanted to say something, but didn't know how. "Thanks," Buck said in a low voice. JD still stood there, looking like words were about to spill right out of his mouth and Buck hoped that he wasn't going to ask him, finally, why he'd left town because he was just too tired and the thoughts crowding through his head were too fuzzy for him to even straighten it all out in his own mind at the moment.

JD turned away and Buck leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He heard the sound of a chair scraping across the rough wood floor. Then, there was silence again in the cabin. After a minute, Buck opened his eyes and turned his head sideways. "What?" he asked and wished his voice didn't sound quite so worn-out when he said it.

"Nothin'," JD said. "Just thought I'd sit here awhile."

"You might as well just say it. 'Cuz it's gonna eat away at you until you do," Buck said.

JD looked down at his hands, resting on his knees. "I wanted to...I should have said something before. I never believed what Belle said about you." He looked up at Buck to gauge his reaction. "I hope you believe that," he said earnestly.

"You told me that, JD."

"Yeah, well," JD twisted his fingers like he was going to tie them into knots. "When Casey said she was with you that night, I...well, I..." He stared at the floor between his knees. "For a minute there, I thought maybe..."

"That I _stole_ your girl from you?" Buck's voice rose and Nathan looked over at him from the stove. Buck knew he should be laughing instead of yelling, but lately things just hadn't seemed all that funny. He wasn't a man that generally spent much time worrying about what other people thought of him. But if JD and Chris could both read him so wrong, well, then maybe he wasn't actually the man he thought he was inside.

"Just for a minute," JD stumbled over the words. He'd been waiting a long time to say them and now he spoke them all in a rush as if he couldn't wait any longer. "I mean,...I just,...it was kind of a surprise, Buck." He looked intently at the man lying in the bunk. "Why didn't you tell me?"

'Aahh,' Buck relaxed a little, leaning back against the pillows. This was different. He could handle this. "I promised Casey," Buck said as if that explained everything.

"But she's my girl," JD protested.

Buck couldn't help but smile, though he was getting tired again and his head was starting to feel heavier with each passing minute. "Does she know that?" Buck asked.

JD looked down at the floor again. "Well, I mean,..." he looked up again, exasperated. "Oh, you know what I mean, Buck. She's...special to me. And you didn't tell me she was in trouble."

Buck sat up a little straighter ignoring the promise of pain that flickered through his body like heat lightning on the horizon. His face was serious. "You listen to me, JD. You never own a woman. Do you understand that?"

"I...yeah, of _course_ I know that."

"You got no right to know things about her that she doesn't want to tell you. The best you can hope for is to be there and to listen and to help her when she needs help. But that don't buy you the right to tell her who she is or what she can do." He paused for a moment, a frown darkening his brow as fatigue and the steady pain in his leg threatened to wash him away completely. "If Casey ever needs my help again, I'll give it to her because she's a friend of _mine_ and she's a nice gal and she can count on me. But that don't have anything to do with you and her, JD."

"Nah," JD said slowly. Then he looked up sharply, straight at Buck. "But I reckon it's got a lot to do with you and me." Then he grinned as if some big weight had been lifted off his shoulders and bounced to his feet. "You hungry, Buck?" He looked back over his shoulder at the gunslinger in the bunk.

"Yeah," said Buck, a little dazed both by JD's energy and his startling change of mood. He leaned his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes. Sharp images whirled in the darkness, making him dizzy for a minute. 'Must have said the right thing,' he thought. 'But I'm damned if I know what it was.'

+ + + + + + +

Nathan could hear Buck and JD talking across the room as he heated up some soup for the men to eat, and also cooked the herbs he seemed to be preparing more or less constantly these days. Buck's voice raised up once and Nathan looked over at the two of them sharply. Buck oughta be asleep, he thought. If a man went long enough low on blood and without enough to eat or sleep he was bound to get really sick sooner or later. And something told Nathan this whole mess wasn't even close to over yet.

"Hey, Nathan," JD's voice came from directly behind him and Nathan almost jumped. He hadn't even heard the boy get up from his chair. 'Must be gettin' fuzzy-headed,' he thought. "Can I get some soup for Buck?" JD asked. "He's hungry."

Nathan looked across the room. Buck's head was laid back against the pillows, his eyes were closed and Nathan could see that his breathing was slow and even. "He's asleep, JD," Nathan said.

"What?" JD whirled around. "I was just talking to him. Not a second ago." Then he shrugged. "Well I reckon he can use the sleep," he said uncertainly. JD had learned a lot since he'd first set foot in Four Corners, but mostly the situation they found themselves in now was all new to him. He'd not seen men as badly injured as Vin and Buck keep doing things and never really get the rest and healing they needed. He'd think they should be better by now, Nathan knew, because under ordinary circumstances, back in Four Corners, say, they would be.

"He's fine, JD," Nathan said reassuringly. "Just needs his rest." Nathan indicated the simmering pot of soup. "How 'bout some soup yourself?"

"Nah, I think," JD looked around the cabin. "You need more firewood?"

Nathan looked at the full wood box near the stove. He looked at the boy whose excess energy showed in the way he tapped his fingers against the handle of his revolver. "I can always use firewood," he said. "Reckon we cain't have too much of that." And practically before he'd finished the sentence, JD was on his way out the door.

"What an appallingly energetic young man." The slow southern drawl came from the bunk just beyond Buck's.

"Ezra," Nathan said. "You're awake. Would you like some soup?"

"I would like," Ezra said in a tone that suggested that he had no expectation ever again of getting anything he liked, "a warm bed, freshly starched and laundered clothing, and a steak dinner worthy of the Queen herself." He swung himself out of bed and bent over to pull his boots on. He pulled down the cuffs on his shirt and stood. "Barring that, however," he said to Nathan. "I believe that soup will suffice."

He came to the stove and took the bowl of hot soup that Nathan handed him and sat at the table. Nathan watched him for a minute, then he shrugged and ladled himself out a bowl of soup, grabbed a spoon and sat down across from the gambler.

Ezra looked up at him and grinned. "I misspoke, Mister Jackson. The Queen could not expect a finer meal than this." He sketched a half-bow with the spoon in his hand. "I thank you."

Nathan studied him for a moment. "When I was in Michaels' house, I heard 'em talkin' about poisoning me. They were laughin' about it, like it was a funny thing."

Ezra looked at him, but didn't say anything, as if he didn't quite know what to say.

"And," Nathan continued, "I was thinkin' that the laugh was on them. 'Cuz I wouldn't have made it if I hadn't had help. I could have laid in that room for days and just died if someone hadn't come lookin' for me."

"Mrs. Travis is a remarkably persistent woman," Ezra said.

"I understand she pulled you away from a poker game," Nathan said wryly. "Now I _know_ that ain't easy."

Ezra raised an eyebrow and shrugged as if acknowledging the truth and accepting it as an unalterable part of who he was.

Nathan leaned forward over the table, the look on his face earnest and almost fierce. "I know it was you, Ezra," he said.

Ezra looked at him, genuinely puzzled and a little taken aback at Nathan's intensity. "What?" he said, briefly losing even his ordinary eloquence.

"I know you were the one who cleaned me up and changed the bed clothes and analyzed the symptoms and made me drink enough fluids to wash that poison right out of my system. I should have figured it out earlier. Josiah was drunk. JD was gone. And I reckon you wanted to keep Mrs. Travis away when you didn't know what I might have. I should have seen it. But I didn't. And I'm sorry." He looked straight at Ezra and the gambler was taken aback at how honestly and sincerely Nathan regarded him. "You saved my life," he said simply. "Thank you."

"Well, now, Mister Jackson," Ezra dissembled. "I'm sure that any of the other--"

"No," Nathan said firmly. "You cain't get out of this one, Ezra. You did it. And I ain't forgettin' it." He stood and took his bowl of soup and walked back over to the stove, leaving Ezra with a spoon in his hand looking after him bemusedly.

Part 122

Casey walked down the boardwalk seeing Four Corners with new eyes now that the seven had been gone so long. The town was changing already. A young couple walking down the boardwalk hand-in-hand caught Casey's eye and she wished it was her and JD. Okay, well maybe they had never done that but they could. Casey would wear a dress to match her eyes and JD would be clean-shaven in a suit wearing his bowler. Okay, well she'd have to make the dress and drag JD to the barber but it could be them. The man tipped his hat to Casey as they passed, "Miss." JD could tip his hat as they passed people on the boardwalk. Okay, well he'd have to come home first. JD would have to come home. Casey realized how different the town was becoming already without them.

The commotion on the streets was jarring. A fight spilled out of the saloon and Casey saw the dark-haired deputy from Eagle Bend struggle to break up the fight. The other deputy, younger, was in a loud argument with a cowboy who was insisting on firing his gun in the air.

How long? How long would it be before she couldn't come to town any more? The deputies would return to Eagle Bend and then what would the town do for lawmen? When would it be unsafe to walk the streets in daylight like it had been before the seven? She could count on one hand the number of times she came to town back then -- just not safe. Casey laughed self-deprecatingly. And to think not a week ago she thought she never wanted to come to town again. And _they_ were here then.

Where were they? When had she started to think they were never coming back? She was being silly, wasn't she?

Casey struggled to swallow the sudden lump in her throat. Where were they?

Three men rushed by Casey causing her to whirl around to see what was happening. A crowd was forming by the telegraph office and Casey quickly followed in the wake of the three men.

Wyatt, the telegraph operator stood out front, "folks, folks" he held up his hands trying to gain some order. "Everyone just stay calm." There were at least 15 men and women surrounding him. The low hum of the crowd continued until one man began to detail the devastating attack that had befallen him. The silence was absolute as he told his story.

"My ranch was attacked. I lost horses and cattle -- the savages just left the carcasses." The man almost looked ready to cry.

The hum of the crowd returned.

"They burned my barn." This report from another man. Who could be doing this?

The murmurs increased again and Casey didn't like the talk. Indians, savages, red men -- they were blaming Kojay's tribe. Why would they do that? They had lived near town for a long time to be trouble now. Surely, for some folks, it was an uneasy arrangement but since Claire Mosely's death -- it was peaceful. Why now?

"Where's the stage? It was due last night?" Someone called out, only to be followed by the crowd chorusing --

"WHERE'S THE STAGE?"

"Folks," Wyatt pleaded, "please, just stay calm. It should be here soon."

"Calm. CALM! You want me to be calm. I lost thousands of dollars in good stock last night. This can't go on." A rancher shrugged off the arm of another man; it was one of the deputies.

"Sir, we are here to help," it was the dark haired deputy trying to calm the rising tensions that was peaking to a crescendo only to inevitably crash -- when? And who would be hurt? Casey wondered.

"That's three places attacked last night deputy. You can't help all of us."

"I thought Yuma was gonna send troops."

Casey half-thought to hurry and get Mrs. Travis. She'd want to be in on this talk. Casey knew Yuma had wired and weren't going to send troops. At least not yet.

"When will the troops be here?" A voice yelled out.

"We can't wait on troops. We need to take matters into our own hands," a farmer called out.

Casey looked over at the man and frowned. She didn't even know who he was. He was rather non-descript, almost bland looking but there was a fire in his eyes that scared her.

"Let's ride out on the reservation and show 'em whose in charge," a cowboy in a grey duster called out.

Casey didn't recognize that dark haired stranger either. Who were these men? Fortunately, the crowd got distracted when someone announced the stage was arriving and they started to break up with some heading over to the hotel where the stage would stop.

Casey hoped they would calm things down but the conversation that swirled around her didn't reassure her. The seven needed to be here to calm things down. Where were they?

+ + + + + + +

"Ma, ma, the stagecoach is coming," Billy yelled out excitedly as he burst through the front door of the Clarion newspaper.

Mary had to smile at her son's antics Four Corners was still quiet enough and small enough that the stage arriving was an event; besides it had been due last night, obviously there was a story there. The little whirlwind known as Billy, grabbed Mary's hand and tugged her through the door of her office out onto the boardwalk.

"Son, slow down."

"Maa-aaaa," Billy's ability to transformed ma into a two-syllable word continued to amaze Mary.

"We won't miss a thing."

"But we will. The stage was at the edge of town when I came an' got you."

"When I came to notify you or when I came to retrieve you."

"That's what I said," Billy whined letting it be known he was more than a little frustrated at this point with his mother's pace. "Ma, we need to hurry." Billy was literally dragging his mother down the boardwalk.

The stage was slowly getting ready to pull up in front of the hotel. Mary and Billy arrived at the stage stop before the stage did. Mary felt like placing her hands on her hips and sneering, 'see' to Billy. Mary giggled slightly, guess that would be quite proper for an upstanding citizen and mother.

Mary frowned at the gathered crowd. Yes, the stage was late but she couldn't remember so many folks ever waiting on the stage.

"Guess that talk got Old Pete to slow down," Wyatt, the telegraph operator and stage manager commented to Mary as she approached.

Mary smiled, pleased that something had been done about his wild driving -- she had nagged Chris about it enough. "Yes, a talk from Mr. Larabee will have that effect."

"Not Mr. Larabee," Mary turned to Wyatt frowning. Before she could inquire as to what Wyatt meant the stage driver jumped down.

"You believe I crossed paths with that red-coated gambler in the middle of the desert?" Old Pete turned to spit tobacco juice. "Dang, you'd think that man had nothing better to do than supervise my drivin'."

Wyatt started chortling; almost a nervous, uneasy laugh. "Pete, you stupid galoot. Why was he really out there?"

"You saw Mr. Standish?" Mary inquired simultaneously pushing her way forward to hear what Pete had to say.

A woman opened the door to the stage and loudly cleared her throat to get assistance, distracting Pete from providing more information.

A short, elderly woman was assisted to disembark. She surveyed the crowd and with a twinkle in her eye addressed them, "why, it is so nice for so many of you to welcome me to Four Corners."

There were several nervous laughs. "Who are you?" One jokingly called out.

"I'm Margaret Downs. My daughter is Jane Andrews. I'm here to see my new granddaughter."

Congratulations were quickly offered as the rest of the passengers were assisted from the stage. Mary tried to place the people as they disembarked -- a young lady neatly dressed probably a teacher or a new bride chasing down her wayward husband, a short squat man in an ill-fitting suit probably some kind of salesman, and then what was obviously a family: husband, wife and daughter.

"Why are you late?" Another voice called out.

John, the family man answered. "We were warned the stage was to be attacked so we spent the night in Eagle Bend until an escort could be arranged."

"Who warned you?"

"Chris Larabee."

Mary's heart quickened. Chris. Chris. This was the first concrete word about his whereabouts in days.

"Quite the experience if I do say so myself," Margaret commented. "A story I'll be able to tell my grandchildren, which I now can do since we are safely here. Seth, be a good son-in-law and grab my bag, please."

"What happened?"

"It was so exciting. Larabee's men rode in and stopped the stage. They were quite dashing."

Mary rolled her eyes as Margaret waxed poetic about Chris Larabee. He did have that effect on woman.

"Excuse me," Mary pushed her way forward. "Pete mentioned Mr. Standish. Were any other of his men with him?"

"JD Dunne," the young woman passenger remarked.

"Oh yes, our Miss Lottie has her eye on that young man." Margaret cackled as the young lady blushed and ducked her head.

Mary saw Casey across the way stiffen at the last remark. She walked closer to talk to the ladies.

"You saw JD?" Casey questioned.

"Indeed. He was on guard on one side of the stage as the other men talked."

"Did he say anything?"

"Oh, he was so charming. He introduced himself," Margaret simpered. "He had his eye on Miss Lottie here."

"He was just being polite," Lottie demurred.

"You staying in town?" Casey's tone was almost challenging. Mary thought she might have to drag Casey away and she so wanted to hear if there was any more news.

"No," Lottie sighed, "I'm enroute to Tucson. I'm the new schoolteacher."

A small little smile crossed Casey's face. Casey leaned closer to Lottie and tightly whispered, "JD is my man. Its just as well you're leaving." The warning was clearly a threat. Lottie backed fearfully away from Casey.

"Casey," Mary firmly called out to reprimand her for her behavior that was bordering on rudeness.

Casey looked over at Mary; nothing approaching an apology was going to be forthcoming. "Wait till I get my hands on JD," Casey muttered as she passed to stomp down the boardwalk.

Mary was thinking that would be an interesting conversation but was startled from observing the jealous by-play of the ladies by the menacing call to arms to ride against Kojay's tribe.

"They're attacking ranches. Killed the deputy. They're ruining our livelihood. We can't stand by and do nothing." Mary frowned. It was John Bland. When had he returned?

"Yuma said they would come if there were further problems," Mary announced to the crowd.

"And if they are that dangerous. We do not have the men to ride against them," the dark-haired deputy from Eagle Bend yelled out. "Let the soldiers take care of this. It's the right way."

"Wyatt, you'll wire now," Mary asked.

"Certainly." Wyatt hurried across the street to send more wires.

"Folks mount up," the stagecoach driver called out. "We're pulling out." The last of Mrs. Downs bags were thrown down from the roof and the other passengers were being assisted back into the stage.

Fortunately, the crowd started to break up as well and a crisis had been averted for now. Mary rushed forward to speak to the driver before he left. "Pete. Did Mr. Larabee give any word about when he would return?"

"Nope." Mary scowled at Pete, 'nope, he had . . .?' -- what did he say then?

"Did Mr. Larabee give any word about the rest of the seven?"

"Nope." Mary's shoulders sagged, it seem Pete wasn't going to be very forthcoming or Chris for that matter.

"Did Mr. Larabee say where he was going?"

"Nope." Pete finally took pity on Mary. "Ma'am. I'm sorry. He gave the warning and we discussed options. That was it."

"Thank you." Mary quietly said desperately trying to hide her disappointment.

Pete tipped his hat and mounted the stage.

Mary watched the stage drive off at a sedate pace. Mary couldn't help but feel a little irritated with Pete for not knowing more -- well, it wasn't his fault that Chris sent no word. Men! 'Chris, did it ever occur to you we might be worried?' Mary sighed, probably didn't even cross his mind. Well I certainly hope whatever is on your mind is more important than your friends in town.

"Mary," Casey timid voice called out.

Mary looked over and a very morose Casey was standing in the shadows picking at her clothes like they would generate the words she wanted to say.

"You want to talk about it?"

"Oh yes. Why would JD even look at another girl?"

Mary had to smile at the eagerness Casey relayed what was bothering her.

"Casey, you don't know that JD wasn't just being polite."

"I do," Casey answered firmly. "He'd barely talk to me when we first met. Come to think of it, he barely talks to me now."

"And when he does, he manages to say the wrong thing?" Mary laid a comforting hand on Casey's shoulders.

Casey looked up at Mary shocked. "How did you know?"

Mary laughed lightly. "He's mentioned it a time or two."

"He did?" Casey exclaimed.

Mary laughed heartily at that. Mary and Casey walked for a block in companionable silence.

"Mary, did Mr. Larabee say anything about when they would be back? How are Buck and Vin, are they okay?"

"I'm sorry, he didn't. When they stopped the stage, their main concern was apparently getting it out of harm's way. They didn't say anything about their plans, the other men, or when they were coming home?

"Oh" and there was so much defeat and fear of the unknown in that simple statement.

Part 123

Sterling Michaels was pissed. Monumentally pissed. Two days ago everything had been within his grasp. Victory. Total annihilation of the enemy. So close he could taste it. Those damn seven men had been scattered and captured and wounded and defeated. They'd been out of his way. Completely out of his way! Two days ago there had been nothing left in his path but those _damned_ redskins. He'd had Larabee and Wilmington and Tanner right in his own cellar. Locked away in case he needed them, but essentially out of the picture. The others--so he'd been told--were sick and distracted and drunk. No threat to anyone. Certainly not to him.

So what the hell had happened? How had he come to be here in this dirty, cold, dark cabin? In his own damn woods? His wrists strained at the rough ropes that bound him. He looked across the dimly lit cabin at the man who guarded him, a rifle laid across his lap, his eyes hidden underneath his hat. The man looked languid, almost half-asleep, but Michaels wasn't fooled. He'd played poker with this man. He'd seen him up close.

Michaels blew breath out quickly through his nose. This was not possible! He was Sterling Michaels. There had to be a way out of this. He straightened, trying to ease the tightness in his arms from being tied and shake the chill from his shoulders. He knew these men. He and Striker had studied them for weeks before they'd made their move. He knew what their weaknesses were and how to manipulate them. Separate them. Distract them. Play to their deepest fears and desires. He could still do that. He could still win.

And of course, in the background, like an ace up his sleeve was Striker. Still back at the compound. And though Striker was not, to Michaels mind, particularly good at following orders, he was still a clever, nasty and deadly man who always--always--liked to win at anything he started. Michaels managed to sit up even straighter, trying to imbue himself with the presence he knew himself capable of. Time was on his side. And he still held all the money and most of the power.

+ + + + + + +

Ezra was wound up.

It was not a usual state of affairs for him and he had to account for it by telling himself that it had been an unusual last several days. He'd gotten little sleep and there'd been all the worry and the running and the fighting to go with it. He tried to compensate by staying very still, rifle in his hands and watching Sterling Michaels.

Damn, the man was good, he thought. He was as good as finished. Tied to a bed in a cabin in his own lumber camp. His men had abandoned him and still he sat there and tried to radiate a presence. And he almost succeeded. You had to give a man like that credit, he thought, even if you didn't have to give him anything else.

"Your name is Ezra Standish, I believe?"

Michael's voice, after such long silence, startled Ezra and he lowered his chair with a thump. He eyed the man warily and fingered the trigger on the rifle he was holding.

"I believe we've played poker before," Michaels continued, the richness of his voice growing with each word he spoke as if the words themselves were rebuilding his confidence in himself.

"Yes, we have," Ezra said. He stood and walked to the far wall, leaning against it. He was more agitated than he usually felt even in the middle of a twelve-hour high-stakes poker game and he hoped Michaels couldn't see it.

"You don't seem like the kind of man to participate in this kind of thing."

"What 'kind of thing' is that?"

Michaels eyes narrowed and Ezra could tell that he was trying to figure what kind of a man Ezra was. How much did this man know about him, he wondered. How much had they studied the town? Ezra remembered how he'd been distracted. How he hadn't even noticed Buck leaving or Vin following him or Josiah mean and drunk. He hadn't even noticed that JD was gone or Nathan was gone or Chris, when he'd left. He hadn't even noticed things Chris had told him about! He'd been too absorbed in the game, in the challenge, in the lay of the cards. And this man had done that.

Ezra looked down. He listened to his heart beat. He took one calm, even breath. And then another. This is the game, he thought. He looked up again. And I'm better than you are, Mr. Michaels.

"I watched you play poker, Mr. Standish," Michaels was saying in a calm voice that seemed to hint at some kind of quiet amusement. "You're very good."

Ezra tilted his head in acknowledgement of the compliment.

"And you strike me," Michaels continued, "As a man who appreciates fine things. The kind of things money can buy."

Ezra felt a small chill run down his spine. He knew it never showed in his face. "I, in fact, am a man of quite discerning tastes," he said. "Most people do not appreciate that."

"It must be difficult in a town like Four Corners. I see a man such as yourself more suited to a fine city like New Orleans."

Ezra continued to lean against the wall of the cabin. To his right the door was open and sunlight filtered in through the shadows cast by the branches of the trees. "And a man such as yourself, Mr. Michaels?" Ezra asked. "What compensations do you find in these distant confines?"

"Oh the rewards are great, Mr. Standish. Very great indeed."

"Really?" Ezra tilted his head up so that Sterling Michaels could see his face. His eyes shone with interest. "You seem to be playing a very deep and deadly game, Mr. Michaels. I would assume the stakes must be quite high."

Michaels allowed himself to smile. "Oh, yes," he said. "Very high. Incredibly high."

"Indeed," Ezra said.

"It's...possible," Michaels looked toward the window and then back at Ezra. "That a man of intelligence and ambition and...discernment might share in those rewards."

"Hmmm," Ezra said. "Why whatever do you mean, Mr. Michaels?"

Michaels allowed himself a small smile. He relaxed against the bunk post. "When this is over I will have both money and power. Anything you've ever wanted, Mr. Standish. That's what I can offer you."

For a moment, Ezra froze, though he knew on the outside he looked no different, inside his mind was racing. There were voices in his head that said, 'Take it take it take it.' And he could do it. He had the cunning and the patience and the skill to perhaps even pull it off. But...he was no longer a man who left, if indeed, he had ever been. And he'd known from the moment he entered this conversation what his goal had been.

To Michaels, he said. "I would need to know a great deal more, Mr. Michaels, about what your complete plans entail before I could respond to such a generous offer."

Michaels smile broadened. "I intend to control everything that is mine."

"I would require a few more details."

Michaels eyes narrowed and he studied Ezra closely. "I would require some definite commitment on your part."

"Such as?"

"Such as untying these ropes."

Ezra hesitated half a second. How far could he go? How much might he learn? He was the one with the rifle and the derringer up his sleeve. He crossed the room and cut the ropes binding Michaels' wrists.

Michaels rubbed his wrists and looked at Ezra. "And the others as well, Mr. Standish."

Ezra laid his rifle aside, cut the ropes binding Michaels' ankles and stepped back, picking the rifle up again. "Don't try anything," he said, "because I will shoot you."

Michaels smiled. He was getting positively expansive. "How will you get me out of here?" he asked.

"What will you give me to make it worthwhile?"

"I told you. Anything you ever wanted."

"I have wanted a great deal in my time, Mr. Michaels."

"I will _have_ a great deal, Mr. Standish."

"And you were about to explain why that is."

"No, you were about to explain how you would get me out of here."

A new voice spoke from the doorway. "It seems we have a standoff, gentlemen."

The voice was cool and very deadly and Ezra recognized it immediately. Shit! Chris Larabee. What had he heard? What was he thinking? Ezra took another step away from Michaels and turned to look at Chris.

Chris crossed the room in three long strides, yanked Michaels to his feet, pulled his arms behind him, and, grabbing another length of rope, tied them tightly. "I don't have time for standoffs. I need answers." He grabbed Michaels by the shirt and pulled him up close. "And I need them now." He shoved the man toward the door. Michaels stumbled and caught himself and glared back at Chris.

Chris grabbed his arm and shoved him again. At the doorway he turned and waited for Ezra. As the gambler passed him, he said in a low voice. "I wasn't worried." Ezra looked up, startled, to see that Chris was looking at him intently, a tight-lipped smile on his face. "In case you were wondering."

+ + + + + + +

Nathan turned away from the stove when he heard the cabin door open. Sterling Michaels stumbled through the opening and Nathan stiffened automatically. No, he told himself fiercely. Not anymore. And he straightened and looked Michaels square in the eye. Vin was sleeping restlessly in one bunk across the room. Buck was lying on another one nearby, but he opened his eyes when the door opened and Nathan could see his expression darken when he saw Michaels come through the door. Josiah and JD both rose from the table and Nathan almost had to smile at the way JD's hand went to the handle of his revolver. He took a step backward to stand next to Nathan.

Michaels had an expression of deep disdain on his face. As if, in spite of everything, he still held cards. Nathan was surprised at the way he felt as he looked at the man. Not fear, not hatred, just distance and sadness that Miz Ruby had to work for such a man, that such men existed.

Chris came in behind Michaels, shoving him hard so that he half-stumbled into the center of the room. Ezra slipped in quietly behind Chris and grabbed a chair from the table, pushing it forward so that it struck Michaels in the backs of his knees and forced him to sit down hard with a sudden involuntary 'woof.' Michaels glared at Ezra with a gaze suddenly gone icy cold. Ezra looked back at him with a bland and equitable expression that Nathan would have sworn was designed specifically to provoke men like Michaels. Nathan watched Michaels' expression harden and he waited for the explosion that he was certain would be coming.

Chris derailed it by speaking first. "We want some answers, Michaels." The words were clipped off and tight, the tone so sharp it could have sliced through stone. "I want to know what your purpose is?"

"My purpose..." Michaels tone was almost smug. "I believe my purpose has always been to rid the West of men like you."

Chris slapped him hard across the jaw and Michaels' head snapped sideways. He straightened back up and licked a small trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. He smiled.

Chris's lips spread into a thin tight line.

"Nathan, here," Chris said in silken tones, "heard a lot of things while he was in your house." Chris studied the man in front of him. "You should know, we turned back the stage."

For a moment, Nathan thought Michaels would explode right out of his chair. The muscles in his neck corded into tight, thick ropes and his face thinned down so much it almost looked like a death's head. Then, as if he were consciously taking control of every muscle in his body, his face relaxed. Michaels looked at Chris and Nathan could see something in his eyes, something deep and dark and malevolent that almost made him shudder. 'I was in this man's house,' he thought. 'I did for him.' And he knew that was something that, unlike the smoke from the fire last night, would take a long time to come clean.

"I want to know why you did this," Chris repeated. "I want to know what you're planning." He leaned closer to Michaels. "And you _will_ tell me."

Michaels appeared to be studying the corner of the cabin where the walls met the ceiling. "I have a man who works for me," he said as if musing on some random slightly interesting topic. "You may remember him, Mr. Larabee." He looked at Chris and his gaze suddenly sharpened. "His name is Striker and he's the one who brought you to me."

Nathan could see Chris's hands tighten into fists, but he held himself still as he waited for Michaels to continue. 'Good,' Nathan thought. 'You gotta let him talk.'

"You were on the trail with him. You know what kind of man he is." Michaels looked away from Chris at the other men in the room. Nathan felt the chill of his eyes as he stared straight at Nathan. But Nathan didn't flinch and he actually felt himself grow stronger knowing that he was no longer in this man's house, feeling the comforting weight of the gunbelt at his hips and the knives strapped to his back, and understanding in a way that perhaps he always had, but that he somehow had until this moment taken for granted that he had six man standing with him in this moment--even Vin in his fevered sleep. He would never have to face men like Michaels alone again.

Something flickered in Michaels' eyes as he looked at Nathan and his gaze moved on. He looked at Josiah who returned a serene and even gaze that made a man think it was almost impossible that he had ever tried to take Buck apart with his bare hands. He looked at JD who couldn't quite pull off the tough look he affected, but who, nevertheless looked more formidable than most men his age. His eyes brushed by Vin, asleep in the bunk, as if he were no threat at all. 'Probably don't even exist in his mind,' Nathan thought. And that idea made him angry too, as if Michaels thought he made and destroyed men himself by the way that he thought about them as well as the things that he did. Then Michaels' eyes settled on Buck for a minute and Nathan could see how hard and lean the gunslinger's expression was and he knew that if Michaels looked at him any longer Buck would be out of that bed and coming at Michaels in a flash. But Michaels moved on passing Ezra as if he had already assessed and dismissed him, a gesture that left Ezra with a small half-smile on his face and made Nathan wonder what had passed between them in the other cabin.

And finally Michaels looked at Chris as if he'd decided that Chris was the only one worth talking to. 'And that is only one of your mistakes,' Nathan thought, even as Michaels was preparing to speak again.

"Yes, Striker," he said musingly. "I believe he's known as a very dangerous man." He looked up at Chris and his eyes hardened again. "He didn't come with me last night, you see. He's still at my house. And," he turned and looked directly at Nathan, as if Nathan were really the person he'd been talking to all along. "I believe there are some people you care about in that house."

Nathan took a step forward and felt Buck's hand on his arm. He looked down at the pale man in the bunk. Buck looked at him intently for a long minute, then slowly shook his head. Nathan breathed out. No. Buck was right. Anger wasn't the answer. He closed his eyes, then opened them and turned to face Michaels again.

Chris was still standing right in front of Michaels, but he'd turned half-way toward Nathan as if waiting first for Nathan's response before he reacted. Nathan drew himself up perfectly straight and flashed Chris a look of thanks. "The thing you fail to understand, _Mister_ Michaels," Nathan said in a cold and formal tone, "is that you ain't got any say about what happens from here on out. You're just another used up man who thought that he was something." Then he turned deliberately away and went back to the pots he had boiling on the stove.

Chris grabbed Michaels by the front of his shirt and jerked him to his feet. "You heard the man," he said with a cool, feral smile. "We don't need you anymore."

He shoved Michaels toward Ezra. "You and Josiah take him back to the cabin. Make him...comfortable."

There was silence in the room after Ezra and Josiah had escorted Michaels from the cabin. Chris walked to the stove and placed a hand on Nathan's shoulder. "We'll get them out of there," he said.

Nathan jerked around quickly. "It's like a fortress, Chris. It was one thing gettin' out of there, but gettin' back in?"

"Yeah," said Chris calmly. "But we got one thing now we didn't have before."

"What's that?" Nathan asked skeptically.

"We got Michaels," Chris said. And he smiled.

Part 124

"Damn," complained a soft voice, "ain't I ever gonna' get a top bunk?"

"Not 'til you stop fallin' down." Nathan walked over to the bed where Vin was laying, and smiled warmly. He caught Vin's arm as the man raised it to rub a hand to his face, saying, "Hey now, lay quiet 'til you wake up all the way."

"I'm awake," said Vin. "But what're . . . _you_ doin' in Hell, Nathan? Always . . . thought you were a good man." He grinned weakly, lopsided, and Nathan chuckled as he sat down in the chair, took Vin's wrist into his hand, and began to silently count out his pulse.

"I ain't in Hell yet, an' neither are you," said Nathan.

Chris strolled over silently to stand near the head of the bed with a saddlebag over his arm, looking down at Vin with a hard face that somehow bore a softening expression. Nathan set the tracker's arm down on the bed next to him, and leaned forward in the chair, his elbows on his knees.

"How you feelin', Vin?" The look on his face was such that Vin glanced rapidly up over his shoulder at Chris, and then looked back at Nathan with his brows drawing together.

"I'm all right," he replied guardedly.

"We have to travel a little," said Chris in a soft voice. Vin looked back up at him, craning his neck some to do so. Chris smiled down almost ruefully. "I need to know if you're up to that. I don't want to split us up again, but--"

Vin was nodding his head thoughtfully, pulling himself together more as the moments went by. "If y'all can get me up on my horse . . . I think I can stay on 'im for a while. How far we gotta' go?"

"'Bout ten miles," replied Nathan. "But we figgered you could ride in a cart."

"Hell," Vin grinned broadly. "I could ride in a cart _dead_."

"Yeah, but it'll be a pretty rough ride. I know the poundin' that rifle gave your shoulder didn't make it any better. You sure you--"

"No problem," said Vin more seriously, his eyes darkening. "It's still a hell of a lot better'n it was. I'll be fine." He blinked slowly, and then looked again at Chris, leaning against the bunkbed post behind his right shoulder. The gunman nodded.

"All right," he said softly, and then turned around to walk off across the room, throwing the saddlebag over his shoulder as he did so. His spurs rang softly as he stopped momentarily in the opened door, then stepped across the threshold into the outside. Vin looked at Nathan, who was speaking again.

"Your head still ache?"

"Yeah. Everythin' aches anyway . . . It'll go 'way. What happened?" Nathan poured some of the willow bark tea he'd made earlier and set aside to steep, and lifted the cup towards Vin. The tracker put his good hand around the outside of Nathan's and stayed it. "What happened?" he repeated. "The roof was all afire. Now this. Are Buck an' Josiah ok?"

"Chris an' the others showed up, jus' a minute after that." Nathan got his hand out of Vin's grasp and held the cup of tea to his mouth, nodding at him to drink it. "You passed out from standin' up fightin' when I don' even know how you could sit up straight. Josiah got Buck out, an' Chris came in an' helped me get you. That was it."

Vin finished the bitter tea, and dropped his head back the few inches he'd raised it from the pillow as his shoulder and chest began to burn again. He looked up at the mattress slats above him, then closed his eyes and shook his head wearily. "Reckon I owe you my life. Thanks, Nathan."

"It was Chris," said the healer. "I was goin' down, too, from the smoke. He's the one to thank, not me. That tea should bring your fever on down pretty soon, help your headache. Jus' try an' lay quiet while we get things ready to move." The tall man rose to his feet, his eyes still on Vin's face. The tracker swallowed, and opened his eyes a narrow slit, looking back at Nathan.

"Chris ok? Burnin' cabin an' all?" The room was so quiet for a moment that both men heard the sudden low tones of Josiah's and Chris's voices outside as they worked side by side to get the cart JD had found in working order. Nathan walked to the window and stood looking into the dusk for several minutes, studying the two men. Then he nodded.

"I think maybe it was good. He was able to do somethin'." He looked at Vin again, his eyes shining with reflected lamplight. "He got there in time, this time. You know?"

"Yeah." Vin nodded and closed his eyes again, and Nathan went to the table to pack the few bandages and herbs he'd managed to scrape together. He was going to be glad to get to the compound and get his hands on new medical supplies, he thought.

+ + + + + + +

Buck laid on the bed where everyone thought he was sleeping again, his eyes closed and his body relaxed, listening languidly to the soft words Vin and Nathan exchanged. It reminded him of listening to grown-ups talking softly in the next room, when he was a child: his mother's voice relaxed and gentle and laced with soft laughter as she visited with one of her women friends. He'd had the same safe feeling then he had right now, too. It was just too bad it couldn't last.

The man turned his face slightly so that it was away from the others and opened his eyes to look at the shadows on the wall, thrown there by the lamplight. He realized suddenly that he could see his own eyelashes sweeping up and down as he blinked, as if he was a giant. It made him smile, remembering the games he'd played with shadows as a child: forming his hands into animals, backing away from the wall and getting bigger and bigger with each step as if he was growing like the proverbial weed his mother kept comparing him to. But it wasn't a game any more. The shadow Chris Larabee cast really was gigantic, and it didn't leave much room for a man like Buck Wilmington anywhere around it on the wall where it fell. It just fell right on him, right across his face like a cloud over the sun. And when Chris looked at his own shadow falling across Buck, he didn't even realize that they were two separate things -- and that part of what he saw when he looked at Buck was his own self. The gunman sighed without a sound, a long and slow rise of his chest and then a breathing out.

Buck turned back to regard Vin and Nathan thoughfully, his mind still floating in shadows, but focused more intently when he saw Nathan pause with bandages in one hand, then slowly set them back down on the table with a long sigh. The healer stared unseeing through the far window of the cabin, a window that faced down the logging road towards the compound. Even as Buck watched, Nathan shivered, shook himself all over lightly, and began to pack again. Buck frowned. He wished Nathan would just tell Chris how worried he was about the people back at Michaels' house so that something could be done more quickly. If the men'd ride on out right now, they could be there in a short time. It wasn't even quite dark yet, so they'd be able to travel fast, cover the ground quickly.

But no. No one wanted to split up again. Chris especially. Buck had seen the way the man had looked at Vin when they'd first discussed it, and known that it wasn't even an option. Buck had watched the play of emotions slipping in light, rapid succession across his old friend's face, caught the furtive and guilty glance he'd thrown towards the still-unconscious tracker, and felt almost like saying it out loud: 'At least you can't blame this one on me. You were on your own this time. I was the one who stayed.' But he'd been silent, and just watched Chris as he stood in the middle of the room with Michaels' furious voice hanging in the air and made his decision.

"We'll all go," he'd said. "Look around. Find somethin' we can use to get Vin an' Buck there in one piece."

A cart had provided the means, and judging by the sounds of the voices outside they were now trying to convince a saddlehorse that between the cart's bars was an ok place to be -- but not yet with much luck. Buck winced as he heard the sodden thump that he knew well as the sound of a hoof connecting with someone's anatomy. But the men were used to convincing horses about the wisdom of doing things they'd been skeptical of before, and in only a few more moments Josiah stomped into the cabin rubbing his thigh and nodded to Nathan and to Buck as they looked at him in expectation.

"We're ready," he announced. "You first, Buck."

Nathan came to join Josiah as the two men put their arms around Buck's ribs and he slid his arms over their shoulders and scooted to the edge of the bed.

"No weight on that leg, Buck." Nathan tipped his head to one side as Buck turned his face to look at him with a flat expression. "It hurts more today than it did yesterday, don' it?"

"Yeah, as a matter a' fact, it does." Buck nodded thoughtfully.

"See? I say these things for a reason." The two men began to slowly lift Buck down from the bed so that his good foot was on the floor, and then began to walk him towards the door. "Whatcha' gotta' do is learn t' fight one-footed -- for next time," Nathan was saying. "Then you'll do fine."

"Now _there's_ somethin' I'd like to see: Buck, fightin' one-footed," said Josiah. "Kinda' boggles the mind."

"Boggles _mine_," said Vin.

"What's so bogglin'?" The gambler came into the cabin as the other three stepped past him, his coat pushed back and his fingers in the vest waist pockets on both sides. He looked at JD, who had entered just at his heels, then at Vin, and shrugged. "I believe Mr. Dunne and I have the dubious honor of escorting you to your conveyance," he grinned. "We shall do our best not to drop you."

"I shoulda' known I was in Hell when I woke up," said Vin, eyeing the two men approaching him. "All that fire, an' then a bottom bunk again. An' now this."

Ezra leaned over the tracker to lift him gently behind the shoulders, then wrapped his arms around his friend's chest from behind. JD picked up Vin's legs and pulled them to his chest, then the two men rose bearing Vin with them. All three of the men groaned, then, although for different reasons.

"Let us hasten, Mr. Dunne," Ezra choked out. "Mr. Tanner is . . . a good deal . . ." they were shuffling with short steps towards the cabin door, ". . . heavier . . . than he. . . looks."

Vin bit his lips as he sagged lower in Ezra's grip, trying not to let the man know how much his shoulder was hurting from being carried. Despite Ezra's patter, he knew it wasn't an easy thing to do and he admired the gameness with which Ezra was trying.

"Here, let me help you, Brothers." Josiah's deep voice was greeted with a sigh of relief by all three of the men as he slid his arms in to take Vin's shoulders from the panting gambler, and then carried Vin the rest of the way to the cart with JD still bearing up the booted end of the load. The two laid Vin down carefully over the side of the cart so that he was next to Buck, who was sitting up with his back against the front wall of the box. His face was dark, and he had a rifle in his hands. Vin followed his line of sight and saw that it rested on a well-dressed man of about 50, bound on horseback, his haltered mount tied to a hitching post by its lead rope. Vin tried to raise his head to study the man a little longer as Josiah pulled a heavy blanket up over him.

"Who is that?"

"Sterling Michaels," replied Buck. "The fella' that had us attacked an' dragged up this mountain an' locked in his cellar."

Vin suddenly understood why Buck's expression was so dark.

"You keep that rifle trained on him the whole way," said Josiah. Buck nodded.

"He moves a muscle, I'll kill 'im." There was no way to mistake the threat in the man's words. Michaels blanched, and then flushed crimson with anger as he stared back at Buck.

"All right," said Chris suddenly. He had materialized out of the darkness next to the cart, by Vin, and the tracker startled when he realized he hadn't been aware of the man's approach. "JD, head us out. You've got the lead for the horse pullin' the cart, right?"

"Yeah." The young man legged his chestnut around enough to lift the lead rope on the halter that Buck's grey was wearing to show that he had it in his hand, ready. The grey shook its head and snorted.

"He better get extra oats for this," said Buck, without a smile.

"He will." Chris looked at the other men. "Buck's keepin' the rifle on you, Michaels. And I'm never gonna' be outta' pistol range. Not for a minute. Josiah's leading your horse, so all you gotta' do is sit calm an' enjoy the ride."

"Seeing as how my hands and feet are tied to the saddle, I really have no choice now, do I?" Michaels' voice was cutting.

"You'll have t' go a lot farther than that if you mean t' make me feel sorry for ya'," drawled Vin softly.

The men turned their horses towards the lumber road and legged them forward, stringing out with the cart in the middle of the procession and Michaels right behind it. Ezra held up his chestnut until the group had all passed him, and brought up the rear with a sharp look into the woods on either side before he turned his horse to follow. Nathan rode alongside the cart next to Vin, keeping tabs on his two patients, and hoped he wouldn't be adding more to the list.

Or digging any graves.

Part 125

Miz Ruby raised the wick on the kitchen lamp, and moved it to the center of the table so she'd have more room to roll out dough. Crazy time to be makin' cookies, she thought, but then it wouldn't do at all to just be sittin' around lettin' them young un's get even more scared than they already were. She wiped floury hands on her apron, and pointed to a tin cannister on a shelf across the room.

"Go get that'n now, Pedro, an' brings it over heah."

"S�, Miz Ruby." The boy leaped up from the stool he'd been perched on and ran to draw down the cannister into his arms, and then carried it to the table against his chest to drop it there with a thump. He looked up at the cook with wide, dark eyes.

"Wal, open it up," smiled Miz Ruby. "You'n Coco kin use what's in there t' fancy up this batch."

"Raisins!" Coco's voice gasped in delight at the warm, sweet smell that surged out of the tin when Pedro pried off its lid, and the girl looked up at Miz Ruby with an eager grin.

"Reckon y'all likes raisins?"

"S�, Miz Ruby!!" Coco and Pedro's eyes sparkled as they carefully reached little hands into the cannister to withdraw fists of the dried fruit. Pedro watched a silent moment as Coco arranged several pieces on a gingerbread-man shape she'd cut from the dough, to make eyes and a mouth, and then grinned and reached beneath her arms to add a line of buttons. The children glanced up at Miz Ruby, giggling softly, and the old cook nodded her head.

"That's right nice," she said. "Y'all keeps goin' an'--" She broke off, frowning slightly as Belle trailed into the kitchen doorway, her eyes large and luminous in the lamplight. Miz Ruby shook herself and forced a smile to her face. "Miss Belle? Kin Ah gits y'all--" But the petite woman was shaking her head.

"I wondered . . . It's awful quiet around here. Lonely."

Miz Ruby stood looking at Belle as Bitsy silently lowered the oven door and slid out the newest tray of finished cookies, then shut the oven door with her foot. It banged heavily in the stillness of the house and the night, and Miz Ruby thought about the way that Striker kept materializing out of the darkness now that Marse Sterlin' was gone, and she nodded. "We's makin' cookies," she said simply.

"I used to make cookies." Belle came two steps into the kitchen and looked at the children with a wistful expression. Then she glanced fearfully back into the front of the house over one shoulder and shivered.

"Look! I made buttons from raisins!" Pedro pointed to the pale little figure he and Coco had just finished decorating, and then immediately clapped a hand over his mouth at his own brazenness and ducked beneath the table. Belle sighed and shook her head, backing a step.

"I can see I need to let y'all be," she said softly. "I didn't mean to--"

"There's room here." Both women looked in surprise at Bitsy, who had drawn out a chair at the table and was looking steadily at Belle. "If you wanna' join us. It ain't . . . Well, it ain't a good night t' be alone." Everyone was silent a long moment, and then Belle smiled a tremulous smile, and seemed almost to shiver her way to the seat Bitsy held out for her. Miz Ruby looked the girl up and down, and thought she'd never been prouder. She caught her eye, and the look the two exchanged made the younger woman color with pleasure and look away.

Pedro crept out from beneath the table and looked at Belle for a long, silent moment, and then smiled breathlessly and held out a ball of dough to her in his dark little hand. "You wanna' make one?" he asked. "Smash it flat, an' then cut it."

Belle took the dough offered her, felt its warmth in her hand, and looked back at the boy as if he might tell her something secret, something that would make everything different, make everything the way maybe he still saw the world. "What should I make?"

The sturdy child thought a long moment, then nodded decisively. "You could make one a' those big black dogs Se�or Sterlin' has that eats people," he said, "with all those big white teeth. An' then you could eat HIM an' he be all gone!" The boy laughed and made a gnashing motion with his teeth, and Belle looked down at the dough. Dogs, she thought, that eat people. Yes. How had she never seen the way it was arranged, that Sterling let nothing and no one slip from his grasp, when even a child could see it. She closed her eyes, and laid the dough on the table, and pressed it flat with the side of a fist whose fingers were so tight that the nails pressed into the palm of her hand.

A single stroke of the clock marked the half-hour, and Belle looked up startled at the sound. "Eight-thirty," said Miz Ruby. "Gittin' late. Reckon we gots t' finish up."

"Yes'm." Coco began to gather up the cookie figures that still lay upon the table, her eyes darting from Bitsy to Miz Ruby and back as the two exchanged a different kind of glance.

Eight-thirty, Miz Ruby was thinking. Marse Sterlin's been gone nearly 24 hours now. What're we gonna' do if--

"Good cookies," said an even voice.

Striker. The five people in the kitchen knew without looking who it was that had lifted one from the cooling pan on the window sill in passing, whose soft tread was even now moving through the kitchen into the dining room. No one said a word. No one looked.

When the step had faded away again, and it had been silent for several long minutes, Miz Ruby looked at Belle, and her face was very serious.

"Ah's gon' make us-all some coffee so's we kin stay up an' talk while them chil'ren sleeps," she said. She looked at Bitsy, Coco, and Pedro, and then spoke to Bitsy. "Move Coco's an' Pedro's cots in here, t'night, when we's done with th' cookies." she said. "Then sits yo'self down an' has coffee with me'n Miss Belle while them last ones finishes bakin'."

+ + + + + + +

The cart ride hadn't been smooth to begin with, but Vin had tried to relax and let the jarring just go on past him for the first couple of hours. There wasn't a lot that could be done about it, after all. But the terrain had grown more rugged as they'd approached the mining compound, the ground studded more thickly with outcrops of stone, until finally the cart lurched over one of them with a bang that made Vin clench his jaws against the gasp it tore loose from him, trying not to wince visibly. But Nathan was on him like a hawk anyway, waving a hand to JD and leaning over the cart from his saddle.

"Hold up a minute," he was saying, "Hold up, JD."

"What's wrong, Nathan?" Chris's black flashed out of the darkness and he wheeled the animal to a stop, stepping to the ground in a single fluid move as he did so. One hand was already on the side of the cart, and Vin tried to grin reassuringly when he saw Chris look in at him. But Chris's lips tightened, and he shook his head shortly and looked at Nathan. "That hurt 'im," he said, "an' don't tell me it didn't."

"I'm ok," Vin said. He'd meant to say more than that, but stopped when he heard how weak his own voice sounded. Damn, that wasn't going to help matters at all.

JD lifted a hand and pointed ahead to where the lights of the mining compound could be seen shining through the trees at the foot of the long slope beneath them. "We're nearly there," he said encouragingly.

"I hate to say it," Buck said softly, eyeing Chris, "but I think he might do better on horseback from here. What I remember a' that slope down is pretty rocky."

"His fever ain't too bad. He could prob'ly manage it that far," added Nathan. Vin shrugged the healer's hand off his forehead and struggled to sit up, his face cross.

"Damnit!" he growled, "I ain't in a swoon here. Stop talkin' at each other over my head." He looked around, panting, as he finished hauling himself to a sitting position with his good hand on the side of the cart, and glared at Chris. The blanket had fallen from him as he sat up, and the white bandages around his shoulder and the top of his chest shone dully in the dark.

"All right," said Chris softly. He smiled with just his mouth, his eyes still brittle. "You'll need this." He slipped off his short, black coat and laid it over the side of the cart, then looked at Buck for a long silent moment. "You gonna' ride in, too?"

Buck nodded shortly, fingering the rifle in his hands, and then looked back at Michaels. The man had been watching the byplay with gleaming eyes, his expression one of fierce enjoyment. Now he cleared his throat and nodded his head towards the men in the cart as he spoke to Chris.

"It really doesn't matter," he said smoothly, "how they go in. They're both going to come out feet-first, after my men get through with them."

Chris moved so quickly that there was only the silver flash of a knife blade and the high, frightened grunt of Michaels' horse as it staggered sideways from the impact of one man against the other. Then the horse was dancing in a nervous arc around its lead rope, Josiah snubbing it closer, and Michaels' bindings had been cut and he was standing on the ground with his knees half-bent, the whole front of his shirt wadded up in Chris Larabee's enraged fist. Chris's big Colt was in his other hand, pressed against Michaels' jaw.

No one moved.

"You might be thinkin'," said Josiah casually, studying the end of the lead rope in his hand, "that you're safe 'cause a' bein' a bargainin' chip." He looked back at the two men, then, his eyes boring into the side of Michaels' face. "You'd be wrong."

Chris shook Michaels suddenly, hard, and holstered his pistol as he shoved Michaels sharply to the ground backwards, where he lay looking up at Chris with an expression of thinly-veiled hatred on his face. The gunman looked at Nathan.

"Get Buck 'n' Vin fixed up to ride," he bit out. Then: "Josiah, JD, redo Michaels' bonds so his hands are behind 'im an' I can get 'im off his horse easier next time."

Chris stalked off past Ezra, who shook his head. Everyone was silent another moment, and then the men began to move again. Ezra drew his own rifle from its scabbard to level it at Michaels. "I have things covered for you while you get yourself mounted, Mr. Wilmington," he said.

"Thanks." Buck laid the rifle he'd been holding down on the floor of the cart, and turned towards Vin, pulling Chris's coat towards him as he did so.

"Wait a minute." Nathan had dismounted, and was shaking his head. "I wanna' put that arm in a sling first, to protect it a little if he's gonna' ride." Vin glared at Nathan, his eyes shining in the moonlight. "I mean," Nathan cleared his throat. "Don' put that coat on 'til I fix you a sling, Vin." The healer grinned, and Vin chuckled very softly.

"Thanks."

It didn't take too long for the men to rearrange things so that Buck's grey was out of the cart rails. Buck had a hard time mounting up, but willing hands helped him into the saddle, and once he was up he thought maybe it would be ok after all. Vin's arm had been put in a sling, and with Chris's coat wrapped around his shoulders and his own hat back on, he looked, thought Buck, almost like he was the old Vin again. The tracker sagged a bit off-center in the saddle, it was true, and he was holding himself stiffly and sort of canted to one side . . . but Buck couldn't help but grin. He legged the grey closer to the blaze-faced gelding and nodded to the younger man.

"Feels good t' be ridin' with y'again," he said softly.

"Same here." Vin's voice was very low, but he reached out his good hand and he and Buck shook their left hands solemnly, and then Buck looked at Chris and nodded.

"Let's ride, then," said Chris.

Nathan brought up the rear this time, wanting to keep a sharp eye on the two men he really didn't think had any business being on horseback yet. But he had to admit to himself, it felt good . . . even proud, somehow . . . to see them all again that way. They were spreading out into a line even as he thought it, the way men did when they were headed into a fight and needed to present less of a compact target. But as Nathan watched the group of men approaching the big house, their horses forming a single advancing front of riders, he felt gooseflesh cascade down his arms and he couldn't help but swallow against a sudden lump that formed in his throat. Then he nudged his own chestnut into a trot to join them in the place they'd left opened for him, between Vin and JD, and together they rode into the light.

Part 126

Striker had just stepped outside Michaels' house when one of the guards from the silver mine ran up to him. The man had been pulled off his regular duties and put to work patrolling the compound when Michaels had left with most of his hired guns.

"They're coming."

Striker grabbed him. "What?" he asked sharply. "Who?"

"They've got Michaels. I saw them up the slope. Got 'im tied and guns on him." The man looked up to gauge the impact of his words. He didn't particularly like Striker, but he had to figure he was exactly the right kind of man for this particular situation.

Striker smiled, not necessarily a happy or even anticipatory smile, more like 'aaah, so this is how it is.'

"Get Simmons," Striker commanded. "Get Madison and Kelso too and send them to me."

The man hesitated, thinking Striker would tell him more. "Now!" Striker snapped and the man ran.

Striker turned back to the house. He glanced up the hill as he pulled open the heavy front door. He couldn't see them, the men on the hill, but he knew they were up there and he had to admire their nerve, to come back into the middle of the compound when they'd already pretty much gotten away clean. Had to admire that, maybe, he thought, as he made his way down the long front hall, but they would still die all the same.

+ + + + + + +

Buck didn't care how much his leg hurt--and the truth was that it hurt a hell of a lot--he cared that he was riding into Michaels' compound this time under his own power with a loaded gun in his holster. He slipped his right foot out of the stirrup to ease the strain on his leg and drifted out to Chris's left, toward the end of the line of men. Chris had Michaels right beside him, Ezra to the other side, watching Michaels' every move. Nathan was riding beside Vin to Chris's right and Buck knew he was probably pissed that Buck wasn't right beside him too where he could keep an eye on him. JD was on the far end of the group, between Vin and the outer darkness of the woods. And Josiah was beside Buck.

Yeah, Buck thought, not just under his own power, not just with his gun on his hip, but with...he looked down the line of men, pausing for a second to look at Chris's dark and determined face...well, for right now, in this moment, he'd call them friends.

He shifted on his horse, the movement sending a dull ache right up through his bones to center in his chest. It didn't matter, he told himself. Nothing mattered, except protecting Miz Ruby and anyone else in that house and stopping goddamned Michaels. Nothing. And Buck sat up straighter in the saddle and narrowed his eyes against the dim light of the evening and rested his hand on his revolver.

+ + + + + + +

Miz Ruby and and the others were still in the kitchen determinedly making cookies when Striker entered for the second time. This time he didn't slide in quietly. He strode in and Miz Ruby looked up sharply to see what he was up to.

Striker looked at each of the people in turn--Bitsy, Coco, Miss Belle, Pedro, and Miz Ruby. The frightening thing about that man, Miz Ruby thought was that he didn't really care that they were afraid of him. He expected it maybe, but it didn't satisfy him. He wasn't like Marse Sterling, who liked knowing he had power and exercising it. No, this man was more dangerous, colder and more calculating. And judging by the way he looked at her now, he was up to something very very bad.

Just at that moment two other men stumbled into the kitchen. Striker smiled slightly, a tight thin-lipped smile that clearly showed his mind was taken with other things.

"How many men have we got still here?" he asked.

"We got about t-t-twenty guards I can pull from the mine. They ain't hired ki--" the tall thin man whose name Miz Ruby couldn't remember right now quailed before the glare in Striker's eyes. "They can all handle a gun pretty well," he finished lamely.

Striker frowned at him. "Get them up here now. Those damned men are back and they've got Michaels. Tell them I want rifles and revolvers. Move!"

The man spun around, preparing to leave when Striker stopped him. "Wait," he said. "The miners. Everyone off shift. Get them out too."

The man looked puzzled. "They ain't got guns."

"Numbers," Striker snapped at him. "We can overwhelm them with numbers if we have to. Those miners know who's paying them." He glared at the man. "Go!"

Both men turned to leave this time and it wasn't until they were gone that Miz Ruby noticed a third man standing silently in the shadows near the back door. Striker looked at him as if he'd been aware of his presence the minute he entered the room. "Kelso," he said smoothly. "I want you to release the dogs."

Miz Ruby heard Pedro gasp softly beside her and she reached her hand down to place it on his shoulder. "It's all right, chile," she whispered softly. "You'll be safe here."

Pedro looked up at her and shook his head. For someone so young he knew too much, Miz Ruby thought. She looked up at Striker who was still talking to the man with the dogs.

"They'll kill anyone," the man was saying. "Except me and Michaels and maybe you, they won't care."

"That's fine," Striker told him in a smooth voice. "That's all I ask."

Miz Ruby bent down to Pedro. "I want you to gets outta here now. You and Bitsy and Coco. Go!" She looked at Miss Belle who had frozen when Striker entered, trying to hide from him by not moving at all. She made a very small motion to the door, trying to tell Miss Belle to get the children out. As frightened as she was, Miss Belle managed to nod. She touched Bitsy lightly on the shoulder. Bitsy grabbed Coco. They had just started to back away from the table when Striker turned toward them.

"You," he pointed to Miz Ruby. "Come with me."

+ + + + + + +

Ezra wasn't nervous.

'I am not a nervous man,' he would have told anyone who asked him. He couldn't afford to be, in his profession. But riding down the hill with Michaels on one side and his own awareness of how small and weak a band of men they were pressing at his back, he felt the weight of what they were doing and it seemed strong and dark and hard. He looked down the line of men and caught brief glimpses of Vin in one direction and Buck in the other. He looked across at Chris and studied the thin, determined look on his face. He, Ezra, hadn't suffered like these men had. He knew that. He'd been worried and stressed and tired and the jobs he'd been forced to do had been unpleasant and not ones he would have wished upon himself, but they had not involved physical pain or being tied up or dragged many miles against his will or locked in a cellar for days at a time. He owed them this moment, to ride with them into this place, but he couldn't help wondering how wise they were. He knew as a gambling man that he sure wouldn't take odds on the seven of them surviving the night.

'And what does that say of me?' he thought, 'that I ride in anyway.' And he hoped in a way, in the end, it said something worth saying.

He reined his horse back a bit so that he could watch Michaels and the house and the men all at the same time. They were almost at the base of the long slope, approaching Michaels' house. The gas lights in the yard were lit, contrasting sharply with the darkness of the wood and mountainside behind them. As he looked, he could see shapes moving at the edges of the light, like shadow figures. Only these weren't shadows, Ezra knew. They were outnumbered and surrounded. Ezra fingered the rifle that lay across his saddle. If he were going to ride into someplace hopeless, outnumbered and outgunned, these were at least the men he'd choose to do it with.

+ + + + + + +

Pedro tore himself from Coco's grasp.

"Pedro!" she yelled in a fierce whisper. "Come back here!"

But Pedro ran down the hall back to the kitchen. He had to help Miz Ruby. That bad man Striker had taken her and he had to help. Nathaniel could help, Pedro knew that and Nathaniel was coming back. Pedro knew he was coming back. The bad man had said so. He'd said 'those men are coming.' And what other men could they be? Someone had to tell them that Striker had taken Miz Ruby.

He flashed through the kitchen and out the back door. He might just be a little boy, but he knew, from every day he'd spent in that house that sometimes little boys could go where grown men or women couldn't ever get to. He figured he could slip through the dark and up that mountain slope and find Nathaniel and his friends and no one would stop him, 'cuz he was just a little boy.

He ran on out of the house and past a couple of men who looked at him with startled expressions. One of them laughed harshly and let him go. Pedro's spirit soared. He could make it. He could run really fast, like the wind. But then he heard a sound that made him stumble. He heard a soft low growl a ways off to his right and then, just then when it was too late for him to change his course, he remembered what that bad man, Striker had said about the dogs.

+ + + + + + +

Josiah saw Buck's head come up, saw him rein his horse hard to the left and take off. Damn! Josiah thought, and barely had time for that one thought before he heard it too, what Buck had heard--the low, dangerous sound of growling dogs. He started to turn and follow Buck when one of them hurtled out of the darkness. Josiah drew his pistol and shot it , knowing that it would likely start everything. He heard a man scream somewhere in the shadow and he hoped it wasn't Buck as he spurred his horse into a gallop, flying by two men with shotguns and knocking them backward.

He heard gunshots behind him, but not as many as he feared. And he hoped that Chris's gun on Michaels held the men back at least a little bit. He hoped for a lot of things, actually, but he didn't know right then if he would get any of them.

He galloped into a pool of light from gas lamps on the lawn and he pulled up abruptly as he saw what Buck must have seen somehow. A small boy running as hard as he could, his short legs churning. And right behind him, snapping at his heels were three black dogs.

Josiah's gut twisted and he thought in that moment that he must be feeling exactly what Buck was feeling a sick dark despair that he would never make it in time. Josiah saw Buck spur his horse faster, saw him lean down and grab the boy just as one of the dogs lunged. Its jaws snapped shut on empty air. Then, Buck was lifting the boy and turning his horse and drawing his gun so quickly that it seemed like one motion, but Josiah could see too the dark savage look of pain on his face as his right leg took the strain of the horse's turn. Then, he fired his revolver again, this time at a man stepping out of the shadows and Josiah saw another dog make a run at him and Buck kicked him with his bad leg because he didn't have time to hold the boy and bring his pistol around and shoot the dog. Josiah pulled his own revolver and legged his horse forward to help him.

+ + + + + + +

Nathan was vaguely aware of Buck and Josiah turning and riding away from the others, but he didn't have time to worry about it because in that same moment, the front door opened and Nathan thought his heart would actually stop when he saw Striker step out--with Miz Ruby like a shield in front of him.

He looked down and his pistol was already in his hand. He legged his horse forward and ignored all the other thoughts clamoring for his attention--take care of Vin, watch Buck, keep an eye on everyone. He slid quietly in to Ezra's left and the gambler looked at him assessingly and gave way before him. A shot rang out. And then another. Nathan was vaguely aware of Ezra slipping away, of rifle fire returned. He shoved his pistol into Michaels side so hard the man grunted.

"Tell 'im," Nathan said sharply. "Tell 'im to let her go."

Michaels turned his head. "Why Nathaniel," he said. "Don't tell me you care about that woman?" And he smiled.

Nathan jammed his gun into Michaels ribs even harder. "My name is Nathan Jackson and I am a free man. And I will shoot you dead right now if you don't tell him to let her go."

Michaels eyes widened slightly as he realized that Nathan meant what he said. Before he could reply, Striker stepped away from the front door and fired two shots into the air. Michaels' men stopped shooting.

Chris looked over at Nathan with a dark feral look on his face. "Bring Michaels," he said to Nathan. Then, he legged his horse into a jog and moved closer to the house. Nathan pushed Michaels forward and followed.

+ + + + + + +

Vin's head had come up sharply with the first shot. Damn! He thought. What am I worth on this horse if I can't shoot a gun? Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man moving in the shadows, bringing his rifle up...

"JD!" he shouted. "Left!"

JD turned, drawing his pistol and fired into the shadows. Vin heard a sharp cry and saw the rifle fall. Another man stepped up and Vin legged his horse forward, right into the man, knocking him down. He reined back a little and looked around. There was smoke at the edges of the light from random gun fire. Buck and Josiah were clear down near the back of the house, but Vin couldn't see what was happening there. He saw another movement. "Ezra!" he yelled. "Low! Right!" And Ezra didn't question him, just turned and fired.

Vin saw the tall, lean man step out of the house with an older black woman in front of him. He saw the man fire two shots in the air and as he watched he saw the men with guns lower their guns. For the first time, now that he was right on the edge of the shadows he saw all the other men standing there. Men without guns, though he could see that they were carrying axe handles and pick axes. And there were dozens of them. Too many of them. He wondered if he should ride up and let Chris know. They could never stand against so many. But Chris was already riding toward the house and everything that was in motion was pretty much impossible to stop. Instead, Vin rode his horse closer to JD, aware suddenly in a way he hadn't been a few moments before of the wound in his shoulder.

"Get their guns, JD."

"Huh?"

"The ones with guns. They're pretty scattered. Maybe only fifteen of them or so. All spread out. Can you see them?" JD squinted into the darkness, trying to make the same kind of sense out of the shadows there that Vin had. "They're distracted now. See how many of 'em you can get the drop on in the dark."

JD nodded, suddenly understanding and slipped off his horse, handing the reins to Vin. Ezra moved his horse up alongside Vin and kept his rifle ready, trying to watch the entire lighted yard at once. Vin closed his eyes and opened them again and thought, 'hang on. One way or another it'll all be over soon.'

+ + + + + + +

JD wanted to know where everyone was, if they were okay, but he'd lost track of Buck and Josiah right at the start before there were even any gunshots. Then, suddenly, Nathan and Chris were moving toward the house and there'd only been Vin and Ezra and him.

'Maybe I shouldn't have left Vin,' he thought. 'Maybe Nathan would want me...' Then he spotted his first man, gun half-lowered, watching Striker at the house. JD slid up to him, slid his pistol along the man's side and felt him stiffen as he realized what had happened. "Just hand me that gun, mister," JD said. And to his surprise, the man did. JD slipped away, before the man could even turn and spot him, moving on to the next one.

He'd found three men, slipped up on each one before they even knew he was there, stripped them of their guns and slipped away. But each time he did it, he felt more alone and more afraid as if he were somehow travelling away from all the things that mattered, as if each of the other men would somehow take a risk and do a foolish dangerous thing while he lurked here in the shadows and leave him, when he emerged, finally and completely alone.

+ + + + + + +

Chris didn't look at anything but Striker as he approached the house. Gunfire behind him didn't matter. Someone else would take care of that. Michaels didn't matter. Nathan would handle Michaels. Chris's world had narrowed down to two things--his gun and the man called Striker. He remembered with a shock where he had seen this man before. In a saloon in a border town, asking about Four Corners. 'You son of a bitch,' Chris thought. 'You used my family. You used my son. You kidnapped me and threw me in a cellar.' His eyes narrowed down to small dark slits and a cool, mean smile crossed his lips.

He never took his eyes off Striker as he dismounted and dropped his horse's reins to the ground. Striker's eyes never left his. There was something about that, about knowing that he faced a man who was good at what he did, that cooled Chris down even further, as if every part of his body was completely under his control. He watched Striker's face, saw a muscle twitch along his jaw, saw a tiny almost imperceptible tic in his right eye. He could gauge the glare from the gaslights, judge the breeze as it gently crossed his bare hand. He knew Miz Ruby was there, but right in that moment, right at that time he saw her as a shape, as a factor in the dance of two dangerous men only one of whom was going to walk away.

"Let her go," Chris said to Striker, stopping about ten yards from where Striker stood.

Striker smiled, though it was clear there was no appropriate emotion behind the gesture. "I'll kill her," he said coolly. And right then, clear as a winter's morning, Chris saw it, saw Striker move his head to the right when he talked.

'Aaaah,' he thought and he could almost feel his heartbeat slow. 'Aaah.'

"Let her go," Chris said again.

And Striker smiled and he raised his gun. And Miz Ruby clenched her fists. And Striker tipped his head and opened his mouth...

And Chris shot him in the head.

Striker almost had enough time to look surprised before he toppled forward onto the ground.

For a moment there was sudden, complete silence in the compound. Then, Miz Ruby sank slowly to her knees. Nathan dismounted quickly and knelt beside her. "It's all right, ma'am," he said quietly. "It's over now."

Chris kept a tight grip on his revolver and looked around. At Michaels, who stared down at Striker as if he couldn't quite believe that it had happened. At the shadows of miners and hired guns on the edges of the clearing, and as he watched the men seemed to heave a collective sigh of either relief or resignation and he saw the crowd break and scatter and spread away. Chris saw Ezra with his rifle still at the ready begin the task of riding the perimeter of the lawn, ensuring that no one else got any heroic ideas. It looked to Chris as if Michaels was a man whose only hold on men was his ability to pay them. They wouldn't risk their lives now that it looked like it actually _would_ be a risk. And Ezra would make sure. Chris saw Buck near the side of the house, slumped low in his saddle, almost sliding right out of it to the ground. He saw Josiah ride up, dismount, and take a small boy from Buck's arms. Then, he saw him reach up to help Buck down too. He looked for the other two and saw JD ride up with Vin in tow behind him. Chris felt a surge of exultation course through him to realize that they were all alright. Vin was even still on his horse. And even as he thought that, Vin's eyes rolled up and his body slumped forward and he slid, almost gently to the ground.

"Nathan!" Chris called, moving toward the fallen tracker. Nothing, he thought grimly, was ever completely over.

Part 127

The kitchen door banged opened and Miz Ruby stood aside, holding it, as Nathan hurried through backwards supporting Vin with his arms around the tracker's chest. Miz Ruby let go of the door and rushed ahead of him again on slippered feet as Chris came in bearing Vin's legs, and they followed her swiftly down the dark hallway towards the front of the house.

"Down here," said Nathan to her, suddenly. "We need to stay together, downstairs." He'd realized the woman was about to head around the balustrade and up to one of the guest bedrooms. Miz Ruby threw a surprised glance over her shoulder to Nathan, then nodded.

"Th' lib'ary?" she asked.

"Yeah. That'll do . . . Hang on a second." The healer paused to shift the wounded man a bit in his arms, and Vin grimaced and made a choked-back sound of pain. Chris worked his grip up higher on the tracker's legs to help take some of the burden of weight off Nathan, and then the men followed Miz Ruby as she threw opened the doors to the library and swept inside. They went with a single accord to a long settee against an inside wall, and lowered Vin to it as the woman was already shaking out the match she'd used to light a lamp and was replacing its glass chimney. Another match flared as she lit two more lamps in wall sconces, and then she was bustling back out into the hallway, pulling the trailing Coco to her and taking the girl's hands into her own.

"Run upstairs an' git some heavy blankets an' quilts, chil'. Quick-like!" The girl leaped to do as she'd been asked, and Miz Ruby looked down the hall and shook her head. She pushed the doors opened wider again and called over her shoulder: "Here comes t'other fella', that one with the hurted leg."

"Now don't tell me . . . " Buck's head lolled and he gasped as Josiah half-dragged him into the room, but he was trying to smile at Miz Ruby and finally managed to choke out the rest of what he wanted to say. ". . . that you've already . . . forgotten . . . my name?"

"Ah knows you, Mister Buck. An' Ah knows y'all needs to shut that sweet mouth a' yores an' rest fo' a bit." Miz Ruby patted the gunslinger's arm as he went past her, and Josiah grinned. Nathan nodded from where he was already pulling a blanket from Coco's thin arms and spreading it over Vin.

"Sounds like you've met your match this time, Buck."

Josiah bent his knees to lower Buck gently to the other settee in the room, which was at right angles to the one Vin was on, forming two sides of a square.

"Good . . . cook," said Buck, toppling sideways onto the cushion with an exhausted groan.

"Wal, y'all needs good food, that's fo' certain." Miz Ruby flipped out an enormous quilt and tucked it over Buck herself, her eyes snapping. "Ah ain't never seed no one so skinny wear hisse'f out tryna' do too much in all mah borned days. An' hurted, t' boot! It's a wonder y'ain't dead las' year already." She lifted Buck's head to slide a pillow beneath it, and then smoothed his hair down and pulled the quilt higher. "Y'all needs anythin', chil'? Some warm milk?"

"God, Buck! What'd you--" JD had followed Josiah into the room, and had been grinning with relief at the byplay between the black woman and his friend, figuring it meant that Buck was all right after all. But he broke off what he'd meant to say when Miz Ruby turned a flashing eye on him. JD gulped. "How's Vin?" he asked Nathan, in a small voice.

"I'm fine," said a very soft whisper. "Lemme up, Nathan."

"Hush up now," said Nathan almost sharply. "an' lay still. Lemme get the sling off so I can check that shoulder . . . Lay _still_, Vin."

The tracker half sat up at that moment, though, and Chris leaned over the side of the settee to push him back down. Vin groaned raggedly and his knees rose as he struggled back against Chris and tossed the blanket off.

"It's the fever, tryna' spike on 'im," said Nathan. "I need some water in here, Miz Ruby. An' some cloths. Help me git these bandages off 'im, Chris."

The woman was gone from the room almost before Nathan's words had stilled, and there were several moments of grunting struggle between the three men as Nathan and Chris tried to restrain Vin without hurting him. The tracker repeated his soft and querulous assertion that he was fine, crossly adding that he'd just gotten dizzy for a moment, and then sighed and suddenly stopped fighting and lay still. Miz Ruby came back in at that moment with the basin of water and the cloths, and Nathan began to work quickly at bringing the fever down as Chris watched him with a worried face.

"I need some willa' bark tea made up, if you got some more a' that." Nathan spoke without looking up, and Miz Ruby nodded.

"Ah gots some. Ah'll have it direc'ly," she said. "Ah'll be back as fas' as Ah kin."

"Is Vin ok?" JD came closer to the two settees, to look down over the back of the one closer to him at Buck, who was still laying on his left side, his eyes closed and a grimace of pain on his face.

"Soon as I get the fever back down, he will be. It ain't even as high as it's been; it's just goin' up so fast it's causin' trouble is all." Nathan was running the wet cloth across the tracker's face and neck as he spoke. Vin's eyes were half-opened, but dull and unseeing. Chris frowned, remembering when they'd looked like that in the cellar. Even as he thought that, Vin closed his eyes and shivered, and then moaned softly. Nathan just kept rewetting the cloth, wringing it out, and wiping down the sick man's skin as if nothing had changed.

"Nathan?" Chris squatted down next to the settee and laid one hand against the back of Vin's head. The healer didn't miss a beat in his pattern, just nodded.

"He's ok, Chris. Jus' give it a little bit. It's still goin' up, but not as fast now." He glanced behind him to Buck, and frowned. "You awake, Buck?"

"Not very." The gunslinger's voice was slurred, and he knit his brows with concentration when he answered.

"Give him some a' the willa' bark tea, when Miz Ruby brings it in, Josiah. I don' like the way he's lookin' flushed."

"Ain't got . . .a . . . fever," mumbled Buck. "All I need's . . . whiskey . . . a sweet li'l . . ." His voice trailed off and Chris shook his head.

"You can always count on Buck," he said softly.

Buck's eyes flew opened where he lay on the settee, and he stared intently at Chris. "Funny," he muttered bitterly.

Chris licked his lips, surprised by the venom in his old friend's voice, and then looked up blinking as Miz Ruby came in with a tray on which was a little covered pan and two cups. He had to help Nathan a moment, then, to get some of the tea into Vin -- which wasn't very easy. And by the time that was done Buck had long since taken some tea from Josiah and then his features had slowly relaxed, and he'd fallen into a restless sleep. Nathan worked steadily on bringing down Vin's fever for another forty-five minutes, and then relaxed and sat back and dropped the cloth into the basin with a weary sigh of relief. He looked at Chris, who had shifted to a kneeling position on the floor, and blinked tiredly.

"It's goin' down now," he said. "All I gotta' do is keep on top of it tonight, an' he'll be fine."

"Tell me what to do, so you can get some sleep." Chris's voice was low, his eyes on Buck's sleeping form. Nathan shook his head.

"Not for a while yet," he said. "I wanna' stay with this for the next few hours. You see if everyone's squared away, an' we'll go from there. I'm gonna'--"

"You're gonna' drink some coffee an' eat this san'wich," whispered a soft voice behind the two men. They turned to look behind them and Nathan smiled at the woman who was still there, always and again, her face lined with fatigue but her eyes lit with affection. "An' . . . " she paused, looked down at her own hands after she had pressed the sandwich into Nathan's, and then looked up at Chris. "An' . . . Ah's beholden to y'all . . . Marse Chris. Fo' savin' mah life. An' th'--" The woman's voice broke, and Chris started to put his hand out to her, but she shook her head. "Them young-un's," she said softly, "cain't never thank y'enough for savin' 'em. Anythin' y'ever wants, y'ask Miz Ruby. Even t' mah las' breath."

Her eyes shone in the lamplight as she fixed Chris with a look that mixed fear and gratitude and distrust and respect all into a single thing, and the gunman pressed his lips together and nodded silently.

"I only want one thing," he said softly after a moment.

The woman waited.

"Don't call me 'Marse'," smiled Chris, his eyes sad. "It's just 'Chris.'"

"Yessir." Miz Ruby swallowed, and then started to stand up from where she'd knelt on the floor with the two men. They got up to help her to her feet, and she rubbed the small of her back. "Ah's got more blankets an' quilts in th' chair over yonder," she said, pointing. "An' put some pillahs down under the windah there. Ah'll gits some more san'wiches in here, in case any a' y'all wakes up hu--"

"Miz Ruby." Chris drew the woman's hands into his, and she looked at them and then up into his face with a curious expression. "You need to get some sleep." The man's eyes softened then, in a way that Nathan thought he'd seen maybe only five or six times all together, in all the times he'd known Chris, and then his features relaxed into a smile and he gently pulled the woman closer, leaned over her, and even more gently kissed the top of her forehead. The woman took two steps back from him, her face blank with astonishment, and then she nodded, turned, and left the room.

Chris looked at the empty doorway for a long moment, and then walked over to the pile of blankets and picked one up. He looked around the room at JD, Ezra, and Josiah, who had wrapped up in quilts and fallen sound asleep on the floor, and then at Nathan.

"Wake me up to watch Vin so you can sleep, as soon as you feel comfortable doin' that," he said.

Nathan nodded, and Chris unrolled the blanket and stretched out on it with a deep sigh.

The healer stood where he was a long moment, looking at Buck, and then down at Vin. Then he pulled the quilt up over the tracker, went to the lamps, and lowered the wicks. He pulled a chair up close to the two wounded men so he could keep an eye on both of them for a while, and sat in the darkness thinking.

Part 128

He'd slept too many different places and at too many odd hours, too many days and nights in a row. This time when he woke up, he had to lay there a long moment before he could reach out and grasp the memory of exactly where he was, and why. His eyes scanned the things around him while the rest of him was perfectly still: dark velvet drapes, gaslight fixtures on paneled walls, a side table that had a Greek statue of some kind sitting on it . . . Michaels'. They were in Michaels' house.

Chris closed his eyes as everything returned in a sudden flood that left him shaking his head. Damn, it had been a long siege. But they had Michaels now, and the worst was over. Chris sighed and sat up, flipping the blanket off him that he'd wrapped up in the night before when he'd eased his exhausted body to the thickly-rugged floor. He rubbed his face tiredly with his hands and then looked back at the closed drapes over the windows. Faint grey light seeping in beneath them, reflecting in small pools on the wood floor around the margins of the rug, told him that morning had come even if the others were still asleep. Well, they needed it.

Chris looked over at the settees where Vin and Buck were laying, and saw that Nathan had finally wrapped himself in a quilt and laid down on the floor between the two, so cocooned that only the very top of his head was visible within the folds of faded red. Buck had managed to somehow stick one bare foot far out from beneath his own blankets, and it hung suspended over the floor off the end of the settee looking so pale and still and cold that Chris finally got up and slipped quietly close enough to drape his own blanket over his friend's lower legs and that one bare foot. He stood there a long moment, watching Buck's face to make sure he'd not disturbed the injured man's sleep, and then he turned slightly so he could see Vin.

The tracker was breathing very softly but rapidly, his breastbone seeming to almost flutter beneath the skin of his chest between the heavy white bandages and the quilt he'd pushed aside in his sleep. Chris felt his heart catch at that, the man's pale skin suddenly looking almost fragile, life itself seeming to tremble on the verge of something indefinably delicate and far too easy to break. He shook his head at himself, and as he did Vin suddenly took a much deeper breath and then sighed it out, and his breathing steadied a little and he seemed to relax into a deeper sleep. Chris felt himself relax and realized he'd been holding his own breath. 'Got to get outside a bit,' he told himself, and shook off the tenuous sense of things and went through the still-silent kitchen and out the back door.

The sun was just at that moment clearing the eastern peaks, and a cold wind swirled as if being chased away by it, dashing at Chris's shirtsleeves to rattle the fabric before hurrying away. He rubbed his face again, spotted a pump in the yard, and helped himself to enough cold water that he could splash himself back into wherever he needed to be right now . . . provided he could figure out where that was. The squeak of the pump handle as he ran it carried far in the still air, and the cold splatter of water hitting the stone beneath the faucet bounced and threw droplets on his boots and the bottoms of his pantlegs as he rubbed handsful of it on his face and neck, and the top of his head.

"Would you be Larabee?"

Chris turned slowly, his hand dropping closer to his Colt. He'd slept in the rig, and now he was glad of it. The man who'd spoken wasn't alone; two more stood slightly behind him. Their faces were grey in the early light, and their workclothes were dark with dust and sweat.

"That's me. What's the problem?" Chris eyed the three steadily, his gaze shifting very slightly, rapidly, from one to the other of the men and back again as he noted that they weren't armed.

"I'm Fred Collins, the night shift foreman, an' Billy an' Bob here are my top boys."

"Your point?" Chris's voice was smooth. They didn't seem like they wanted to start trouble, but he remembered the miners standing around the edge of the light last night all too well. There had been a lot of them.

"We heard Mr. Michaels is arrested."

"That's right."

The men stared at one another for a long moment, and then the miner cleared his throat nervously, realizing that Chris wasn't going to voluntarily supply any further information. The miners looked at each other sideways and shuffled their feet as the foreman screwed up his courage. "What for?" he asked.

"Attempted murder. Assault. False imprisonment." He eyed the miners with narrowed eyes.

"That's not too good," choked out one of the men behind the foreman.

"No it's not," agreed Chris, evenly.

"Well, we need to know what to do," pointed out the foreman suddenly. "There's nearly 300 men here. Are we gonna' get paid come Saturday or not? An' do we still have jobs?"

"I wouldn't know about that," replied Chris. He relaxed his stance as he realized suddenly what it was the men were concerned about. It made sense. He looked up at them with a flash of interest. "How often do you get paid?"

"Each an' every Saturday," said the man in back who had been dismayed at Michaels' charges. "An' if we ain't gettin' paid, we sure ain't stayin' on the shifts!" Chris nodded and lifted one hand to dash a rivulet of water from his face that had trickled down from his wet hair.

"You a delegation or something?"

"We're supposed to report back to the others," answered the foreman with pride in his voice. He drew himself up. "We're to find out what's goin' on around here so we can all vote on what we'll do."

"When were you plannin' to meet?" Chris wiped his wet hand on his pantsleg.

"Noon," said the man behind. "In the big mess hall."

"What if some of us come down there then. Answer your questions?"

The three men looked at each other, the foreman turning nearly completely around to eye his companions, and then they all nodded even as he turned back to face Chris, his own head bobbing.

"That's good enough," he said. "We just need some answers."

Chris stuck out his hand and shook with the foreman, solemnly. Then the three turned and walked off with heavy treads, their thick-soled mining boots thumping on the stony ground. "Just a minute," called Chris after them, suddenly. The men turned where they stood, almost mid-stride. "There a telegraph around here someplace?"

The foreman inclined his head. "Down in the group a' buildings near the bottom a' the hill, there. In the white one."

"Thanks." Chris looked down the slope towards the cluster of buildings that looked like a small town, but surrounded with tents, shacks, and half-cabins that were almost more like a city, and the men went on their way the moment he wasn't speaking to them any more. He threw a final look after the miners, and then pushed his damp hair back off his forehead with both hands and started down the slope towards the telegraph office with long strides that felt good to his cramped legs. He was relieved to see the light of an oil lamp through the single window in the little structure, and opened the door to a dismal creaking and the gasp of a little man sitting inside on a rolling swivel chair. He nearly fell over backwards as Chris came in, and then pushed wire-rimmed glasses back up on the bridge of his nose as he recovered his balance and scrambled to his feet.

"You'd be . . . that is . . . I'm supposed to be goin' off duty now." The man glanced nervously around the small office as if he might spot other, larger men who would back him up.

"I need to send some wires." Chris put one foot up casually on the heavy molding along the base of the counter and leaned one elbow on top of it. He looked steadily at the telegraph operator, who cleared his throat several times and then cautiously pushed a pad of message forms down the countertop towards Chris, releasing it like it had caught fire when Chris quietly set his own hand on the pad as it came within reach. The small man pulled the stub of a pencil from behind his ear and silently laid it next to the pad. Chris looked at it speculatively, then raised pale eyes to the clerk.

"You sharpen that by chewin' on it?"

"No, I . . . I mean, I can . . . that is, if it needs sharpenin', I could . . ."

Chris shook his head to himself and the corners of his lips curled slightly upward. "It's fine," he said, "the way it is." He picked up the pencil and wrote on the "To" line: "Marshall, Silver Springs." He paused a moment. Yeah, that was probably the closest town with a marshall, even though it was west of here. Well, hell, it didn't have to be on the way home. The marshall could take that damned Michaels wherever he wanted, and welcome to him. Chris started writing again.

"Arrested Sterling Michaels. Attempted murder. Need transfer to jail facility until trial. Come Apex Mine today. Take into custody. Wire Circuit Judge Orin Travis for credentials. Chris Larabee."

He tore off the sheet of paper and handed it to the clerk, who immediately sat down in his precarious chair and began to count and mumble over the words, after which he started establishing the line he needed. "Will you be waitin' for a response?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Yep." Chris had the pencil poised over a second sheet, thinking more carefully. As the operator began to knit his pattern of clicks, Chris wrote in the "To" line: "Mary Travis, Four Corners." So much for the easy part, he thought. Now what? Well, hmmm. That they were safe.

"All safe," he wrote, then: "and well." He stopped at that, thought about Buck and Vin, and drew a heavy line through "and well." He tapped the pencil against his bottom lip. Safe was enough for now, he guessed. "Michaels arrested." Yes, although that presumed she would know which Michaels that was. Of course, by what Ezra had said, she'd had a better idea about that than he had, and figured it out sooner. OK. So that part would work. What else?

"It's been received," said the clerk. "Shouldn't take long for an answer. The operator at the other end is runnin' it down to the marshall's office now."

"Thanks." Chris didn't even look up. Damn he hated trying to figure out what to say to Mary. Let's see. Safe. Michaels arrested. Ah. "Return six days." Yeah. No, wait. Wouldn't she wonder why they weren't returning sooner than that? Let's see. He could explain that it was so Buck and Vin could heal up some, and then it was a two day ride, and . . . boy, that would be expensive to say all that. He frowned, and then wrote, "Wounded healing." Chris grinned. Not bad. He'd communicated all of it in just nine words. Chris signed his name "Chris Larabee," tore the paper off, and handed it to the clerk. He laid down the pencil and waited patiently through the storm of pounding on the little key that was suddenly bouncing by itself as Silver Springs replied.

"Here's your answer," and the little man was holding out a sheet of the yellow paper and then settling in to send the message to Mary. Chris read it, and laid two coins on the counter, turning to leave. "Too much money," said the operator, "This one's a lot shorter than the other one. Hey! Don't you want to wait for an answer on it, though?"

"Nope. Don't expect one." Chris grinned and walked out the door. He looked at the message again.

"Will arrive three pm. Marshall Gant." Chris folded the paper and put it in his pocket. He started back to the house, wondering if there was some way to dig up breakfast someplace.

Part 129

Someone was watching him.

Buck lay still with his eyes closed and tried to figure out where he was. Something warm and soft covered him. He was lying on his side and his bad leg ached like holy hell. He'd been sleeping--how long, he didn't know; where, he couldn't remember; what had happened--flashes of light and dark and pistols firing and men shouting and...someone was watching him.

He could tell without even opening his eyes, tell just by the feel of the stare on his face that someone was watching him. Something twisted in the pit of his stomach and he reached for his pistol, pulling up short when he realized he didn't have it. Hell! He opened his eyes. Nothing else to do anyway. Grave dark eyes stared back at him. Practically at eye level with him as he lay on the sofa. Buck blinked. The face, so close to him and so still it was almost hard to see and he was so tired that it was a minute before he was even sure he wasn't dreaming. He just lay there, his eyes drifting shut then open again and the little boy standing in front of him with the grave, dark eyes just kept standing there, looking at him.

"Hey, there," Buck finally said, with a soft smile in his voice. The boy startled backward, like a small bird about to take flight. But when Buck didn't move he stopped again a few feet away. Then, slowly, hesitantly, and still completely silently, he crept forward again. Buck wanted to reach out to him, but he knew the boy would run. He remembered now, last night, the boy running and the dogs after him and the sick bitterness in his throat when he'd thought that he'd have to be too late, that there wasn't any chance at all. The boy took a step closer to him. Buck hardly breathed, though the ghost of a smile curled the edges of his mouth, mostly hidden, though, by his moustache.

It seemed so strange to see a boy so young in the middle of all the tension and danger here. Boy like this one, Buck figured, didn't have any family. Sold him off or found him on the streets and shipped him to a man like Michaels. Buck's face darkened and the boy, who'd been slowly approaching him again, froze, like a rabbit who'd been caught in the open. "It's all right son," Buck said quietly. "I won't hurt you."

The boy didn't relax, but he didn't run either.

Buck pushed himself up until he was half-sitting, then had to hold for a minute with his eyes closed as a wave of fatigue and pain washed over him. Damn, he thought. Damn, damn, damn. He'd been tired and worried and hurting for so long he could barely remember anything else. He leaned his head back, eyes still closed. And then he felt it, the cool touch of a very small hand on his. He opened his eyes and looked down to see the boy standing right next to him, his hand laid across Buck's much larger one.

Buck smiled at him, a big real smile that crinkled up the edges of his eyes. The boy looked at him for a minute, then, slowly, his own mouth crept up into a shy smile.

"What's your name, son?" Buck asked the small boy.

"Pedro," came the answer, so soft, Buck could barely hear it.

"I'm mighty pleased to meet you, Pedro," Buck said quietly, his voice sounding serious, though there was a soft twinkle in his eye.

A big grin flashed across Pedro's face at Buck's seriousness, showing bright white teeth contrasting with his dark skin. Then his own face became grave again. "You killed Senor Michaels' dogs," he said softly.

"They were bad dogs," Buck said.

"Yes," Pedro nodded in agreement. "They were very bad dogs. Bad dogs," he repeated. His smile flashed again. "And now they are gone."

"Yeah," Buck said, his eyes dark as he remembered last night and even further back, on the slope when they escaped and he'd thought he was all alone with only a knife facing those dogs.

"Gracias."

Buck looked down at Pedro, his eyes softening again. "What?"

"Gracias, senor. For taking care of the dogs, for helping us." He leaned in close to Buck. "We do not like Senor Michaels," he whispered confidentially.

Buck had to smile again. "Nah," he said. "I don't like him much either."

+ + + + + + +

Chris had walked into the library several minutes earlier, but stopped when he'd seen Pedro standing in front of Buck. He'd leaned against the door jamb, not wanting to disturb either the man or the boy and so he'd been watching as Buck slowly woke up, as the boy backed away and then came forward again. Their voices when they spoke were too soft for him to make out the words, but he could see each of them smile. He realized how long it had been since he'd seen Buck smile at all and then, with a start, how unusual that was. It made something dark and tight inside him uncoil a bit, as if a breath he hadn't even known he was holding was released.

When Buck sat up, Chris saw the pain from his leg wash over him and he took half a step forward to help him, but then he saw Pedro reach out and take his hand, saw Buck look down at him, and it reminded him with a stark suddenness of a time that Buck had been laid up at the ranch after being thrown from a horse and Adam had insisted on taking care of him. The image, of Adam struggling to carry a tray of food into the bedroom and Buck trying not to laugh at him, set up a storm of remembering--of hard, sweaty days working to build the ranch, of tight, tense moments when Buck had simply been there, of times after the fire that Chris had pushed him away and Buck had come back.

'I threatened him with a straight razor,' Chris thought, 'and he still came back.' And Chris knew that he'd wanted Buck to leave then, because it was in that moment, when it had looked like maybe Four Corners could be something more than just a place to drift through, that he'd wanted Buck to abandon him, to prove that nothing had changed, that the world was still black and bitter and full of hate. Because if Buck had walked away from him then, then Chris could have walked away from the town. But Buck hadn't done it. He'd been pissed. He'd refused to ride with them to James's place. But in the one moment that it counted, Buck had been there.

So, what was different now? That's what Chris couldn't see. He'd sent Vin after Buck, but he'd had to do it and he'd told Buck he was sorry for that. He'd been flat wrong about what was happening in the cellar with Vin and Sullivan. But he'd been so pissed about everything he hadn't been able to see straight and then to find the very men he'd been looking for already there...well, there was no way around it, he'd been wrong there too. But there was still something going on, some bitterness in Buck that didn't seem to be addressed by either of those two incidents. And Chris was damned if he knew what it was.

He took a step forward, thinking that now, in this relatively quiet time before those who were asleep woke up and those who were already out returned, that maybe they could talk, but just then Miz Ruby bustled into the room past him.

"Lan' sakes," she said to Pedro. "There you are, boy. I been lookin' all over for you." She swatted at him lightly with the towel in her hand. "Now git. Git on now. You leave these men alone." Pedro grinned at her, turned and grinned at Buck once more, and scampered from the room.

Buck grinned at her too and his eyes flashed. "Ah, he's all right, Miz Ruby. He's not botherin' me none."

Miz Ruby's own eyes flashed as she smiled back at him, shrewdly assessing the tiredness and pain he tried to hide from her. "That boy gots chores to do. An' he knows it. An' you should be restin'. Build your strength up. Iffen' ya'll ever expect to get offa this settee agin."

Buck laughed, but Miz Ruby saw him wince when he tried to move his leg.

"You lie still now," she said to him. "Ah'm goin' to find Nathan and ah'm goin' to finish up your breakfast. And I don't want you movin' no more than an inch. You hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am," Buck said.

"Mister Chris here can keep an eye on you and make sure you do like ah say and don't get up and start wanderin' off."

Chris straightened from where he'd leaned back against the door again, enjoying the interplay between Miz Ruby and Buck. At the mention of his name, Buck looked across the room at him, something dark and complex in his eyes that Chris didn't recognize or understand.

Miz Ruby had already turned and she missed the silent exchange between the two men. She stopped in the doorway and put her hand on Chris's arm. "Ah gots food for you too," she said. "Ain't a man in this place that couldn't stand to eat a little more and don't think ah haven't noticed. Now, ah don' want you leavin' this room 'til you've had breakfast. You hear me?"

"No, ma'am," Chris said softly. "I have no intention of leaving. Not now."

Part 130

Miz Ruby paused as she lifted the kettle of water with the beans in it, her head cocked to one side, ears tuned to the voices murmuring in the library. The cool tones of that Mister Chris . . . Nathan's gentle baritone . . . There. She set the kettle down on the stove burner for the water to heat, and wiped her hands on her apron as she left the kitchen. That was just exactly the voice she'd thought she'd heard: light, thready, with an almost reedy timbre. She hesitated in the opened door of the library a moment, looking in, and saw that Nathan was sitting on a low stool he'd dragged over, in the corner made by the two settees, his back to the door as he faced the one against the wall. Yes, she thought. I was right. That'n's gonna' be ready for somethin' t' eat right quick. She stepped into the room.

"Well, I'd think you woulda' learned by now," Nathan was saying. He sounded a little defensive, Miz Ruby thought, but then he had to be tired. The poor man hadn't slept when he was in the house before, and he'd hardly slept last night, either. She came closer, noting that Chris was leaning against the wall down past the foot of the settee, his arms folded and his posture casual. He looked at Miz Ruby with gleaming eyes that weren't casual at all, though, and then they flashed green suddenly as he smiled very briefly at her and nodded almost imperceptibly. The woman smiled back, and took a few more steps towards the settees where the wounded men had spent the night.

"Hell, Nathan." The voice from the settee against the wall was weak and sounded frustrated. Miz Ruby knit her brows, listening. "I've been shot before. An' I just got up an'--"

"You didn' have blood poisonin' then." Nathan's voice had slid into a tone of quiet, patient reasoning. "It ain't the wound itself that keeps bringin' ya' down now. It's the fever. You're sick, Vin, not jus' hurt, an'--"

"Chris, he makin' sense to you?"

"Yep." Chris's voice was even and cool. He looked over at Vin without moving anything but his face, and the tracker sighed.

"All I know is every time I get up an' do anything, the next thing I know I'm wakin' up flat on my back, feelin' like I been run over by a cattle train." Vin sighed wearily.

"It's the fever," explained Nathan again. "It goes up, an' as weak as y'are right now, it knocks ya' to the ground when it does. It'll get better, if you can rest. But ya' gotta' give it time."

Miz Ruby cleared her throat, and Nathan turned around and saw her, and grinned.

"Ah's thinkin' a bowl a' soup'd make things look some better 'bout now," she said. She put her hands on her ample hips and came closer, throwing a conspiratorial glance to Buck, on the other settee, as she did so. "An' Ah KNOWS y'all could use a bowl, Mister Buck, so no need t' use that sweet-talkin' look on y'all's face on me, neither."

Nathan chuckled, and Buck laughed outright. Vin rolled his head to one side to regard the woman with a puzzled expression. She saw that he was pale this morning, but that his eyes were clear. Miz Ruby smiled when she saw that. Good. He was getting better after all, then.

"Do I . . . know . . .?" Vin's soft voice had a confused, half-dreaming sound to it that made Nathan look back at him and smile gently.

"Miz Ruby came down int' the cellar, Vin, when you were only half-awake. She's the one who found y'all an' came an' got me."

"An' Ah gots t' say," added the woman, coming close enough to look into the man's face more closely, "y'all is lookin' some better this time than the last time Ah seed ya'. Ah ain't never got much in the way a' food into ya', though. Whatcha' say: that soup soun' good? Gots chicken in it, an' good thick noodles." She smiled when she saw the way that young man's face brightened at the mention of her noodles. Good, she thought. This'n's a good boy, too. Him an' that Mister Buck, both. Ah'll jes' make a nice apple pie for them two later. Maybe some a' that cinnamon drizzle t' go over it.

"That soup sounds like the perfect thing." Nathan was nodding. "It'll help ya' both get your stren'th up." He looked at Miz Ruby, and smiled. "I'll come help you get it," he added.

"Ah gots hot biscuits an' such, too," said Miz Ruby. "Jes' all _kinds_ a' food ready for y'all. If'n that young Mister JD kin come help carry, too--"

"Sure thing!" JD, who had been listening to things from where he was laying on the floor beneath a window, sat up with a look of pure joy on his face. He'd awakened some time ago but laid quietly where he was, not wanting to disturb the others. Now he glanced over to see that Ezra and Josiah had come into the library while Miz Ruby was talking, and that Josiah had a cookie. JD's eyes widened, and Josiah looked at the partially-eaten shape in his hand and then held up his other hand defensively to Miz Ruby when she turned and saw him, and put her hands on her hips again.

"Miss Bitsy gave it to me," he rumbled.

"Wal, Ah shoulda' knowed that chil' would hand out cookies for breakfas' if Ah didn' gits it int' y'all soon enough." She shook her head, her mouth looking firm but her eyes sparkling. "Y'all kin jes' help, too, that bein' the case. Come int' the kitchen with me'n Nathan an' this young fella' here."

"Yes'm." Josiah smiled genially as he stuffed the rest of the cookie into his broad mouth and wiped his hands against each other eagerly. "Lead on."

Ezra watched as JD went past him with an eager face to follow Josiah and Miz Ruby into the kitchen. Nathan stood up and looked at Vin again, then went with them. Vin looked back at Chris, standing within his line of sight at the foot of the settee.

"This Michaels' place?"

"Yep." Chris threw a glance at Buck, who was watching him with a veiled expression, and then slowly walked over to sit on the stool Nathan had just vacated.

"Where is 'e?"

Buck was the one who answered Vin, and his voice had a feral quality to it that made Chris look at him again. "In the cellar," he said.

Vin looked surprised, seemed to turn the idea over in his mind a moment, then said softly: "Well now I do almost feel sorry for 'im."

Chris grinned and ducked his head, looking up at Vin from beneath his lowered brow as he tipped his face sideways. "Oh you don't need to do that," he smiled. "We've put a cot down there, and bedding. And a few other basic things you'd find in most jail cells."

"Regular Taj Mahal," said Buck.

"Where'd you learn about the Taj Mahal?" said Chris. He straightened and half-turned around to fix Buck with a teasing look, but the other man shook his head.

"I ain't stupid," he said. Chris's face drew together in confusion.

"Didn't say you were, Buck. I-"

"LOOK at this stuff!" JD's voice burst into the exchange like a romping puppy, and all three men looked up to see that he was coming back into the library with an enormous tray in his hands, on which were two platters heaped with sausages and fluffy yellow scrambled eggs. Chris went to the big desk to slide things aside to make a place for him to set it down, and then looked back at the doorway as Josiah came in bearing an enormous covered pot. He grinned and looked at Vin.

"Looks like your soup's here," he said.

"Yea verily, Brother," grinned Josiah. He lifted the kettle by its handle to set it on the desk with a heavy thump as Miz Ruby, Ezra, and Nathan came in bearing pans of biscuits and trays with dishes stacked up on them, followed by Bitsy bearing an enormous coffee pot and Coco and Pedro with crocks of butter and honey and more things that the men just kept looking at and looking at as it was all spread out on the desk.

"Eats up, Boys!" Miz Ruby cackled happily. "Nothin' Ah likes better'n to see good men eatin' good food!" She was taking spoons and forks and napkins out of her apron pockets as she said it, and setting them on the desk. Chris had taken a link sausage from one of the platters, and now he stood behind the desk chewing on it, thoughtfully eyeing the framed map hanging there on the wall.

"Apex Mining," he said to himself.

Nathan was pushing pillows under Buck's shoulders to prop him up enough to eat, but he glanced over at Chris when he heard what he said. He was remembering, suddenly, a different day in the library. A shade of something dark raced across his face as he finished setting Buck up and turned to Vin. He tossed words across the space to Chris as he did: "Two hundred eighty men," he said flatly. Chris looked at the healer, a sharp glance of connection that caught and held as Nathan slid a pillow beneath Vin's head and straightened.

"What did he mean: 'Apex doesn't have the apex?'" Chris was asking Nathan, but it was JD that replied in a shocked voice.

"What!?!? Who said that!?"

"Michaels." Chris turned to look JD up and down with a measured gaze. "Does it mean something to you?"

JD froze with a plate of breakfast in one hand, a fork half-way to his mouth in the other. He gaped at Chris and set the fork down, glanced at Josiah, then looked back at Chris and shook his head in disbelief.

"Michaels said Apex doesn't have the apex?"

Chris nodded. The room fell silent as the other men looked at each other.

"If Michaels doesn't own the apex," said Ezra slowly, "it means he owns nothing." He set the plate he'd been spooning eggs onto back on the desk top and approached the map, blinking. Josiah and JD came up behind him.

"It's a new law, Chris," explained Josiah. "Mary found out about it. The apex is the part of the ore vein that--"

"Look here." JD was pointing at the map. His finger was shaking. "Look at the southeastern border of Michaels' property."

"The Indian reservation." Ezra looked back across the room at Vin and Buck, who were listening intently to the conversation. Miz Ruby stood near Buck's feet, two bowls of forgotten soup in her hands, watching the serious men as they carefully untangled the things they knew.

"Oh my God." JD was pointing again. "I don't know how I didn't realize it. But look . . . look what's against Michaels' land on the east, and the reservation to the north."

"Delano!" Josiah snapped his fingers. "Damn! Delano and the reservation are right next to each other, and both-"

"Indian wars," said Chris, suddenly.

"What?!" Ezra and Josiah spoke at the same time. Chris was shaking his head.

"Michaels said Indians don't care about silver. That Indian wars happen all the time if-"

"-if no do-gooders are aroun' t' stop 'em." Nathan's voice was shaking slightly, and the men looked at each other, their breaths quickening, as understanding flooded the room like a rising sun. Josiah slammed his hand on the wall suddenly.

"He's tryna' get the town riled up enough to wipe out the people on the reservation so there won't be a need for it any more. Then he can buy the land."

"And if he drives Delano out of business, he can buy _that_ land." Ezra was nodding. "Our Mr. Michaels seems to have some notion of just where the apex might lie."

"And he'd be right, too," said JD softly. Everyone looked at him. "Delano told me, that night I rode out there, when Ezra found. . ." The youth's voice trailed off and he glanced to Buck and Vin and then continued. "His geologist just told him: he's got the apex. It's at Delano's. That means he owns it all. Everything."

"I'll bet he doesn't know how far it goes, though," observed Chris.

"Agreed." Ezra went back to where he'd set down his plate earlier, and put a biscuit on it. "He probably has no idea that it's the one Michaels has been working. But now we do." The gambler smiled. "I believe my appetite just improved substantially."

"Mine didn't." It was Vin. The others looked at the tracker, and he looked back at them with a defeated expression. "Chanu's people," he said softly. "If that's Michaels' game, an' he wanted the reservation land that bad, I got a bad feelin' we might a' figured this out too late."

Part 131

Ezra slipped out the back door of the big house. Behind him he could hear the sounds of pot lids banging and the rich, enveloping aroma of a slow roast cooking in the oven followed him. The smell made his mouth water, even though he'd only finished breakfast half an hour ago. The last week it seemed as if all he'd been doing was riding and fighting and riding again, barely sleeping and almost no time for eating, so it was no wonder he felt as if he could wrestle a live bear for a haunch of raw deer. Good Lord, he thought, appalled, I'm beginning to sound like Mr. Wilmington.

As if in direct response to _that_ unsettling notion, he stopped for a moment to tug his shirt cuffs into place and adjust the set of his jacket. As he was straightening his hat on his head, he turned back and looked at Michaels' house. He'd come around the side and now stood about twenty yards beyond the house itself so that he could see the front door and the side of the house at the same time. There was a double row of modern gaslights leading from an elaborately carved hitching post and a granite mounting block at the edge of the drive to the front door. Ezra figured that Michaels must have shipped in the finished granite from the east coast, an unnecessary expense done only because he could. The house itself was very fine and it was the sort of place Ezra'd always pictured himself living sooner or later. Oh, not now, of course, when there were poker games to be played and other things to do, but later when he decided to settle down, this was the sort of place he imagined settling down in.

Ezra turned away. Michaels deserved to be brought down. There was no question. But Ezra couldn't help but wonder, just a little bit, how he would have acted if he'd been in Michaels' place. JD approached him, heading back toward the house. "Hey," he said, greeting the gambler with a big grin, his hand resting on one of his revolvers. "Have you _seen_ this place, Ezra?" he asked. "It's _huge_! Bigger'n Delano's that's for sure!"

"Indeed," Ezra said, wondering how JD had managed to see the whole place in the less than forty-five minutes since Ezra had last seen him. Occasionally, JD's enthusiasm served to remind Ezra just how young JD really was. "Tell me," he continued. "Did you, perhaps, on your travels find a telegraph office?"

JD turned and gave Ezra detailed instructions that threatened to make him dizzy. "Or you could just go all the way down the main boulevard and take a right at the end," he finally finished.

"Thank you," Ezra said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"You think there'll be any word from Four Corners?" JD asked.

"I don't--" Ezra broke off when he saw the anxious expression on JD's face. "Perhaps," he finished. "Mr. Larabee sent word this morning as to our presence here so it would be reasonable to assume that there might be a response at this time." Though that was not why Ezra was headed to the telegraph office.

JD looked at him. "Maybe I could come--"

"Senors!" Pedro's sharp young voice interrupted JD and he and Ezra turned to see the small boy running toward them. "Miz Ruby asked if you would help her get down the heavy wash tubs. Ol' Thomas done run off and I'm the biggest man she gots left," Pedro confided in them.

Ezra clapped JD on the back. "I believe Mr. Dunne is eminently suited to such a task," he said. "As for myself, I have an important errand and must be on my way." And before either Pedro or JD could say anything, he turned and walked away.

Ezra noticed that the mining camp itself was very quiet, almost as if it was Sunday and the men weren't working. 'It's not Sunday, is it?' he asked himself, realizing that he'd managed to completely lose track of the day of the week with everything that had been going on. But it wasn't Sunday, it was just quiet. And he noticed a few men watching him as he passed. Their future was uncertain, he knew and he expected that they were worried that the mine would shut down and they wouldn't be paid. He wanted to tell them that they shouldn't have thrown in their lot with Michaels, that they should have known better, but he knew they'd been doing the best they could, probably had families somewhere to provide for and he shuddered thinking of the dark dangerous life they led going into the mines every day.

Ezra could hear the sound of a badly-tuned piano well before he came in sight of the gambling tent. As he approached he could smell the stale odors of bad whiskey and cheap cigars and he could hear men's voices coming from inside. He knew that if he went in there he'd find a poker game and he'd actually taken three steps toward the entrance before he stopped. The men inside would be desperate, too. Men who were too worried about making money to play a good game of poker. This was his milieu. He was a gambler. No one would miss him for half an hour while he played a quick game. But he could hear voices in his head. He could hear Vin saying, 'we might a' figured this out too late.' He could hear Chris's voice an eon or so ago, saying, 'Where have you _been_?'

He took another step toward the tent. He could see inside now, see the smoke lingering near the roof of the tent, see the bartender leaning his elbow on the bar, he could see the poker game going on in the corner. With a muffled curse directed at every single person in Michaels' house, his mother, his horse, and the entire population of Four Corners, he turned away from the tent and stalked off to his original destination--the telegraph office.

The telegraph office was near the edge of the compound where it could be most accessible to the largest number of people. When Ezra entered there were two men standing hunched over the counter as the telegraph clattered and the operator scrawled the message on a form. When the entire message had been sent, the operator handed it to one of the men who looked at it, cursed and crumpled it into a ball. He threw several coins at the telegraph operator before he and the other man walked out of the office, glaring at Ezra as he passed.

Ezra looked after the two men with a thoughtful expression on his face then turned back to the telegraph operator. He tipped his hat at the man. "Good morning,"he said.

The man eyed him warily.

"Yes," Ezra said, getting right down to business. "As you are no doubt aware, Mr. Michaels is no longer in charge of this mining operation."

The man continued to look at him and said nothing.

"My colleagues and I," Ezra continued, "have reason to believe, based on his previous behavior, that lives may be in danger."

The telegraph operator raised an eyebrow.

Ezra sighed. "I need to go through all the telegrams that have been sent in the last two weeks," he said flatly.

The telegraph operator shrugged and uncrossed his arms. "Don't make no nevermind to me," he said. "I get paid the same whether Michaels is here or not." He lifted the counter and indicated that Ezra should come around. He gestured at three wooden boxes sitting on a table. "Copies of all the telegrams that've been sent from this office in the last month," he said.

"Good Lord," Ezra said. "Don't you sort them by date and time?"

The man looked at him. "Night fella sometimes sorts 'em. But me...I get 'em, I make a copy, I put 'em in the box. Boxes get full, I crate 'em and send 'em off to storage. What happens to 'em there, I got no idea." He drew himself up, crossed his arms again, and looked at Ezra as if challenging him to make a remark.

"Yes, well," Ezra muttered. "This could take some time."

The telegraph began to clatter again and the operator turned away. Ezra settled down at the table and grabbed a sheaf of yellow paper from the first box. A half hour later, he'd sorted all the telegrams in the first box that had been sent by Michaels or in his name into chronological order. Most of them were from the first half of the month and Ezra had managed to learn two things. First, that Michaels spent money at an appalling rate. Half the telegrams were orders for extravagant household items, including a new custom-built carriage that he was having shipped all the way from Kansas City. And, second, that Sterling Michaels had put a great deal of time and effort into his plans to steal the apex and, as part of that plan, to bring down Ezra and the others and prevent them from interfering in any way with him. It was also obvious from the tenor of the telegrams that Ezra had read that the planning had been going on for a very long time.

Ezra reached into the second box and pulled out yet another sheaf of telegraph forms and this time he found what he'd been looking for, telegrams from the last two days. He sorted them quickly, looking only for the ones sent by Michaels or in his name, though there were also dozens sent by other men. And then he found what he'd been hoping not to find. He picked up the yellow paper and stared at the words written there in a tight clear hand. "Good Lord," he said loudly, causing the telegraph operator to turn around and look at him. Ezra rose from his chair, turned to the telegraph operator and tipped his hat, though it would have been obvious to anyone who knew him that he was more than usually flustered. "Thank you, my good man," he said as the operator glared at him. "I just need to borrow this for a moment."

He stepped quickly out of the office, ignoring the shouts of the telegraph operator behind him.

Part 132

There was just something about the way Ezra came into the library. The other men felt something change as he came in, a sense of foreboding, and looked up to see him standing in the open doorway with his eyes on Vin, and a sheet of yellow telegram paper in his hand.

"What is it?" Chris moved towards Ezra with quick, clipped steps as though to intercept him, his hand out for the paper. Ezra turned deeply troubled eyes to the gunman and shook his head slightly.

"It's not good," he said. He held out the telegram, which Chris read with tight lips. He looked up again almost immediately, his features hardened in anger.

"Michaels ordered men to the reservation," he said to no one in particular. He paced back to the desk and leaned against it to regard the others. "They're to make a direct attack on the people there, presumably so whoever survives will retaliate against the local ranchers and then be wiped out by the army."

"My God." Josiah rubbed a hand across his face. "When does it say they're to do this?"

"It doesn't." Chris shifted his gaze to look pointedly at Vin, who was staring at Chris with an intense expression as he waited for the rest he knew was still coming. "He instructed them specifically to kill Kojay," said Chris softly, "to make sure that--"

"Son of a bitch!" Vin's sharp growl as he flung the quilt from his legs with his good hand threw Nathan and Josiah into motion so quickly that it was like a sudden fight had broken out in the room. Buck was already there, though, sitting up and leaning forward into the space between the two settees, his long arms reaching out to catch Vin as the tracker struggled to his feet and then staggered back a half-step to fall heavily to the settee again with a gasp. Vin closed his eyes a moment, his head back against the carved wooden mahogany of its back, panting, his feet on the floor. Nathan sat down to one side of him on the settee, Josiah to the other, and Vin opened his eyes and rolled his face towards the preacher silently.

"We gotcha' outnumbered," said Josiah softly, looking straight into Vin's eyes.

Vin closed his eyes again, wearily, and swallowed. "I can't do this."

"You'd be right about that." Chris had walked over, his spurs ringing in the sudden silence that had fallen on the room.

"No." Vin opened his eyes to look at Chris without moving. "I mean I've seen this kinda' thing before." A look of deep grief swept across the sick man's features, and his voice was suddenly husky with emotion. "I can't sit here while it happens again."

"How were you plannin' to get there?" Nathan's voice was very gentle. His eyes were on Vin's pale face.

"I don't know." The tracker's voice was hoarse, and tight with anguish. "All I could think of for a minute was gettin' up, goin' down there. Stoppin' this while maybe there's still time." He pressed his lips tightly together then, and his eyes filled with an expression of helplessness that had no words, and needed none. Josiah looked at Chris.

"Is there any more information in that thing?"

"The telegram says the one assigned the job of killin' Kojay is a man named Thompson." Chris's voice was cautious.

"Thompson." Buck's voice was far-away, his face suddenly puzzled. "Why do I know that name?"

The other men were silent, letting the gunman sort out his thoughts from the tangle of recent events. Then Buck's eyes cleared and he looked at Vin with something like horror. "Sullivan said that name," he whispered. "That's the sharpshooter who . . . He said it was a man named Thompson."

"What?" Vin had raised his head from the back of the settee as Buck spoke, and now he was staring at the other man with eyes that had grown suddenly brittle.

"We don' know what's goin' on there at this point," observed Nathan. He looked at Vin. "But I know this: if you try ridin' down there, you won't make it a mile." He paused, and then continued. "You know it, too," he added.

"Yeah." Vin looked at his own hands. It had become a habit now for him to cradle his injured arm against his chest with his good hand if he sat up or moved at all, and now he opened and shut the fingers of that hand and studied it thoughtfully. "If I could just _get_ there. . ."

"We'll all go." Chris's confident assertion crackled through the room like a lightning bolt, and every man sat or stood straighter. He looked from one to another of them with gleaming eyes. "We'll just do what we've always done: the best we can. Talkin' about it won't change what's already happened, but getting there can change what hasn't happened yet. We should be able to pack up and get out of here within a few hours, as soon as the marshall arrives to take over custody of Michaels. Meanwhile, we'll get things loaded."

Nathan stood up. "But we got two wounded men who can't--"

"We're clever men." Chris smiled in a way that curled his lips at the edges and showed his teeth. "Let's put our heads to it."

"What about the cart?" JD had followed the discussion closely, his face creased with concern. He hadn't voiced the first thought that had run through _his_ mind at the news: that if the Indians started raiding surrounding ranches in retaliation, the Wells' ranch would be one of the first to go up in flames. It wasn't far from the reservation's southern boundary.

"That'll work for Vin," said Buck, shaking his head. "But I'll ride horseback. That thing damn near shook my teeth loose."

"You can't ride that far, either," pointed out Nathan.

"That's beside the point." Vin laid his head back against the settee's frame in despair. "The cart can't make it over the kinda' country we have to go through, to get there."

"What about some kinda' litter, Vin?" rumbled Josiah. "You know how to make one a' those?"

"A travois?" The tracker looked at the preacher with a sudden interest.

"Yeah. Won't those go through rough country?"

"They will." Vin hitched himself up a little higher on the settee, and Nathan reached out quietly to help him do it. Vin glanced at the healer, then looked eagerly at Chris. "That would do it. If you could somehow make a couple of 'em. . ."

"Just tell me how." Chris smiled more broadly. No one could have known it was the precise smile he'd worn as he rode the rockslide down the steep slope on his way to intercept the stage. He chuckled, though, remembering the tree he'd saluted. Felt the same.

"I'm up to ridin', so you only need t' make one a' those things for Vin." Buck nodded to Chris as if the matter had been decided.

"What's the matter with ya', Buck? I already told ya': you can't ride that far. It's 60 miles. If you try, you'll wind up dead." Nathan was starting to sound cross, and Buck looked at him with a hurt expression.

"Vin's got a fever," he pointed out. "I don't. There's no reason I can't--"

"You just think you're doin' better than ya' really are, Buck. But if you try--"

Chris interrupted Nathan with a cool voice. "Buck can ride a ways, Nathan. And we'll just have a travois waitin' for when he falls off on his head."

"Very funny." Buck regarded Chris with a jaundiced eye, but the lean gunman just went on as if he hadn't said a word.

"Josiah, you help me make 'em. Vin, you tell us how. JD, you and Ezra put together some provisions. Ask Miz Ruby to help you. You pack your medical supplies, Nathan."

"An' you two, rest." Nathan stood up. "Both a' ya'." He pulled the blanket that had fallen from Buck earlier back up across him as the wounded man settled down again on the settee and the several pillows he'd had his head and his leg on. Then he looked at Vin.

Josiah had stood up and was gently helping the tracker to lay back down. The man's eyes were already closed, and he looked exhausted just from the effort he'd expended in sitting up. Nathan's worried eyes met Josiah's, and the preacher nodded and smiled reassuringly without saying anything. He set the quilt over Vin and drew up a chair. Chris came over to stand behind him.

"You gotta' cut the poles about 16 feet long, 'cause it's gotta' be long an' narrow to get through that kinda' country," said Vin, hoarsely. His eyes were still closed. "Lash 'em together at one end . . . "

Nathan moved to stand near the doorway as Vin continued to tell Josiah and Chris how to build the travois. He listened to the tracker's voice get weaker as he went on, and shook his head. Buck wanted to ride 60 miles straight into a fight when it was all he could do to even sit up straight. Vin wanted to stop the murder of a friend no matter what it cost him to get there. Both men needed straight bed rest for a week, not traveling. And certainly not more fighting.

Of course . . .they ALL needed bed rest. Hell. _HE_ needed bed rest. Nathan rubbed his eyes and chuckled softly to himself. Ezra leaned close as he walked through the doorway with JD.

"Sharin' an inside joke with one's self is the first sign of incipient dementia," he whispered. Nathan looked at the gambler, whose eyes sparkled as he went on into the hall, and then he laughed outright and turned to follow the two towards the kitchen.

"I don' figure it matters much, Ezra. We're _all_ crazy. The whole lot of us!"

"As I've been saying all along. You see, what we _should_ have been doing . . ."

The men disappeared down the hallway, teasing one another, laughing away their fatigue and concern. There were too many people counting on them, too many things they couldn't know about, too many days of being stretched too thin. They really needed a drink.

Miz Ruby gave them each a cookie instead.

+ + + + + + +

Vin sighed and his eyes wandered restlessly along a shaft of pale light that had sneaked through the dark curtains at the library windows. When he'd been unable to sleep, Nathan had come back into the library and pulled them to darken the room, saying that the wounded men needed all the rest they could get. Vin frowned slightly, remembering it. The thing was, sometimes his shoulder just hurt too damned much to sleep, or woke him up when he managed to get there. But he didn't want to say that to Nathan. The healer already worried too much, slept too little, took too much responsibility for things he couldn't really control. Vin sighed and shifted uncomfortably on the settee, trying to find a position where the whole top half of him on that side wouldn't feel like it had been beaten with a pickax. But it was better, he reminded himself, than it _had_ been. Lots better. If he was just patient--

"Mister Vin?" The soft voice was Miz Ruby's, and Vin looked up over his shoulder in surprise, wondering if the woman had noticed his fidgeting. He'd been careful to hide it as best he could when he knew anyone was around, but Miz Ruby had slipped in without him realizing it and she seemed to be pretty observant. Sure enough: the next thing she said made Vin squeeze his eyes shut in frustration. "Should Ah tells Nathan y'all needs somethin' for the pain, chil'?"

"I'm ok," said Vin in a low voice. Buck was sleeping deeply on the next settee, his breathing regular and even, and there was no way Vin wanted to steal that from him when he'd been hurting so much, earlier, from trying to help Pedro last night.

"Wal, y'all didn' look ok jes' then." Miz Ruby perched herself slowly and carefully on the foot of the settee, next to Vin's blanketed legs, and fixed the tracker with a penetrating gaze. He turned his head away from her when he saw it, and studied the fabric on the back of the settee, next to his face, and was silent. Miz Ruby sighed and started to stand again. "Lemme' jes' go'n gets Nathan. He'll fi--"

"Nothin' Nathan can do," Vin said quietly. He turned his face back to look at Miz Ruby out of tired eyes that she saw now had dark circles beneath them. "But he'd work 'imself into a fret, tryin', if you said anything. Just let 'im rest." He paused and licked his lips, his eyes locked on Miz Ruby's.

The woman regarded Vin steadily for a long moment, then settled herself back down and shook her head with a wry smile on her face. "Y'all are such good boys, the whole lot a' ya'."

"Ma'am?" Vin had to grin at that.

"Wal, y'all's good. That's all. Ain't no one ever tol' ya' that?"

"No, ma'am." Vin's grin broadened. "I been called a lotta' things in my day, but I don't remember as 'good' was one of 'em."

"Wal, then Ah kin see Ah gots t'educate ya'." The woman's face creased into a warm smile and she patted Vin's shins beneath the blanket. "Whyn't ya' sleeps now, like yo' frien' Buck heah's doin'? Hmm? That's whatcha' needs."

Vin shook his head almost imperceptibly. "I will later," he said softly, and then a look of pain flashed through his eyes and he made a helpless fist with his good hand and squeezed his face shut. Miz Ruby frowned and laid her hand on his good arm.

"Y'all cain't fool me," she chided him. "Ah gots t' have somethin' that'll--"

"Just talk to me a little, Ma'am." Vin had opened his eyes and was looking at the woman with a weariness that stilled the words in her throat. She really ought to go get Nathan, she thought. But then this Vin man was right: Nathan hadn't gotten much sleep at all, and his bone-tiredness was written all over his face. And truth be told, sometimes a body did just have to weather a thing through. Miz Ruby smiled wryly.

"Is y'all suggestin' mah conversation'll putcha' t' sleep?" She winked, and Vin laughed very, very softly. Miz Ruby sighed and crossed her arms. "Lawd, hows y'EVER gon' get down this mountain with yo' frien's, chil'?"

"That's not quite the kinda' talk I had in mind," whispered Vin.

"Oh no?" Miz Ruby rocked herself around to face the injured man more squarely. "Figgered Ah'd tell ya' a bedtime story, likely?"

"Somethin' like that." Vin smiled as Miz Ruby swatted playfully at his feet and then shook her head.

"Y'all is purely a caution, Vin honey. Gon' makes me laugh out loud an' wake up this heah po' Buck man."

"Can't have that." Vin's grin widened, and Miz Ruby thought maybe his eyes were clearing some again. She smiled back at the man.

"So whatcha' gon' do, honey chil'? Tell Miz Ruby y'ain't really gon' try t' gits down this heah mountain 'til y'all's doin' some better."

"I got friends down there." Vin was shaking his head. "Good friends. They're countin' on me." His expression had grown more serious as he'd spoken, and now he closed his eyes and pressed his lips together in a look of frustration. Miz Ruby patted his legs again and knit her brows.

"It's all right, honey. Y'all gon' get there. Yo' frien's is right clever. If'n ya' gots to git there so bad, they'll help ya'. Ah's sorry Ah--"

"No." Vin opened his eyes again. "Buck's insistin' on goin', too, but he's not that strong yet. Nathan says he'll kill 'imself if he tries t' ride that far."

Miz Ruby looked quickly at Buck, who was still sleeping, with a puzzled expression. "Wal," she said slowly, "cain't he stays heah, then?"

"He won't." Vin was shaking his head. "That's just the problem. He'll only stay if I do."

"But then y'all cain't help yo' frien's." Miz Ruby was nodding. "Ah's beginnin' to see the dilemma, caught 'tween yo' frien's there an' yo' frien' heah. How ezzac'ly was ya' plannin' on gittin' yo' self down there, though? Ya' cain't ride, neither."

"That's a fact." Vin's expression was bitter, and Miz Ruby clucked softly over it as he said: "But Chris an' Josiah can make a travois. That can go through rough or broken country where a wagon can't. By the time we get there, I'd have my strength back more. Buck would, too. He could make it, that way -- if he'd ride one."

"Mmmm. But that'n don' cotton t' no sucha' thing unless he's out cold."

"That's about the size of it." Vin turned his head to regard the sleeping man on the next settee, whose long legs were draped almost off the end of the piece of furniture.

"Ah could bongs 'im on th' head with mah skillet," suggested Miz Ruby. Vin had to clap his good hand over his mouth when he realized what she'd said, to keep from bursting out laughing loud enough to wake the other man, and even at that he thought he might not hold it in. The cook put her own hands over her mouth then, her eyes sparkling, and rocked forward and back a moment. When he regained control, the tracker reached out his good hand to take Miz Ruby's hand and squeeze it.

"I can see," he choked out, "that I'm gonna' have t' come visit you again so's I can get t' know ya' better."

"Darn straight, ya' galoot!" Miz Ruby smacked the tracker's forearm lightly, then glanced at Buck as the other man stirred in his sleep and gave evidence of beginning to wake up. Miz Ruby leaned closer to Vin and whispered: "Now jes' ya' let Miz Ruby take care a' this problem for ya'. Turn yo' head towards the back a' the settee, like ya' done b'fore. Go on, now, look away from yo' frien' Buck an' makes like y'all is sleepin'. An' don' give me 'way, neither."

Vin looked at Miz Ruby skeptically a moment, then did as she'd asked him to. He heard her rustling about then, and felt that she had stood up from the settee. A moment later he heard Buck's sleepy voice, still bleary.

"Miz Ruby?"

"'S me, Buck honey. Sho' nuff." The woman was whispering. "How's y'all feelin'?"

"Sleep helped some, I think." Vin heard Buck shift around on the settee. "How's Vin?"

"Ah think he's finally sleepin', maybe. Ain't feelin' too good, though, still."

"I know."

Vin, listening, felt like he ought to turn around and let Buck know the truth about him being awake, but the thought made him suddenly remember how hard Miz Ruby had playfully slapped him. He thought better of it.

"Ah gots a problem. If'n y'all feels up t' it. . ."

"What is it, Miz Ruby?" Vin could hear Buck shifting around even more, probably orienting himself so he could see the woman more clearly.

"Wal, that Mister Vin, he's a nice fellah'."

"Yeah, he is." Buck's voice was puzzled. "How is that a--"

"Reckon he's gon' git his se'f killed. It's a dad-gummed shame is what it is."

"What? Why would--"

"He's plannin' on ridin' his horse all the way down this heah mountain, t' help them people y'all was sayin' is in so much trouble down there."

"Ride his . . . Vin said he figures to ride his HORSE down there?"

"Yessir. Said if'n he rides that thing Chris an' 'tother fella's makin' he'll jes' slow y'all down. Ah tried an' tried t' talk 'im outta' doin' that. It'll be the death of 'im. Ya' knows it will. But he jes' said he cain't hold y'all back all the time like he's been doin'. Said if'n all t'others of ya' is riding horses, he's gotta' ride, too. Finally went t' sleep jes' 'fore ya' woke up, an' Ah never did talk 'im outta' that notion. Ah don' mind tellin' ya', Ah's worried. What we gon' do, Buck?"

There was a long period of silence. Vin felt like crawling into a hole, and was certain that his ears were bright red.

"Don't you worry, Miz Ruby," said Buck finally. There was a conspiratorial tone to his voice that Vin knew well. It was a tone usually reserved for plotting against JD. "I know just what to do."

"What? Y'all gots an idea? Truly?"

"I'll just say I don't think I can ride, that my leg's not up to it."

"But, how'll that--?"

"Then I won't be ridin'," said Buck patiently. "If I'm on a travois, then . . ."

"Lawd! Y'all is that clever!" Miz Ruby was still whispering, but her voice rang with delight nevertheless. "Shore thing, if'n ya' does that he'll have no choice but t' do the same! Wal, Ah feels lots better now, Ah mus' say. Now! How'd ya' like some a' mah cookies, an' maybe a glass a' milk t' goes with 'em?"

"You're gonna' spoil me, Ma'am, but I gotta' admit that would be wonderful!"

"Ah'll be back direc'ly." And Vin heard Miz Ruby bustle from the room. Several moments went by in silence, with him wondering just what he was going to do, since he still couldn't go to sleep. His uncertainty was cut short about then when a small pillow sailed over his head and thumped against the wall.

"You're such a lousy liar, ya' can't even pretend to be asleep good when ya' ain't."

Vin started chuckling, and then looked back over at Buck as he heard the tall gunman start laughing, too.

"Well, it wasn't my idea," grinned the tracker.

"So I heard. You know, you two don't whisper all that quietly."

Both men were laughing now, and Vin realized he was feeling better than he had all day. "I hope this don't mean you're gonna' change your mind, though, Bucklin."

"Hey. A promise to a lady is sacred." Buck laid one arm across his chest theatrically, and raised his other, and Vin smiled.

"So do I get one a' your cookies?"

"We'll have to see," mused Buck. "Let me think . . . A pard that pretends t' be asleep when he ain't . . ."

". . . Like you did. . . "

"Ah." Buck hesitated. "If I give you a cookie, will you keep 'er from clongin' me with her skillet?"

"Deal." Vin stuck out his good hand across the space between them, and Buck stretched out far enough to shake. The two men locked eyes a moment, and neither looked away.

Part 133

Chris walked out the front door of Michaels' house and saw JD down by the front carriage drive helping Josiah with the travois. "JD!" Chris called as he walked down the steps. "Go find Ezra," he said when JD got close enough to hear him. "We need to head on down to the dining hall to meet with the miners."

JD just had time enough to nod his head once and say, "Sure thing, Chris," before Ezra came out the front door behind them. He had a rifle in his right hand and Chris could see that he also had a revolver at his hip, one in a shoulder holster, and, although Chris couldn't see it, he figured he had his derringer up his sleeve as well.

"We ain't plannin' on shootin' our way in, Ezra," Chris said dryly.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Mr. Larabee," Ezra said as he fell into step with Chris and JD, "but a large number of these gentlemen attended last night's hostilities. And not as our cheering section. Therefore, it seems to me a more than reasonable possibility that one or more of them might be unfavorably disposed to our presence."

"What is your point?"

"I am merely saying that I intend to be prepared."

"Gee, Chris," JD said, "Maybe we should get Josiah too. Or Nathan."

"These men don't want to fight us," Chris said. "They just want to know they have a future."

"Be that as it may, Mr. Larabee--"

"Excuse me." The quiet voice came from directly behind them and even Chris had his hand on his gun when he turned around. He found himself facing a portly man in his mid-thirties dressed in a grey suit that didn't fit him very well and a white shirt that was fraying at the cuffs and the collar. He was carrying a large leather-bound book that he clasped tightly against his chest. The man's eyes looked at Chris's hand on the butt of his gun, at Ezra's finger hooked over the trigger of his rifle, and at JD with both hands poised just above his revolvers. He licked his lips and his eyes darted nervously from one man to the other. "Are you..." he looked at Chris and then looked away. "I understand you're Mr. Larabee?"

"That's right," Chris said evenly.

"I'd like...," the man took a deep breath and seemed to pull himself together. "My name is Charles Fraser. I'm the chief bookkeeper for Apex Mining. Ah," he cleared his throat. "I understand that you've arrested Mr. Michaels?"

"Do you have a problem with that?"

JD took a step forward, but Chris put a hand on his arm.

Fraser stammered a bit and then said. "I...are you going to the meeting? The miners want to know what's going to happen now."

"What are you going to tell them?" Chris asked, his eyes expressing mordant amusement.

"Me?" Fraser's voice squeaked. "I...I mean," then, suddenly he seemed to realize that Chris was making fun of him and he straightened up, clutched his book tighter and said. "The mine foreman left last night," he said. "He was...,well, the miners didn't like him much, though Mr. Michaels did. I know," and for the first time he looked directly at Chris. "the men are worried about getting paid. And I'm really the only one who can see that that happens."

"You have the money?" Chris asked him sharply, suddenly much more interested in this unprepossessing man.

"Mr. Michaels keeps...kept enough money to cover four pay periods in a safe at the house. He and Mr. Adamsen, the mine foreman, and I were the only ones with the combination. So, I don't have the money, it's at the house, but I can get it."

Chris studied him for a minute. Miners streamed by them on the way into the dining hall. A number of them looked at Fraser and muttered under their breath. One man went so far as to walk straight into him and then apologize with a patently insincere smile. "Men don't seem to like you much," Chris observed.

Fraser took a deep breath. "They're mad about what's going on. They've been talking about it all day. Anyone that worked in the offices like me...well, they're afraid we'll take off with their money. The other bookkeepers already left. As did all the supply clerks."

"Why did you stay?"

"Because...,well...,these men ought to get their money. It's only right, I think."

"If we hadn't shown up were you going to go in there alone?" Chris asked him.

"Well, hmmm," Fraser looked at his feet, then looked at the sky, then, finally looked at Chris. "I'd have had to, I guess." He smiled tentatively. "I'm a little happier that you're here."

Chris clapped the man on the back and smiled. "You're a good man, Mr. Fraser," he said. "Let's go talk to some miners."

+ + + + + + +

Pedro stood outside the closed door of the library. Miz Ruby had told him to leave the men inside alone, but he didn't see how just opening the door and looking in would bother them. Senor Nathan was in the kitchen giving Miz Ruby a list of the things he needed for the trip and all the other men were outside somewhere. These men were not like Senor Michaels or that man Striker or any of the other men who had ever been to the house before. Senor Nathan had sat down right next to him and told him what was happening to Senor Michaels. And that funny Senor Ezra had even tipped his hat to him! And all the other men had acted like they could see him when he walked down the hall, not just tripping over him and cursing like it was his fault. But his especial favorites were Senors Buck and Vin because Senor Buck had rescued him from the dogs and because Senor Vin was hurt really badly and Pedro figured he could use a friend.

He put his hand on the large brass door knob and slowly pushed the door open. The curtains were closed and the room was dark despite the bright sunlight outside. Pedro could see that Senor Vin was lying flat, covered with a large quilt, his good arm flung up over the top of it. Pedro pushed the door open a little further.

He could see Buck sitting up on the other settee. His back was to the door, but Pedro could see that his head was bent as if he was thinking really hard about something. Pedro slipped in through the narrow opening. As he watched, Buck straightened up and pushed himself off the settee with his hands and stood up. He balanced there for a minute on his good leg and then he tried to take a step. Pedro could see pain rip across his face. He took another step and this time when he put weight on his bad leg he had to stop and grab at it and a low oath escaped from his lips as he sank back down onto the settee and leaned his head against the back cushion with his eyes closed.

"Senor Buck?" Pedro said.

Buck's head whipped around and when he saw the young boy he gave him a tired smile. "Miz Ruby know you're in here?" he asked.

"Senor Buck," Pedro said earnestly. "The other men they are making you a...a...thing so you do not have to ride." He crossed the room and pulled himself up over the back of the settee so that he could look at Buck face to face. "You should not have to worry."

"A man's got to be able to fight," Buck said.

"Your friends will fight for you," Pedro declared.

"Nah," Buck said. "I reckon I'll see this through 'til the end."

He looked sad about something and Pedro thought maybe he'd said the wrong thing so he grinned at him until Buck smiled back. Then, he heard Miz Ruby calling him. "I gotta go," he said quickly and scampered from the room.

+ + + + + + +

There were well over a hundred men in the dining hall when Chris and the others entered. Likely closer to two hundred, Chris thought and he wondered if there was even a shift still operating in the mine right now. And it struck him that he'd been so focused on Michaels and stopping him that he hadn't given a thought to these men or what they spent their time here doing.

Some of the miners were still dressed in the clothes they'd worn in the mines, the dirt and dust of digging and dynamiting ground into every fiber of their worn cotton shirts and wool pants. They looked at the gunmen, eyes narrowing as they spotted Fraser walking with them, but they parted easily enough and let Chris and the others walk through the crowd toward a small group of three men. One of them Chris recognized as Fred Collins the night shift foreman who had come to the house to speak to him.

"Mr. Larabee," the man said as Chris approached. "This here's the other shift foreman, Mark Haskell and one of his crew chiefs, Pete Feruggi."

"How do you want things to go?" Chris asked the three men.

The three men looked at each other. Chris could see Billy and Bob, the two men he'd met earlier, eyeing the other men in the room and, along with Ezra and JD creating a space for Chris and the other men to stand and talk.

"We thought...we figure you'd better tell what's happened first," Collins said. "There's been lots of rumors flying, but nobody knows for sure. Hell, some of the men think you're gonna sell 'em all down in Mexico for labor in the gold mines." As he talked, he and the other men kept glancing over at Fraser, who looked completely out of place with his grey suit and white shirt. Fraser clutched his ledger book tighter and looked around the room nervously, and Chris figured he was wondering what would happen if the miners didn't like what they heard.

Chris stepped past the other men and climbed up onto one of the long wooden dining tables. Immediately, the room quieted. Chris was disconcerted to see almost two hundred men looking up at him expectantly. For a minute he almost felt dizzy. He wasn't any good at this kind of thing. He wished he'd made Ezra get up here. The gambler had a way with words that Chris would never have. Problem was, when Ezra was both nervous and sincere he tended to use even more words than he normally did to explain a thing. Chris figured the mood everyone was in, if they didn't understand what Ezra was saying, they'd run him up a flagpole just to shut him up.

"My name is Chris Larabee," Chris began.

"Aw, hell! We don't care!" The voice came from the middle of the room and it was quickly followed by a ripple of murmurs from the other men. Chris could see Ezra tense as he slowly slipped his finger along the trigger of his rifle.

Chris held up his hand and the room quieted again. "Sterling Michaels is going to jail," he said and suddenly the silence was so thick it could have been sliced with a kitchen cleaver.

"What the hell'd he do?" And Chris thought it might have been the same voice that shouted earlier.

"Kidnapping, attempted murder, attacking innocent people. You want to side with a man like that?"

A number of the men in the front of the room shook their heads and there was another round of quiet murmuring. Finally one man said in a low voice that nevertheless carried clear to the front of the room. "We just want to do our jobs and get paid for it. That gonna be possible, you think?"

And there was silence again as the men waited for an answer.

+ + + + + + +

Pedro came back into the house through the kitchen after running an errand for Miz Ruby to the stables. The man who grabbed his ear hadn't been there and Pedro was starting to think that maybe things were going to be very different than they had ever been before.

Miz Ruby and Senor Nathan were standing at the kitchen table, facing each other over a tray of food.

"Now, you can't go down in that cellar, Miz Ruby. You know that."

"I knows he's a bad man, but he gots to eat." Miz Ruby crossed her arms over her ample chest and looked evenly at Nathan.

"I'll get Josiah," Nathan said.

"Land sakes," Miz Ruby said sharply. "You know that man's busy buildin' them travois for Mister Buck an' Mister Vin. He ain't gots no time to come traipsin' back in heah to do somethin' ah can do mahse'f."

After a minute of silence from both of them, Miz Ruby unfolded her arms. "Ah did it for y'all, when yo' frien's was such-wise," she said softly, "even b'fore Ah knowed they was good. Men gots a right t' food, no matter what.

Nathan looked at her for a minute, then he nodded once and laid his hand on her arm. "All right," he agreed. "But I'll be standing at the top of the stairs. With my gun. He tries anything..."

"Oh he won'," Miz Ruby said with a bright spark in her eye. "An if'n he's stupid enough to try, Ah reckon he'll just about deserve the thumpin' you n me'll give 'im foh it!"

+ + + + + + +

"It ain't up to me," Chris said in response to the man who'd asked if they could continue to do their jobs and get paid.

"Who the hell is it up to? You're the men with the guns. You tellin' us you ain't takin' over?"

Chris looked out at the sea of men. He took a deep breath and tried again. "Have you men heard of the new apex law?"

There was no response for a minute and then, Collins said in the slow voice of a man who wasn't used to speaking much in front of crowds. "Ain't that the one that says if you got the apex you can follow the vein wherever it goes?"

Chris nodded. "Michaels doesn't have the apex."

His words threw the hall into an uproar. Ezra and JD took a step backward. Ezra raised his rifle just a little, not enough to constitute an overt threat, but enough to make men notice it again. Chris let them talk a minute and then he raised his hands. Gradually, the hall grew quiet again. "Michaels is going to jail. Likely for a long time. That's certain. Someone will be taking over here, but there ain't no way to tell right now who that'll be. Right now it looks like Delano has the best claim, but the way things are..." He shook his head. "Hell, I don't know." He looked at the two shift foremen. "You figure out a way to run this place and protect the interests of whoever may be coming later and I'll back you."

The two men looked at each other and started talking quietly. A man in the front of the crowd spoke up. "This is all real nice and all. But what difference does it make if we work or not? How the hell are we going to get paid?"

Chris looked down at the man clutching the ledger. "Mr. Fraser," he said. "You want to handle that one?"

Fraser climbed unsteadily onto the table. The men looked at him as if he were some sort of odd creature who had wandered into their area by mistake. "Uh...well," Fraser started nervously. "I think...You would probably like to know that there is currently enough money on hand to cover everyone's wages for the next month. Assuming that things can be put on a more permanent and formal basis within that time, I believe...well, I'm certain...that your wages can be covered."

Once again there was silence in the room, quickly broken by one man saying loudly enough so everyone could hear him. "Well, hell, that's the best thing I've heard all day." A number of the men laughed and Chris figured that the most important thing had now been settled. He stepped off the table to talk to the two shift foremen. "Well?" he asked them.

Collins said, "Me and Haskell and Feruggi, we figure we can run the mine well enough, but we don't want someone comin' in later sayin' we did somethin' wrong or shorted the tally or somethin.' We know Steve Borall from over at Delano. He's been in the business a good long time. We trust him and we figure he'd deal fair with us. You think Delano'd let him come over for a while and see things run smooth?"

Chris turned. "JD," he called. When JD reached him, he said, "These men want to ask Delano's foreman to come help run things. You've been over there. You think that's possible?"

"Steve Borall?" JD asked. "Sure, I think he'd do it. I think Delano'd let him. He wants this over as much as anyone."

Chris turned back to the others. "Send him a telegram. Figure out the details. He looked around the room at the crowd of miners. "You need anything else from us?"

Collins looked at the other two men with him. He shook his head at Chris. "Nah," he said. "We can take it from here. We'll set up a committee 'til Borall gets here and just keep on doin' what we know how to do." Chris turned to leave, but Collins called him back. "Thanks," he said.

"For what?" Chris asked.

"Michaels, he wasn't a good man. We knew that, but we threw our hand in with him anyway. Generally, when a bad man goes down everyone else falls too. Thanks for givin' us this chance."

Chris didn't quite know what to say so he tipped his hat to the man and left the hall followed by JD and Ezra. There was no longer any need for guns and rifles. The men parted easily and several of them thanked them for helping out. 'Helping out,' Chris thought. 'We _made_ this situation.' Then he realized that wasn't quite right. 'No,' he thought, 'Michaels did. All of us are just the ones who paid.'

+ + + + + + +

"First," Josiah was saying to Pedro, "you got to trim these saplings down. Cut off all the extra branches. They're going to be the poles."

Pedro squatted beside Josiah, his hands resting on his knees and watched him intently. Josiah worked away steadily until he had four straight, relatively smooth poles about sixteen feet long.

"Now," he said to Pedro, "once you got these poles made, you gotta lash 'em together. That's why we got this here rope."

Pedro nodded solemnly.

Josiah crossed two of the poles the way he wanted to and handed Pedro the rope. As Pedro wound it around the limbs, Josiah tightened it. After a moment or two of silence, Pedro asked. "What will happen when you leave here?"

"Well now, that's mighty hard to say," Josiah told him.

"Will you shoot bad men?"

"I expect we will."

"Will they be all right? Senors Buck and Vin?"

Josiah checked the rope to see if it would hold and cut the end and fastened it. "I'll do my best to make sure that they are," he told Pedro.

"Because I like them," Pedro said artlessly as he wove a piece of rope back and forth between his fingers. "They are good men, I think."

Josiah sheathed his knife and reached out and ruffled Pedro's hair. The small boy ducked his head and grinned at him. "They'd have to be, I expect," Josiah said. "For them to have a friend like you."

That comment made Pedro laugh so hard he fell off the stone he was sitting on.

Part 134

ALL SAFE. STOP. MICHAELS ARRESTED. STOP. RETURN SIX DAYS. STOP. WOUNDED HEALING. STOP. CHRIS LARABEE

Mary fingered the yellow paper with just nine words. Nine words that told her how the men were doing and what had been happening. Nine words . . .

"Mrs. Travis, will there be a reply?" Wyatt, the telegraph operator, inquired.

Mary forced herself away from the words in the telegram and slowly shook her head no. "Mr. Larabee will not expect one."

"Yes ma'am," Wyatt tipped his hat and exited the Clarion's office.

Mary looked back at the words in front of her. All nine of them. One could never accuse Chris of being loquacious. Mary concentrated on filling the gaps in between the terse words.

'All safe.' The seven men were all alive and together. Not prisoner.

'Michaels arrested.' Sterling Michaels was the owner of Apex Mining. They had suspected maybe he had some role in the Delano cave-ins. But if all the men were together, how much of what had been going on involved him? Buck's problems? Vin and Chris leaving to find him and not returning? Vin's jacket with a bullet hole? Nathan's poisoning? The Indian troubles? Mary wondered how long ago Michaels was arrested because the Indian troubles were continuing. There were more reports last night. How much is it all connected or not connected at all?

'Return six days.' Six days. Six_long_days. Mary wondered if the deputies could stay till the seven returned. She would need to talk to them.

'Wounded healing.' Who was wounded? They had been fairly sure Vin was wounded before the rest had ever left from the blood and bullet hole in his jacket. But if it was just Vin wouldn't Chris just say that. Vin healing - that would make sense. So how many others? Ezra and JD intercepted the stage and were well at that time. Buck? Nathan? Josiah? All of them? None of them? And they had to be quite injured not to return for another six days. Six_long_days.

The bell over the door tingled and the two deputies from Eagle Bend entered. "Hello gentlemen." Mary looked the two deputies over. The older one, well relatively older since she doubted he was as old as she, had obvious Indian ancestry. He carried himself with a quiet eloquent confidence and had proved adept at defusing problems before they became unmanageable. The other one looked barely older than JD. Light sandy hair and an open face. He seemed to work well with the senior deputy. And his pleasant disposition earned him an easy acceptance from the townspeople. Four Corners was indeed fortunate to have these two men in town.

"Mrs. Travis. The telegraph operator informed us you had heard from Chris Larabee."

Mary smiled pleasantly. "Yes, I have. He reports that Sterling Michaels, the owner of Apex Mining, has been arrested but also that they wouldn't be returning for another six days. Will you be able to stay till their return? I'm sure Judge Travis, my father-in-law, will cover your expenses and wages."

"I'll wire Sheriff Kilbride but I don't expect it will be a problem," the older deputy and obvious leader responded.

"That will be reassuring. Two more ranches reported Indian raids last night. Maybe Yuma will send troops and help with policing until the seven return."

"Ma'am, that may not be the panacea we all hope for."

Mary frowned, concerned. "Why do you think that?"

"It will be days before they can get here. And I don't think the town will wait if these raids continue. There are enough men urging a show of force on the reservation that we may not be able to stop it. We have kept the lid on it for now but it can't continue like this indefinitely."

"And when white men die as they surely will because Kojay's tribe will defend themselves," the light was dawning for Mary.

"And the troops ride in. They will have to assert control. And it won't be in Four Corners they control. It will be the reservation and Indians will die," the somber assessment was chilling to Mary.

Mary rubbed her head trying to figure out what to do. "Should we send a wire for the troops not to come?"

"No ma'am. That's the only thing keeping a lid on the tensions right now."

"Should I wire Mr. Larabee and see if he can get back here sooner?"

The deputy smiled wryly. "Ma'am, I expect if Mr. Larabee could be here sooner, he would be here. I think all we can do is sit tight and wait for the troops."

"And pray."

"Yes ma'am."

"Thank you deputy."

"You're welcome ma'am. I'll wire Sheriff Kilbride." The deputies tipped their hats and left The Clarion's office.

"That deputy has a right smart head on his shoulders," Nettie commented as she entered the office.

"We are fortunate to have him here."

"Indeed. Did I hear right the seven aren't returning for six days?"

Mary slowly nodded her head.

"Gonna be a long_six_days."

+ + + + + + +

Thompson urged his horse up the rise. He had been on reservation land for almost an hour. It was going to be tomorrow. Thompson wet his lips in anticipation and felt a thrill course through his body. He was going killing. He would use his wits, skill, and talent to defeat a man. Probably many men. But *the* man would fall because of him. Because Thompson didn't miss. Kojay was as good as dead.

Thompson pulled up his dun mare, ground tied her, and removed a wood case from its special sheath on his saddle. He caressed the fine mahogany. It was too fine for a man like him except that it held the tools of his trade. An extremely lucrative trade and it paid to have only the best.

Not wishing to be seen, Thompson surreptitiously crawled to the point he was thinking he would use in the morning. There had been braves about today and he did not want to be seen.

Thompson settled in to watch. He opened the mahogany case and took a moment to appreciate the fine burgundy velvet interior. He removed his gun's scope.

Braves. He saw two cross the lower valley obviously on patrol. Tensions were up in town, Michael's men had seen to that and now apparently, the reservation was on alert. Blood will be shed. Thompson didn't mind that, after all, it was the whole point.

Thompson shifted his focus to the village. Damn. At this angle and with sun, he could only do this in the afternoon. That would make for some unhappy men back at camp. Thompson shrugged unconcerned. The other men would just have to wait on him. He was the most important man in this operation and if he couldn't do his job, then the job wasn't going to get done. They needed him.

Ahhhh, there he was. There was no mistaking. From this distance, the respect afforded the Chief could not be missed.

Thompson was so tempted to remove his rifle and just do the deed now. It would be so easy. But that wasn't his orders and Thompson knew how to follow orders from powerful men. Live longer that way. So he could wait. Bide his time. Because his time would come.

Thompson chuckled as he followed the movements of the Chief in the village. You're a dead man Chief Kojay. Dead, dead, dead.

part 135

She had taken one look at Josiah coming into the house with Buck -- with _Buck_ of all people -- supported on one arm, his face dark with gunpowder and sweat and fighting and anger, and she'd run from the kitchen all the way to her room upstairs without stopping. She'd locked the door and then stood in the middle of the room, panting and with one hand to her heaving bosom, and waited in terror for him to come and break the door down and . . .

Nothing had happened.

Belle had finally knelt on the floor, then laid a timid ear to it. She could hear their voices dimly, beneath her. Low murmurs and sometimes something like a groan. Oh, it _was_ a groan! Belle had stood up again, wringing her hands. Those two men were hurt, and hurting, and it was her fault and soon the others would come up to exact some measure of revenge on her and then what would she do? She began to pace, her step light and fearful, and then realized they might hear her downstairs and suddenly think of her and of what she'd done. Belle sat down at the top of her bed near the headboard, and pulled one of the pillows into her arms, and stared at the door until she finally fell into an exhausted sleep, near dawn.

Miz Ruby, tapping on the door, had awakened her mid-morning, and she'd never been so happy to see anyone in her life. She'd all but fallen into the dark woman's arms in relief, and then pulled away and wiped at her eyes with her fingertips when the woman said, "Now, now, Miss Belle. Pull yo'self t'gether. They's no reason to be scared a' them fellahs downstairs."

"Where's Sterling?" she'd asked. And Miz Ruby had told her what all had happened, and that it looked like Marse Sterlin' would be going to jail soon and maybe later to prison, and Belle had felt shock slam into her like an icy wind, and known it was over.

She'd been packing ever since.

The big steamer trunk was on the floor, its lid already closed and locked. The smaller trunk was opened on the bed, filled with dark colors and heavy fabrics for autumn coming in now. A traveling grip standing open-mouthed nearby had night things and toilet articles in it, an umbrella cradled within the circle of its handle. Belle paused in her packing of a black reticule to look at the things still spread out on the bed to be packed, and sighed. She had finished tucking several folded hankies into the bag and dropped it next to the grip when a light tap sounded on the bedroom door. She opened it with a weary sigh.

"Come in, Miz Ru-" The woman drew up short, her eyes widening.

"Belle." Josiah was bareheaded, but even so it was obvious that he had to resist an inclination to remove the hat that wasn't there. He looked steadily at the woman with deep-set eyes, blue as winter pond ice. When Belle remained silent, he gestured towards her room. "May I come in an' talk with you a little, before we go our separate ways?"

Belle nodded wordlessly, and stepped back to let Josiah enter. She never took her eyes off the man, but felt behind her for a chair and slowly sank down there amid a billowing of burgundy silk moir�. Josiah drew up a little chair from the corner and sat down across from her, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands folded, to look into her face.

"It may sound funny," he said softly, "but I really am sorry that things worked out the way they did for you."

"What . . . what do you mean?"

Josiah studied Belle's face, noting the darkness of her eyes, the paleness of her cheek. There was something intent about her expression he'd never seen before. He shook his head to himself; maybe she wasn't dissembling.

"I mean . . . marryin' Michaels. Becomin' first lady of a new state some day. What you did was wrong, but-"

"I know it was." Belle spoke low, and quickly. She glanced at her hands, in her lap, and a dark flush rose from beneath her collar to spread up across her face. She bit her lip and looked up at Josiah, and he startled when he realized that there were tears glistening in her eyes. Not spilling over her cheeks in a pretty pout, and not being wept into a lace handkerchief, but trembling on the ends of her lashes and being blinked back. "I'm sorry, Josiah. I . . ."

"Belle--" Josiah shifted in his chair and started to lay one broad hand upon hers, but Belle looked up miserably and shook her head.

"No. Let me finish, please. I just . . . let me find the words." She bit her lips again as Josiah drew back and sat quietly, waiting. After another moment, she took a deep, shuddering breath and continued. "There is no excuse for what I did. Not even really an explanation. Except that I thought . . . well, I don't know what I thought, really. Somehow, that . . . that you and your friends were . . .like a sort of a game, or . . . like _props_, like characters in a play. Not real people." She tipped her head, and a slender tear slid from the far corner of one eye and trailed down into her hair. "That's a terrible thing to admit. It doesn't even make sense."

"Yeah, it kinda' does." Josiah looked at the floor between his feet for a while, and then looked back up at Belle. "I've heard this line in a play, a famous one, that the world is a stage an' all the people in the world are just playin' parts."

Belle nodded. "Shakespeare," she whispered, "yes."

"I think," said Josiah softly, "that it ain't true. I don't think there's even a stage at all. Just human hearts."

Belle looked away then, in the silence that fell between them, and raised one hand to press against her mouth. He saw her shoulders shake, then grow tight, and she spoke without looking at him. Her voice was soft and strained.

"It's because of me, that . . . your friends were hurt. And . . . I hurt _you_." She turned a stricken face to look up at Josiah, who had stood up after speaking. The preacher reached down to take one of her hands in his and draw her to her feet.

"Forgiveness is free, Belle," he rumbled. "All you gotta' do is ask for it."

"You would . . . forgive me? After all I've done?"

"Ask an' see."

"Oh!" Belle's eyes dilated and she backed a step from Josiah, both her hands in his now. Suddenly she half sank in his grasp as if to go to her knees, but the man simply drew her hands more tightly so that she couldn't. "Oh, Josiah!" said Belle. "I don't know how you can, but . . . Please! Please forgive me! I am so sorry that I-" She broke off, crying raggedly. Josiah just stood where he was, looking at her. After a few moments Belle regained her composure somewhat, but she didn't look up. Josiah had not yet released her hands, and she finally tugged gently at them, but he held on. Then she looked up at him, a pleading look on her face, asking him silently to let her go. Instead, Josiah lowered his face and his expression grew unutterably soft.

"I forgive you, Belle," he whispered.

Then he released her hands.

Belle drew her hands to her chest, clutched together, and turned away from Josiah completely. The preacher stood there, silent. Finally Belle bowed her head and he heard her whisper, "Thank you, Josiah."

"Where will you go?" He waited for her to turn slowly and look at him from within the new space of her life, and smiled gently at the way the woman seemed to suddenly become aware of its existence. She shook her head slightly, staggered a half-step as if dizzy, and raised puzzled eyes to Josiah that widened with amaze as she steadied herself. A wisp of joy played across her face like a fleeting shadow.

"Oh," she breathed. "Oh. I . . . I was thinking of my sister's."

"An' where is that?" Josiah smiled inside himself, watching life rise into the woman's face like a summer sunrise.

"South Carolina," she said as if mildly surprised to hear it herself. "Her husband teaches Latin at a little college there. My sister . . . they have three children. She does a lot of needlework."

"So, you'll be doin' needlework?"

"I suppose so. For a while." Belle looked at her hands ruefully. "I don't know but what I'll be all thumbs," she said, "but maybe while I ply the needle I can figure out where it was that things went so wrong. Find a way to make them right again." She looked up at Josiah. "Startin' with coming back here, when Sterling goes to trial. I know a lot an' I'll testify."

"I'll send for you, when it's time," said Josiah softly. "It'll make a big difference."

Belle trembled once, then shook herself all over lightly and tried to smile. "What about you? Are you an' your friends going back to Four Corners?"

"Yep. There's a church there, that needs sandin' an' paintin'." Josiah smiled a sad little smile, his eyes growing haunted. "Figure maybe while I ply the plane . . ." He grinned at her, then, lopsided, and Belle stepped closer to him.

"Forgiveness is free, Josiah," she whispered. "Ask them."

The preacher grinned, leaned over and put his face very close to the top of Belle's head and closed his eyes for a long moment, then turned without a word and left the room, shutting the door softly behind him. Belle stood looking at the door for a long time, knowing he wouldn't come back. Finally she whispered the last thing she knew she'd ever say inside that house:

"Good-bye, Josiah Sanchez. God bless you."

Part 136

She lay on the cot fully dressed, on top of the old quilt, and listened to the sounds of the house around her. Bitsy's high voice in the kitchen dancing with Coco's, giggles swirling around them; the deeper tones of the men's voices -- several from the kitchen and more from the front of the house that drifted through the walls of her room as if they were free-floating, like ghosts. She realized that the ceiling she was staring at mindlessly was seamed with cracks that radiated out from one corner like a spiderweb, and wondered idly how she'd never noticed that before. Miz Ruby sat up, peering more intently into the dim reaches of the room that were above her. Yeah, they were there, all right; she'd just never seen them before. Well.

The woman sighed and leaned forward to rub her feet. They always ached it seemed, nowadays. She tried to remember if there'd been a time they hadn't. Maybe back at Marse Bishop's place, when she was a young slip of a thing like Bitsy. She'd run up and down the stairs in that house a hundred times a day, and if her feet had ached then it seemed like she'd remember soaking them, nights. But that wasn't what she remembered from the nights in that house. No. She shuddered as the memory stole back into her mind, but then flung it aside like a dirty apron.

It coulda' been worse than it was. She'd been lucky, all things considered, and no denyin' it.

She turned around and set her feet on the floor by the bed, on top of her slippers. Her eye fell on the fat stump of a candle she kept on the crate by the bed, the scrap of gingham over the top of the wood beneath the candle scattered with tiny pink roses like stars across the sky, and realized suddenly why she'd never noticed the cracks in the ceiling. She'd never laid down when it was daylight before. Always layin' down with that candle lit, and not for long at that before she either got up to get busy, or blew it out to sleep. And the candle's flame just didn't cast light that far.

Miz Ruby groaned and slipped her feet into her shoes, then stood up stiffly. Had to be near time now. Hiding in her room wasn't going to change that, and if it was Bitsy or Coco doin' it she'd be on 'em by now. Might as well face it. Couldn't let 'em leave without saying good-bye. She'd done that before a time or two. Had learned not to do it again.

The youngest one, that JD, blew past her like a March wind as she came into the kitchen and squinted her eyes against the bright afternoon light flooding in through the big windows. He looked serious but excited at the same time. Seemed like that boy wore his heart on his sleeve more often than not, thought Miz Ruby. Gonna' make some woman a good husband, some chil'ren a good daddy. They'll know he loves 'em. Won't have to guess.

"I can't believe you fixed us these little pies like this, these tart things." he grinned as he flew past. "Thanks, Miz Ruby!"

"Mah pleasure, JD." The woman smiled at the youth's retreating form as he hurried on down the hall towards the front of the house.

"Miz Ruby! What'll I put this in?" Bitsy held out a pan that had been sitting on the back of the stove and lifted its lid to show the woman its contents.

"Mason jar, chil'. Then jes' put one a' them pieces a' muslin over the top an' tie it down good 'roun' the rim. Show Nathan how ya' gots it fixed, an' he'll take it from there."

Bitsy peered into the pan cautiously, the lid in her other hand. "Do I put the little pieces a' bark in there, too?"

"Jes' the liquid, honey. Strain it out when ya' pours it."

"Yes'm."

Bitsy moved to do as she'd been instructed, and as she did that the preacher man came into the kitchen. He looked apologetic even before he spoke, and Miz Ruby shook her head at him and crossed her arms over her chest. He drew up short.

"What?" The big man tried to sound challenging, but his eyes twinkled. He couldn't scare her nohow.

"Y'all lookin' like ya' gon' tell me ya's sorry 'bout somethin'."

"Well . . ." The preacher actually looked embarrassed. "I kinda' am." He grinned crookedly. "Seems we managed t' get blood on one a' the settees, an' it won't come out. Ezra said--"

"Land sakes! Cain't make an' om'let without breakin' some eggs. Gits yo'se'f on back in there an' tell them fellahs to worry they heads 'bout somethin' what matters. Ah'll takes care a' that, later. Go on, now. Git." She swept her hands at Josiah, and the big man smiled broadly at her and turned back around and left again. Those men, she thought. Who'd have imagined they'd worry about a thing like that.

Then, just that quick, Chris was in the kitchen, and another man with him. And the other man had a star of silver on his lapel and an air of authority about his person. Miz Ruby's heart quailed but she tried to look solid. Knowing a thing was going to happen and having it start happening were just two different things. Seemed like as she got older it shouldn't be that way any more. But it was.

"This is Marshall Gant," Chris was saying. "Marshall, this is Miz Ruby, who's the head of the household staff here." Chris's face was grim and serious as he introduced the woman to the marshall as if she was . . . well, as if she was _someone_. Miz Ruby nodded her head to the marshall.

"Pleased t' meetcha'," she mumbled. She glanced at the floor, then thought about all that she'd faced in the past and stood up straight. This weren't no worse than any of the other things she'd pushed her way through. No sir. Just one more thing, an' it would be over and done soon enough.

But even thinking that, she wasn't prepared for the sight of Marse Sterling coming into the kitchen between Ezra and Josiah, in handcuffs that shone silver in the sunlight that slanted in the windows. His face was grey with fatigue, and there were hollows under his eyes. His clothing was rumpled, his hair disheveled. A look of deep betrayal seeped into his eyes like rainwater into a cellar as his gaze fell on Miz Ruby.

"You let him into my house," he said. That was all. The words fell like a slap on Miz Ruby's face, and she recoiled half a step from him and felt her stomach lurch.

"Come on, Michaels. We got a ways to go before it gets dark." The marshall had hooked one arm under Michaels' elbow and was propelling him towards the kitchen door. The kitchen door, thought Miz Ruby. No. The front door was--

"Are you all right?" It was Chris, those flinty eyes that gave her the shivers focused right on her now . . . on her own face. Miz Ruby nodded, hoping words would choke loose right quick.

"Yessir," she managed to whisper. "Ah's fine." She followed the marshall and Marse Sterling to the door, watched the two men go down the wooden steps towards waiting horses. There were two other men with badges there, with the horses, waiting.

He was really going to jail. Maybe to prison.

She wondered how it had come to this.

The men mounted up, and they rode off. Just like that. She watched their backs, the coats pulled across their shoulders, the horses' flicking tails, the sun falling on every hair of their growing-in winter coats . . . and . . . there was a hand on her shoulder. Miz Ruby looked up and to one side. Chris's hand. He was staring after the riders himself, his face in profile. He spoke without looking at her, and his voice was gentle.

"He hurt a lot a' people," he said. He waited.

Miz Ruby studied the side of his face a moment, felt the gentle pressure of his hand on her shoulder, then looked again at the retreating figures, their horses moving off more rapidly now as they picked up a jog for the trail. "That's so." Her voice was so soft and low that it almost wasn't there. But he heard her. He turned his face, then, to look at her and she met his gaze this time.

"Miz Ruby, you didn't have a thing to do with this. He just isn't a good man. He was bound to go to jail sooner or later, and he's just lookin' to blame you for it because he _isn't_ a good man."

Miz Ruby thought about that a long moment. She thought about the times Marse Sterling had backhanded Pedro, about what he'd wanted to do to Bitsy that night, about what he _had_ done to Miss Belle. And there were the dogs. And so many other things. So many. She sighed.

"Ah knows. Ah reckons Ah jes' . . . " She turned her eyes again to the four riders that were now almost out of sight. She sighed and shut the kitchen door. The sound of the latch was loud in the still kitchen, Bitsy and Coco having quietly slipped away when the men had come in with Marse Sterling.

"Miz Ruby?" She heard Nathan's deep voice and the warmth in it, and for a moment she thought she might cry after all. But instead she looked up at him with a glad face that she could feel was smiling all over, and raised her arms to him. He came right into them and hugged her back, and OH! it felt good.

"Y'all 'bouts' ready t' go?" Her eyes widened as the words left her mouth, bringing immediately to her mind another time she'd said that very thing to him . . . not twenty feet from this very spot and only three days ago.

"Yes'm. But I'm comin' back. Jus' like I said I was, before." Nathan had both his hands on her elbows, and her hands rested on his forearms, and she looked up into his face and thought if she'd had a son like this man was, she couldn't have been a shade prouder of him than she was of Nathan right this minute.

"Nathan, y'all gots a long way t' go, an' lots a' folks countin' on ya'. Ah knows now Ah kin believe y'all'll do that. Jes' don' git in such a _hurry_ doin' it that ya' gits yo'self hurted or nothin'. Ah couldn't rightly bear it." She raised one worn hand to gently caress the side of his face, and he raised his own hand to take hers in his grasp.

"I heard what Michaels said to you." His voice was low.

"Nathan, Ah--"

"Sit down here a minute, Miz Ruby." He led her to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair, then seated himself across from her and held her hands over the table. "How long've you been here?"

"Nigh ont' . . . three years, Ah reckons." The woman's eyes fell to the old oak surface scarred by years of cutting vegetables and greens. She pulled her hands from Nathan's and set them in her lap.

"Where were you before that?"

Miz Ruby glanced up. "Cookin' in a prison, down t' Nagadoches -- from the time Ah was freed 'til Ah come here."

Nathan closed his eyes a moment, then opened them and smiled gently at the woman. "Miz Ruby, you ain't never been free _yet_. Strong, yes. An' brave. But free: no." He pushed his chair back and stood up, drawing her with him. "But soon as I get done with what I gotta' do right now, I'm comin' back for ya'. An' you'll be free then. I swear it." He leaned down to kiss the woman's wrinkled cheek, and she closed her eyes and held her breath as he did so. When he pulled away from her, she opened eyes that were luminous, and only slowly released his hand from hers.

"Ah wants t' go, Nathan. But more'n that, Ah wants ya' t' take Bitsy an' Coco an' Pedro there. Wherever it is y'all is from, that freedom _means_ somethin'."

"It'll happen," said Nathan. He took two steps back, turned towards the hallway where Chris was waiting for him. Miz Ruby followed along as the two men walked towards the front of the house together. No one said anything more.

Outside, the others who were riding were sitting on their horses, the animals' tails swishing idly and Buck's grey flipping its ears as it shook its mane. That horse and Vin's black gelding both had long travois poles running through the stirrups of their saddles and coming to a V-shaped point above the animals' withers. Miz Ruby was half a step behind Nathan as he walked back of the two horses to check on the wounded men laying on the litters formed by the other ends of the frames. Vin was laying flat, two heavy blankets tucked around him and his eyes looking much happier now that he was outside again. He smiled when he saw Miz Ruby.

"I'm kinda' hopin' you didn't give Nathan any more a' that bitter tea he seems t' like pourin' down my gullet."

"'Fraid so, chil'." Miz Ruby grinned and bent down to swat playfully at Vin's blanketed feet. "Ain'tcha' never heard that medicine what ain't bitter ain't no good? An' Ah wants ya' WELL."

"Oh, so now I see what you think a' ME." Buck was propped up into more of a sitting position on the other litter, his face looking far more pale in the sunlight than it had indoors. Miz Ruby put her hands on her hips and scowled.

"Wal, jes' ya' waits right there, then, Mister Buck Wil-ming-ton." JD whistled and the other men chuckled in shrill tones of glee. "Ah'll go right inside an' gits mah special remedy Ah done save only for mah BEST frien's. It's so good for ya', it'll make yo're eyes turn plumb yella', it's that nasty-tastin', an'--"

"When I come back," Buck amended hastily. "We're in a hurry right now."

Miz Ruby laughed. "Wal, Ah reckons' Ah kin slip it in yo're coffee, then. Never too late t' take a good, stiff tonic fo' the constitution!"

"Remind me not to partake of refreshments with you on the occasion of our return," said Ezra. He had raised the reins on his chestnut and now he touched the brim of his hat with two fingers. "Until then, Madam!"

"Likeways, Mister Ezra!"

"Miz Ruby."

"Keep yo'self safe, Josiah."

The other men rode past her, one by one, JD leading Buck's grey and Josiah Vin's black, until Nathan brought up the rear. He looked a long silent moment at Miz Ruby, and at the two girls and the little boy who had crept silently to stand within the protective circle of her arms.

"I'll come back for ya'," he said.

Then he legged his gelding into a jog to catch up to the others, and a moment later the forest had swallowed them all. Miz Ruby looked at Coco, then at Bitsy, and last at little Pedro. The boy grinned suddenly, and opened his hand to show the woman what he was holding.

"Lan' sakes," said the woman, bending to peer more closely. "Whatchy'all gots there, Pedro?"

"It is Se�or Vin's," explained Pedro. "Se�or Buck told him he thought it should be left in a safe place while they go help those people. He said he thought I was a good boy to do that, to take care of it." The boy beamed. "And Se�or Vin, he say 'Damn fine idea, Bucklin!' And so he ask me to take good care of it 'til he comes back to get it, when they are all through fighting."

Miz Ruby touched one gnarled finger to the battered brass harmonica, and stood up again to look at the place between the pines where the men had disappeared.

Then she smiled, and led Bitsy and the children back into the house.

Part 137

Four hours into the journey down out of the mountains, and the shadows were already growing long, slipping across the western sides of the slopes to leave only the flanks and ridges opposite bathed in the golden sunset. The men had ridden single file since leaving the edge of the plateau two miles south of Michaels' house, Chris leading and the others strung out behind, with Ezra bringing up a watchful rear guard. JD led Buck's grey again, the animal plodding along unconcerned about the travois strapped to its saddle, or the man on it. Buck had finally laid down an hour into the trip, and eventually fallen asleep. Josiah led Vin's gelding, turning back time and again to try to catch sight of the tracker and see how he was faring whenever the way grew stony or otherwise rough. Nathan was riding slightly behind Vin and out to one side, keeping an eye on both him and Buck, and everyone knew he'd speak up if there was a problem. Still, it was unnerving, this business of hauling friends who were hurting and sick.

"Jus' a minute, Chris." Nathan's voice was soft, yet every man immediately reined in. Chris turned his black where it stood, and rode back several feet towards the healer as the man spurred his chestnut to meet Chris.

"Nathan?" Chris's eyes were scanning Buck, who he saw was still sleeping soundly.

"We gotta stop for jus' a little while so I can make a new compress an' give Vin somethin' for his fever. I can see it's tryna' come back, an'--"

Chris was dismounting even as Nathan spoke, and the healer broke off to follow suit, turning to tell JD, "Try not to wake Buck. Jus' leave 'is litter like it is an' we'll hope he sleeps right through the stop. Won't be long."

Chris walked on back farther, past the blaze-faced gelding that Josiah was already leading gently to one side of the clearing they'd stopped in, closer to a rock outcrop that would provide a windbreak. Ezra was helping JD secure the grey in a similarly protected spot, and Chris could hear the men talking in low tones about one of them staying with the animal to prevent it shying or otherwise injuring the sleeping man behind it. He cleared the back of the travois and looked down to see that Vin had apparently heard him coming. The tracker was looking up and to the side Chris was coming from, and although it was obvious he needed Nathan's medicines, his eyes were clear and alert even though tired. Chris grinned and squatted down near the litter as Josiah tied the gelding to a sturdy tree limb.

"Hey." Chris's voice was soft with concern and affection around the edges. Vin smiled.

"Hey yourself." He sighed then, and glanced to where Nathan was unpacking herbs and utensils as Ezra built a small fire. Josiah silently set a stack of kindling down by the pair and went back for more. Vin looked at Chris. "We can keep goin'," he said, his face knitting in worry. "I don't need t'-"

"Let Nathan take care of knowing what you need or don't need, Vin." Chris's face was suddenly more serious, but his eyes remained light. "Won't do 'em any good, we get there draggin' a dead man."

Vin was silent a moment, then grinned slyly. "Well, at least you'd be $500 richer."

Chris looked down at his hand, pulling at a long blade of white grass, and laughed softly. "So I've heard." He looked back up at Vin and his eyes sharpened. "I'll let you get some rest." He started to rise to his feet, but Vin reached out his good hand across his own chest, as though to stop his friend.

"I can't sleep 'til Nathan finishes," Vin observed. "I'd just as soon have the company while I wait, that bein' the case."

"All right." Chris smiled again and sat down fully on the ground this time, folding his legs. "We could borrow Ezra's deck. Play a hand a'--"

"You will _not_." Ezra had approached and now leaned down to interrupt in a quiet tone that brooked no opposition. "Furthermore, our illustrious healer has requested that I ask you to remove our illustrious tracker's sling and various wrappings so that _he_ can apply his various . . . things. So it seems you have work to keep your hands otherwise occupied anyway." He grinned smugly and went back to tend the small fire. Chris laughed very low, and looked at Vin ruefully.

"You better brace yourself. I'm pretty much all thumbs." He leaned forward, scooting closer to the travois, as Vin grinned more broadly and reached his left hand up to pluck at the knot on the sling fastened around his neck.

"Don't matter," he said softly. "'Preciate the help." His eyes caught Chris's suddenly, and something in them made the gunman hesitate a long moment. Then he gently helped Vin sit up just enough that he could start unwrapping the bandages after carefully lifting away the sling. The husky, tight exhale he heard Vin make as he was moved made Chris grimace in sympathy; he cast about for something to say that would take his friend's mind off his discomfort.

"Sorry you missed that Green Corn Festival. I guess it's over by now?"

"Yeah, prob'ly is. It's only four days." Vin gasped slightly as Chris pulled at the bandages, and then went on. "You know, I don't even know how long ago that was, come to think of it." He turned squinted eyes to Chris as he held himself tightly against the pull being applied to his shoulder from the other man's unwinding of the dressing. "How long _has_ it been?"

"Since you left town? Ten days." Chris's eyes were fixed on his task, so he didn't see the way Vin paled at his words. But he felt a shudder race through his friend's body and looked up sharply at the tracker's face. "What's wrong?" he asked. His hands stopped moving, the bandages partially undone: one end rolled up in one hand, the other hand against Vin's back and partially supporting him.

"Nothin'."

"I know you better than that." Chris watched a series of emotions run over Vin's face in quick succession, the only one of which that he could identify was regret. He knit his browns. "Vin?"

"Just . . . thinkin' about that day. The day I left town." Vin lowered his gaze, and Chris began to slowly finish removing the dressing. He set the soiled bandages aside and helped Vin lie down again on the blankets spread across the litter.

"I'm waitin' for you to tell me what's eatin' you," Chris said. Vin looked up at him, a flash of sorrow in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse with emotion.

"There was a time, when we were ridin' up here, that I thought . . . I figured the last words 'tween us were gonna' be bad ones. The ones I said in the saloon. I regretted it, wished I could go back an' make it right."

Chris was silent, seeing again in his mind's eye the way Vin had looked at Chris's hand on his arm, turned on his heel and left.

"We'd all had a bad--" he started to say. Vin broke in.

"Ain't the point. Here we are headed into another fight, an' I ain't a man to make the same mistake twice if I can help it. I might get mad at ya' for actin' like a jackass sometimes, but that don't mean I think ya' _ARE_ one." He held out his good hand, and Chris shook it solemnly, then smiled with his whole face.

"It was my fault, too," he said. "After all, I'm the one who acted like a jackass." He paused, looked over at the travois where Buck lay sleeping, and amended his words. "At least, I'm _one_ of 'em." He was surprised at the depth of the pain that contorted Vin's face at his words, and almost immediately remembered the tracker's voice again in the saloon, that last few moments, saying he'd leave too, if Chris had treated him the way he had Buck. He looked at Vin, who had turned his face silently away. "Vin," he said softly, urgently, "what was it you meant when you said that about how I'd treated Buck?"

He thought for a long moment that the tracker wasn't going to answer him. But then Vin turned his face back to look at Chris, and his throat worked in a way that reminded Chris suddenly how sick the man still was, how weak. He shook his head, wishing he'd left it alone, but the words that came out of Vin's mouth right then were so filled with despair and grief that he stopped, open-mouthed, to listen.

"I wish t' God you'd asked me that then." Vin's voice was almost a whisper, rough and broken. "But you didn't. An' now . . . I reckon the one thing that would make it so it couldn't never be made right is if I told ya'. 'Cause it's the not knowin' that matters, Chris."

"To . . . Buck?" Chris's voice dropped on the last word, fear suddenly tugging at the edges of it as he realized how serious Vin thought things were. The tracker nodded, and squeezed his eyes shut as Nathan suddenly appeared to kneel and set the fresh compress down onto the bared wound.

"Damn, that's hot, Nathan," growled Vin, his eyes still shut.

"Glad t' hear it." Nathan grinned. "First time your fever's been low enough when I've done this that you've noticed." He glanced up at Chris to share in the pleasantry of his observation, but was frozen by the look on the other man's face. What had happened here? He followed Chris with his eyes as the man stood up in a daze and turned silently, to walk off under the trees. Nathan shook himself and looked back down at Vin.

The tracker's eyes were opened now, and he was regarding Nathan with a pain in them that didn't have anything to do with a bullet wound or blood poisoning. Nathan didn't say a word, but wrapped a quick turn of one long strip of cloth across the top of the thick pad over the compress to hold it in place, then lifted a cup of hot liquid to Vin's lips. The tracker drank it, then settled back with a weary sigh as Nathan pulled the blankets up again and made sure they were wrapped tightly enough to keep out drafts. He was about to stand up when Vin's soft voice caught him.

"Hell, Nathan. How'd it get so messed up?"

Nathan shook his head, looking at Chris who was standing across the clearing looking at the rising moon, nearly full. "I don' know. I wasn' even around when it all started." He sighed, then turned kind eyes on the tracker, whose voice had been noticably weaker. "But I know worryin' about it ain't gonna' make you get well enough to fight any faster." He knelt next to the travois and looked fully into the sick man's face. "One thing at a time, ok? Right now you gotta' sleep, get well."

Vin sighed. "I hope you're right." He closed weary eyes and shifted around slightly on the litter to try to get more comfortable. Nathan watched him a moment, silently counting out the slowing pulse in the man's throat as he relaxed from the medicines taking effect. Then he stood up and nodded to the others, who were waiting at a little distance to be given the word to start out again. They all mounted up at his sign, and rode out into the falling night in single file and in silence.

Part 138

Mary pushed loose strands of hair away from her face. She crossed her arms and stood at the front window of the newspaper office and looked at the street outside. The town was quiet. The trail crews had moved on days--it seemed like months--ago. The residents themselves were staying inside these last few nights as if they could escape what was happening all around them. And so much _had_ happened. Yesterday, the stagecoach had arrived with tantalizing news of aborted raids and warnings delivered by Ezra and JD and Chris. Chris of all people! How had they found him? What had been happening? And then, today, that infuriating telegram! All it had brought were more questions. Who was wounded? How badly? Vin she knew and Buck she suspected, but the others? But they were safe. He had said they were safe. That had been all he'd said really. And six days. That was too long. There were still problems here...

Mary heard a movement behind her and turned to see Nettie coming toward her. The older woman laid a hand on Mary's arm and together they stood at the window and looked out. "I reckon they'll be back," Nettie said.

Mary sighed. "Yes," she said. "But what if they're too late?"

Nettie didn't reply and Mary imagined she was thinking about Casey and the ranch and when it would be safe to go back home. For any of us, she thought. Why were so many things happening at once? Michaels and the mine and the Indian troubles on top of everything. Maybe tomorrow things would be clearer. Maybe tomorrow Mary would know what to do.

+ + + + + + +

Buck sipped hot, black coffee and stared into the fire. They'd been travelling since three o'clock in the afternoon and it was now almost midnight. The sky was clear and the moon was bright and the temperature was still dropping. Buck pulled the coat he was wearing, one they'd bought at the company store at the mine before heading out, a little closer and hunched his neck into the collar. He'd slept most of the way so far, though he hadn't expected to and he was feeling less tired and drained and worn down than he had in a long time. He was sitting with his back against a boulder, his bad leg stretched out in front of him watching the other men. Vin was still laid out flat, maybe even sleeping, though Buck could see a small frown on his forehead as if he was even worried in his dreams. 'We'll get there,' Buck wanted to tell him. 'We have to.'

JD was gathering firewood, jumping up every few minutes and going out into the darkness and coming back with an armful of kindling. Buck figured he was nervous about the fight they faced tomorrow and he was going to call him over and talk to him about it when he stopped. 'Kid'll have to get along on his own when this is over,' he thought. When I leave. And once he'd thought it, the idea hung there, like a banner in empty space. When I leave. It wasn't that the thought surprised him. It'd always been there. He'd already left a week and a half ago. He'd meant to leave when he did it and though they'd been through a lot in that time and though he'd protect each and every one of these men to the limits of his ability, one thing hadn't changed, had gotten worse in fact, had gone to the point where Buck wasn't even angry about it anymore. He was simply and finally finished. He could look at these men and think, 'they'll be all right when this is over.' And close his eyes and picture the kind of place he'd be moving along to. And somewhere behind everything, the men and the thoughts and the night, beyond all that, was the door he had already closed behind him.

+ + + + + + +

Casey lay on her stomach on the bed in Mary's spare room and stared at the wall in front of her. She felt like crying, but she'd been crying too much lately. And she didn't even like crying! She missed JD, though she wouldn't likely admit it to him. And she missed the others too. There was something about each one of them that she'd come to value. Even Chris who, Casey had to admit, could be kind of scary at times. But there was something almost charming about him on those rare occasions when he smiled. And he sure did look after the town.

But maybe they would never come back. She'd seen the telegram that Mary'd gotten. It hadn't said much, but they were all still alive and that was one thing. But then, too, there'd been that...that _woman_ on the stage. Casey's head jerked up as she thought about it. Who did that girl think she was, anyway? Swooning over JD like that? Why, JD would never like a girl like her. But maybe he would. Maybe he'd even _prefer_ a girl like her. Maybe he'd decide to go someplace where there were whole _slews_ of girls like that one. Things would never be the same. That was what Casey was worried about. More than Indians. More than trail crews. More than the ranch. That things had gone so far and been pushed so hard that no thing and no person could ever get them back in place again.

She laid her head down on her arm and closed her eyes and tried very very hard to picture things exactly the way she wanted them to be.

+ + + + + + +

"JD."

JD turned and for a moment he didn't think Vin had said anything. His eyes were still closed and he was still lying in pretty much the same position. "Vin?" he asked quietly.

"Settle down, JD. You're gonna need all that energy for tomorrow."

"What'dya think it'll be like tomorrow, Vin? How many men do you think Michaels has? Do you think we'll get there in time?"

A smile flickered across Vin's lips. He opened his eyes. He looked tired, but even JD could see that the fever that had burned there for so long was mostly gone for the moment. "Settle down, JD," Vin repeated. "You gotta work on picturin' what's gonna happen."

"What?"

"You been to the reservation, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, close your eyes and sit real still and picture tomorrow the way you think it'll go. Think on what you'll do and what they'll do and how you're gonna respond to what they do. If you can do that, it might help."

"Ain't you nervous?" JD asked.

"Hell, JD," Vin said. "I figure I'm lucky just to be here. I haven't had time to think too much on what's going to happen tomorrow."

"Well, I didn't think I'd say this," JD told Vin quietly, "but I can't wait until it's finished and we're through with Michaels' men and we can head on back to town and everything can just go back to like it was."

Vin turned his head and looked where JD was looking. Buck was sitting there drinking coffee, still close to the fire, but separated from the rest of them by three or four feet. Separated from us by more than that, Vin thought. And he knew again that what he'd said to Chris that afternoon was right. It was too late for anything to go back the way it was. And too late now to tell JD. "Yeah," Vin said out loud. "Yeah, that'd be real nice."

+ + + + + + +

Kojay stood and stepped outside his tent. The night sky was clear, the stars shining like brilliant gemstones against the darkness. He could see his son, Chanu, walking through the village. As he watched, Chanu stopped to talk to one of the other warriors. Kojay couldn't hear their words, but he saw Chanu reach out and touch the rack where the other man's lance and shield rested, ready for use. Chanu said something and nodded once and then the other man nodded too and they clasped hands in a way that spoke beyond words and so clearly that Kojay could understand it even from where he stood. Whatever came, these men would be ready.

Kojay walked through the village. He could feel the presence of his people as he walked, a calm tension that united them all, like the air before a violent thunder storm. A warrior sat in front of his tent checking his weapons one more time. He looked up as Kojay approached him and a look passed between the two men. Nothing said, everything noticed, for this was a man who never sat before his tent, always off to gamble with other young men or to woo one of the village women with his sweet talking ways.

At the edge of the village, Kojay paused and looked up at the north ridge. He was proud of his people and the quiet way they had prepared for what was to come. And something _was_ coming. He could feel it, clear down in the deepest part of himself. Something was wrong in the land. He spotted movement halfway up the ridge and as he watched a coyote emerged from the shadows. For a moment it stood, silhouetted in the moonlight, its ears up and its head held in such a way that Kojay knew it was watching and waiting for something. Then the coyote turned and looked directly at Kojay, its eyes bright with reflected moonlight. Kojay was aware of all the quiet night sounds around him, the rustle of desert mice hunting in the darkness, the shift of sand in the wind. The coyote slipped away into the shadows and Kojay was about to turn back to the village when he saw it, little more than a shadow itself now, at the crest of the ridge. And as he looked a second coyote emerged to stand with the first. And though he couldn't see their eyes he could tell by the way they held their heads that they were standing there quietly watching the village.

+ + + + + + +

Josiah looked up as Nathan lowered himself wearily to the ground next to him. "We'd best get moving again soon," Nathan said. Ezra was sitting opposite them absently shuffling cards.

"How are they doing?" Josiah asked, indicating Buck and Vin.

"Vin's fever is still down. Buck got a lot of sleep earlier so he's doin' better than I thought he would. Both of them should be back with Miz Ruby, though." Nathan shrugged, "I expect that wasn't going to happen."

"They have to see it through to the end," Josiah said.

"I can tell you gentleman," Ezra said to the sound of cards snapping and rustling, "I will be extremely happy when this entire sorry mess is finished. I intend," he said, "to take a bath that will last an entire week, eat the finest meal the hotel has to offer, and do nothing but sleep for the next one hundred years."

The other two men looked at him. Ezra noticed the silence and looked up. "What?"

"Ain't you even a little bit worried about tomorrow?" Nathan asked him. "About whether we get there on time? 'Bout whether we can stop these men?"

Ezra looked at him levelly. "I am a gambler, Mr. Jackson. And as such, I spend my time calculating the odds of each and every situation. So that, having evaluated said odds, I can respond properly and appropriately to events as they unfold."

Nathan looked at him skeptically. "Yeah? What do you reckon tomorrow's odds are?" he asked.

Ezra grinned, his gold tooth flashing. "Slightly better than those of a mass of frozen condensed moisture in the trackless underworld," he said.

Josiah gave a sharp bark of laughter and clapped Nathan on the shoulder. "A snowball's chance in hell," he said. "I like them odds, Ezra. Yes sir, I truly do."

+ + + + + + +

Hammersmith removed his hat and rubbed his head wearily. He wished this whole thing was over, that he had his money from Michaels and he could head out to San Francisco or New Orleans or someplace more hospitable and congenial than this. Bland and Louis Sharpes, the man who had brought the men from the mine, had been sniping at each other for the last two days. Sharpes was bigger and tougher and meaner in every way than Bland, but Bland just didn't seem able to leave it alone. Now, they were discussing the raid on the reservation.

"Early morning," Sharpes was saying. "We gotta hit 'em before they know we're out here. Them Indians can fight. I've gone up against 'em before. You gotta take 'em all. Every man, woman and child," he said with some satisfaction. "And we gotta go at dawn."

"I don't see," Bland said peevishly, "Why we can't try something more subtle. A war party? What about poison? We could simply 'remove' them."

"Yeah," Sharpes laughed crudely. "I hear that worked real well in town."

Bland looked at him darkly. "I once poisoned an entire family at a dinner party without harming a single other guest."

"Yeah," Sharpes said. "Right."

Bland was about to retort when Hammersmith said, "So, you think we can get the drop on them if we attack early?"

"Sure, no problem." Sharpes assured him. "I told you, I done this before."

"All right," Hammersmith nodded, drawing himself up straight. "It'll mean we have to leave here before the sun is up to cover the distance to the reservation in time."

"Yeah, yeah," Sharpes said. "My men will be ready." He looked at Bland speculatively as if hoping he'd have to chance to kick him awake again.

"Can't do it."

The quiet voice came from behind Hammersmith and he knew without looking that it was Thompson. He could even picture him, leaning laconically against the rocks with his arms crossed, watching everything as if he found all of them just slightly amusing. "What in hell's your problem?" Hammersmith asked without even turning around.

"You want me to shoot their chief, ain't that right?"

"That's your assignment, yes." Hammersmith could feel a headache starting down at the base of the skull.

"Well, I checked things out earlier today and the high ground is to the west. If I'm going to take out the chief, I need to be on the high ground." He spoke as if addressing dullards too stupid to understand what he was saying. "If I'm on high ground, facing east while the sun is coming up...well, I hope that you can imagine the problem."

"Shoot, Thompson," Sharpes said. "You sayin' you can't make the shot?"

"I'm saying," Thompson replied coolly, "That I can't shoot what I can't see."

"Well, if I--" Sharpes began.

"Enough!" Hammersmith snapped. "We will wait and attack them after noon." He looked back at Thompson. "Will that suit you?"

Thompson gave him a sardonic half-smile. "That will suit me fine," he said.

"Good," said Hammersmith, "then I suggest we all get some sleep."

+ + + + + + +

Chris Larabee sat on a rock above the spot they'd chosen for their rest stop, completely hidden in the shadows cast by the larger rocks above him. He watched the men below him, watched the flickering dance of the campfire flames as they cast each of the men alternately from light into darkness. JD was sitting near Vin. Ezra, Josiah, and Nathan were to one side of them. And on the other side of the fire with his back to Chris, sat Buck. He was separated from the others in a way that didn't seem right to Chris though he couldn't have put his finger on the reason. He was maybe three feet from Ezra, a little closer to Vin and JD, but there were walls there, almost as if Chris could see them.

The whole thing was closing in on him. He'd felt it ever since his conversation with Vin earlier. 'It's the not knowing that matters...if you'd done me the way you did him.' Words he didn't understand. Things he couldn't figure out. He'd needed to get away and he'd headed up into the rocks as soon as they'd stopped, muttering something about watching the trail. What couldn't he see? What was he missing? He looked down at Buck, silently drinking his coffee. It ought to count for something, he thought, that he was trying. It ought to make a difference that he thought about these kinds of things. That he didn't just go right on as if it didn't matter.

He knew that he'd been wrong about Buck and Sullivan and the cellar. And Belle...Belle had not been who they'd thought she was. But what had _he_ done? That's what Vin had said. I did what I had to do, he thought. I did what had to be done. But maybe that was it. Sometimes people didn't understand the necessity of things. 'I can apologize to him for that,' Chris thought. 'I can say I'm sorry for doing what I had to do.' He looked away from the men below him up to the clear night sky. There were hundreds of stars up there, hard to pick one from so many, hard to tell them apart some times. He would do the hard thing and tell Buck he was sorry. But it bothered him that he didn't know for sure that it would change things.

Part 139

"Something is wrong." Kojay was getting to his feet from the small rug he'd been sitting on outside his lodge, his face looking up and to the east. Chanu rose with him, his heart leaping as he felt the sense of tension emanating from his father. The two men stood silent for a long moment, waiting. Then they saw the flash of a runner coming down the low hill east of the village, racing like a deer, puffs of dust rising from behind his heels and the wind blowing his hair out behind him. Chanu looked immediately to his right, to the next lodge some distance away; the men there had gotten to their feet when they'd seen Kojay's actions, and now their faces were dark because they too had seen the runner. Chanu looked back as the young man arrived and began to speak.

"White men," he said simply, "many weapons. Horseback. No women or wagons with them. The signal says they are just passing the two-finger rock near the sandhills."

"Hmmm." Kojay's brow furrowed. "There is no road there. They approach us from a direction they think we will not be looking."

"To surprise us," said Chanu softly. Kojay looked at his son, and his eyes lightened.

"To _think_ to surprise us," he corrected. The old man smiled slightly as Chanu nodded. He looked around at the people who had begun to gather when they'd seen the runner. "That which we were warned of in the dream has arrived. Let it therefore be done." He turned and bent to go into his lodge to prepare.

Chanu lifted his lance from where it leaned against his shield before the door, and raised it above his head. He shook it once, holding its shaft at midpoint in a tight fist. He heard the other warriors within view make their sound of approval: a hard, tight sound, the sound of a man knowing he goes to face death and will take others with him on the way. Then he, too, went into the lodge.

Movement rippled outward from the lodge as quickly as a summer storm, and the village fell silent as the people sought the things they had prepared for this moment. Women bundled their little ones snugly into back carriers, tucking in extra clothing and food and water alongside them. Children took up the little packets they had been given care of, checked to make sure no animals had gotten into the parched corn or dried beef there, or the little strips of dried squash and pumpkin.

The women and girls and old ones gathered up all the things the people would need for a long journey, things that had been set aside and prepared already: pemmican and jerked beef, dried squash and parched corn in thick pouches, dried peppers in long strings tied together to the backs of pouches; little jars for water and cooking, fire stones, small baskets, sacred things for protection and help on the journey, herbs and medicines, precious things that could not be left behind. The things were checked a final time, tallied, added to, slid into the parfleches, put onto backs and over shoulders.

The older boys grabbed their little hunting bows and arrows, their young faces dark and grim. They were not old enough to be warriors, being between six and fourteen years old, but they had met already. They had formed their own secret society, one that was pledged to protect their sisters and mothers even at the cost of their own lives. The men's Fox Society that guarded the fleeing people would have a back-up behind them, should they be brought to their deaths before the women and children were safe. Yes, the boys had said solemnly to one another, another time boys like us could count on living for another day and so preserving the people by fleeing with the others. But not this time. We may have only this one chance for any of the people to live at all. They had sworn it sacredly, and sprinkled tobacco and done all the things they knew to do, to honor it as best they could. Now they glanced secretly at one another as they checked their arrows' fletchings one last time and slung their quivers over their thin chests. Each wondered if the others could read the fear in his belly on his face, and scowled to appear fierce instead.

The warriors of the men's societies were ready. They had been ready since the dream honoring. They dressed their hair and stripped down to war clouts, painted their faces with the signs of Who They Were, and took up their weapons. They did not need to check them this time; everything was ready, and they knew it. Their ponies were near their lodges, and the three Warrior Societies who would ride against the enemy were ready to move out even as the other people were nearly ready to leave the village themselves, everyone moving so quietly and with such speed. The Fox Society warriors who remained behind to protect the village as it fled grasped the hands of their brothers in the other societies, the warriors of whom were leaving now. The men exchanged quick and intense nods. Then those whose job was to intercept the attackers before they could get within range of the people leaped astride their war ponies, their faces grim with what was being done, their feathers rising like anger from their hair -- and paused for the space of a single heartbeat as their eyes met those of their wives. Women froze mid-bend, a child half to a hip, a hand still in a parfleche, and looked back. The gaze was long and steady and silent. Man to woman. Woman to man.

Then the warriors whirled their ponies and dust flew up from their hooves, and there was a sound of thunder as they broke into a gallop. The men's lances were in the air shaking up and down, and their great cry rose on the still afternoon and took the hearts of the people up to the sun with it. The women felt their throats fill and a trill rose to their lips. But they bit it back, and blinked, and turned again to the child and the parfleche and the task at hand.

"Hurry," said the Fox Society men left to protect them. "Hurry." They were not rude, they were low-voiced, going from one place to another, their eyes scanning the hills around the village constantly, their faces alert and wary. "Hurry."

"This way," said Kojay. He was standing on a low rise near the edge of the arroyo the people were to use as their get-away door. "Come along, hurry. Move quickly." He watched as the stream began, slowly at first and then more quickly as the people came together. The youngest man and the oldest man of the Fox Society led the way, taking the people along the route that had been chosen in advance. They could find another if this was blocked, but their hope was to lead the people to relatives in Mexico, maybe find a place to get food and comfort and things to live on until their men could catch up to them later, after leading any pursuers far afield. Then they could decide what to do.

South. Move south, Kojay said to all in line. Should we have to split up, or if we are broken up, go south. We will find you. Keep moving. Do not stop. South.

The people nodded, kept their eyes on the ground before them and were careful how they stepped so as not to raise dust. They had to move quickly, but dust would show the enemy where they were. The little ones had been practicing this, the elders having shown them how it was done in the old days, and now they looked around them at the people and how they moved so many at once and with no noise or dust or any other sign of it, and they felt proud. Who would have known that such a thing was possible? How wonderful to be of The People and be able to do such a thing! Yes, we must get to our relatives. We must survive and not die, they thought. And I must not let everyone else down, I must not be the one who raises dust and who draws the white men down upon us. They looked back at the ground and concentrated even harder on doing it right.

Kojay watched as the other members of the Fox Society ranged themselves alongside the long thread of traveling people, yet distant enough from them to offer real protection against an attack. His own son and several others brought up the rear that was still streaming from the village. The men's eyes watched the east, the direction from which attackers might suddenly appear if they somehow defeated the men sent to meet them. The only sound was the occasional low voice of a warrior urging someone to hurry, or helping to rearrange a pack so that it would travel better. Not a child whimpered, not a dog yapped.

Then, in the silence, there was the sudden staccato sound of gunfire to the east.

Part 140

"Chris? CHRIS!!"

The men drew rein as Vin suddenly sat up and threw back the remaining blanket still over his legs. He was holding to one side of the travois frame with his left hand, his eyes scanning the ground in a way that made it clear he was about to roll off it on purpose.

"Hold up, Josiah!" Nathan was dismounting even as he called to the preacher who was leading Vin's gelding, and now he dashed the short distance between the tracker and himself. "What d'you think you're doin'!?"

Vin looked up at Nathan with his face all business. Now that the travois had stopped moving, he was putting his feet to the ground on one side of it and getting ready to stand. "Where's Chris?"

"Right here." The gunman's smooth voice slid into the rising tension between Vin and Nathan, so that it subsided again and left only Vin's determination palpable in the air around them. "What's wrong, Vin?"

"Thompson'll be high," replied the tracker, matter-of-fact. "That means he's gotta' be on the west side a' the village. That's _here_." He paused as Chris nodded to himself and looked around the final rugged slope they'd been descending.

"You figure if you break off on your own here, you'll be able to get the drop on Thompson, then?"

"Yeah." Vin's voice was stronger than Chris had heard it since he'd first seen the man on the floor of Michaels' dark cellar. He looked at Nathan, his eyes flashing briefly as they caught and reflected the white noonday sun. The healer was silent, only nodding once shortly as his face closed and he rolled his hands into loose fists. Neither Buck nor Vin had any business even being out here right now, and certainly not getting into fights or on horses. But there was a job to be done and no one else around to do it. That was just how it was. He licked his lips and then his eyes met Vin's.

"Lemme help you up," he said.

The next few moments were ones of quiet assistance: Vin's gelding being unhooked from the travois, a shirt being brought out to protect him from the sun, the sling removed and put back on and adjusted so he could get it off when he had to, ammunition loaded and stowed in easy reach of a left hand. Somewhere in the middle of it all, Buck was there too, as everyone had known he would be, and JD was undoing the grey and they were checking cinches and removing lead ropes in a stillness broken only by the sounds of sand and gravel beneath boots and the horses' occasional snorts and stamps. Then Vin was up and half a breath later so was Buck, and then the others were in their saddles, too. Chris and Buck both looked hard at Vin, and he looked back at them and wondered if they realized how close together they had unconsciously drawn their horses at just this moment. He sighed.

"Hasta luego," he said softly.

"Go with God," answered Josiah.

No one else said anything. Vin pulled his black's head around, touched his heels to the animal's flanks, and rode off across the side of the slope without a backward glance, to disappear almost immediately behind a low bluff. Josiah shivered as a pall fell over the group, and looked up to see that a small cloud had covered the sun. Chris shook himself just then, as if he felt it, too, and then he pulled his own black around so that it faced downslope, and set out again.

+ + + + + + +

Vin felt stronger than he had since he could remember, and that was good. Kojay needed him right now. All those people did. He rode slowly, letting the gelding choose his own way over the uneven ground as he scanned the area for the place he would choose if he were Thompson, looking to draw a bead on someone in the village far below and at a good distance out onto the flatter land. He remembered all too well the afternoon he'd trailed Thompson even as Thompson had trailed him; they thought alike. Vin shook his head slightly at that thought: no, not quite, he amended. They tracked and hunted the same way, but they didn't think alike at all. More than one man in a shadowy alley had tried to buy Vin's sharpshooting skills as an assassin, and he'd always left them gasping to get air back in their lungs after he'd slammed them as hard as he could against the nearest wall.

Twenty long minutes later, Vin drew rein to study a place that caught his eye as real likely. A low shelf below him nearly a quarter of a mile away was knotted along the top with boulder clusters of uneven sizes and shapes. Another quarter of a mile below that was the village. The wind was blowing straight downslope from that point, and the sun wasn't in the line of sight. A feeling of deep certainty spread out from Vin's gut into the rest of him. That had to be it.

He quietly slid his scope from the bag JD had tied to his saddle horn so it would be in easy reach, and shook it opened. The gelding stood still as Vin started to carefully search the places along the shelf of boulders where Thompson would be most likely to choose his vantage point. He cursed under his breath when he realized he couldn't hold the scope steady, though, and braced his elbow against his own chest to try to still the trembling of his hand, magnified by the lens into a stomach-churning kaleidoscope of moving images flashing through the field of view too fast to see anything clearly. The bracing helped, and as he got the view to settle down and then brought it into focus, he held his breath and steadied it even more. He began to be able to make out the crevices in the rock faces, the saltbrush and catclaw dotting the sandy bases, and the details even in the narrow dark shadows rimming the rocks.

Then he froze, his blood running ice cold in his veins. The circle of brightness at the end of his scope had found a man, walking slowly but with great confidence along the edge of the escarpment. He was moving parallel to the path Vin had been riding, but over a quarter of a mile away downslope. The back of his head was to Vin as he was looking towards the village, but the tracker knew exactly who he was. He didn't need to see the red beard to recognize the build and carriage of the man who'd come into the circle of rocks with the one in buckskin: Thompson. He put the name to the face and to the trail he'd followed, and his own features hardened.

He watched Thompson long enough to see the man slow, then stop and finally kneel in a cleft that provided him a clear view of the village even as it protected him from being seen from below; he set down a long wooden box and began to open it. Vin immediately pressed his scope against the pommel of his saddle to push it closed, and then tucked it into the sling to carry it. He flipped up the top of the ammunition bag someone had hung off one of the front latigoes on the saddle and slid out extra rifle shells, then stood in his stirrups so he could slide them into his left pants pocket. He dismounted and tied off the black's reins loosely on the branch of an ironwood tree.

"Don't go nowhere, boy," he said softly, his eyes still on the spot downslope where he knew Thompson was setting up. "I'm gonna' need you to be right where I can find you in a little while." Then he walked around to the off side, pulled his long rifle from the scabbard there, and started down the slope to get within range. He knew he didn't have much time left, although he figured it would take the other man a few minutes to set up his fancy rig. Without a target scope, Vin had to be close enough to eyeball his shot, and that meant he needed to get lower. And he had to do it without Thompson realizing he had company.

A hundred feet of rough walking later, Vin knew he had to hurry for more reasons than one. Already the strength he'd felt when he'd first sat up on the travois was draining out like someone had poked a hole in a flour sack, and it was hard to stand upright against the dragging ache in his shoulder. He adjusted his grip on the rifle, which was getting heavier by the moment, and locked his jaws together, and leaned into himself somehow, inside, and went on. He could see a place now, below and a bit to one side, that would work. It should be within range, just barely, and provide him a support to brace the rifle on to steady it. Vin concentrated on getting there, feeling the gravel of the slope turn beneath a boot now and then, catching himself before he slipped and fell and so announced his presence to Thompson far below with a shower of rattling rocks. By the time he got to the place he'd chosen, he was hot and panting, his shirt already sweat-soaked. But he'd made it, by God, and if only he wasn't too late. . .

Vin laid the rifle down on top of the rock and slid the scope from his sling, checking on Thompson's position now. He swore softly when he saw that the man had finished assembling his high-power rifle and scope and was sliding it over the top of the stone to site in on his target. Vin threw down his scope without shutting it, and raised his own rifle, pulling his right arm from the sling in a rapid movement at the same time. He had maybe 30 seconds, he thought. Maybe less. He wiped a trail of sweat out of one eye as he squinted against the pain of using his right arm again. Just one shot, he was thinking, is all I need right now. Just one. He repeated it to himself, saying it like a prayer: Just one.

Everything stilled as Vin sited down the gunmetal, the end site coming up like a narrow thumb as he raised the end of the barrel. He shifted his position, tightening up, pulling the stock against his shoulder. The rifle he'd shot in the cabin hadn't been the .44-.40, and this one was going to kick the hell out of him. He moved his fingers around to tighten his grip on it so it wouldn't fly out of his hands. Chances were that if he needed a second shot, it would cost Kojay his life, but you never knew. Vin found Thompson, a distant and tiny figure at the end of the barrel, and then began to line everything up. He could see Thompson doing the same thing.

Breeze blowin' across my line of fire, he thought, pull upwind a bit. Steady the damn barrel, Tanner! The end site nested in the saddle of the front site notch, he held his breath, braced his arms against his sides and chest, gently squeezing the trigger now . . . Dear God, don't let me miss. An' don't let that bastard shoot first.

Then everything happened at once: the searing, driving pain of the rifle stock slamming into his bad shoulder with a flash like a bolt of lightning; the explosive simultaneous thunder of his Sharpes; the more distant crack of Thompson's heavy long-rifle -- but whether before or after the roar of his own Sharpes he couldn't tell. He was on his back on the ground, having held on to his rifle but been knocked flat by the kick, his teeth clenched as he tried to stay conscious, struggling to sit up and see what the hell had happened. Dark spots danced in and out of his field of vision, between him and the sky overhead as he fought the pain and the weakness with pure determination. Damn! DAMN! He pulled himself to one side, finally, then was able to get to his knees from there, got himself turned back around, and finally finally got up high enough to see over the rock.

The man below was spread-eagled on the rock next to him, his rifle thrown several feet away. He was on his back, and if he wasn't dead he sure wasn't going to be a danger to anyone else soon either. Vin looked down towards the village, his eyes narrowed to grim slits, every muscle shaking from the effort of holding himself together. He could see dust rising in long streamers, like a wall of smoke from a prairie fire, off to the east of the village, and the distant sound of gunfire wafted upslope against the breeze. Vin looked back down at Thompson and shook his head. He'd have to come back and check the man later, after he'd taken care of the business down below. If he could get down below. He looked upslope to where he'd left his horse, and swallowed. The sun was starting to feel pretty damned hot, and it looked a lot farther going back up than it had seemed coming down.

Well, standing here wasn't going to bring the gelding any closer. Vin looked once more down towards the village, saw new streamers of dust rising towards its north side, and began to hurry as fast as he could, back up the slope. He shifted the rifle to his left hand, slipping and stumbling on the slope several times as he worked his way up. The impacts sent little rocks rolling downslope behind Vin, the stones dislodging others and yet others, creating tiny avalanches of gravel that bounced and slid and clattered down the ridge, to slow down and halt at the dam of boulders next to the the shattered telescopic site of Thompson's dropped rifle.

Part 141

Mary flipped the roan's reins several times to speed the animal's gait a little, and frowned slightly. It wasn't much farther to Kojay's village, but she was going to have to hurry things along in order to meet with him and still get back to town before dark. As it was, Yosemite hadn't been at all happy when she'd asked him to hitch up her rig, and she knew all it would take was her coming back late for word to get out that she had gone to the reservation and not returned. 'That's all we need,' she thought to herself, 'is _more_ trouble.' She sighed. She was certain if Chris knew anything about the growing Indian troubles he'd do whatever he had to do to be there, just like he had when he'd discovered the plot against the stage coach. The fact that he wasn't there, hadn't even addressed the escalating crisis in his telegram, set up a cold certainty in Mary's heart that he didn't know about it at all.

Which meant she was on her own.

Mary didn't know the old chief Kojay very well at all, having seen him only briefly back when they'd had all that trouble with the Moseleys. She knew Chanu somewhat better, but -- and Mary frowned again and shifted uncomfortably in the buggy seat -- she'd hardly known him under what could be considered pleasant circumstances. He'd been little more than a shadowy figure brought into town as a prisoner and then disappearing when he escaped. Yet Vin trusted both men implicitly, as did Josiah, and both of them were good judges of character and down to earth men not easily misled by others. Kojay had to be a reasonable man if they were right about him, maybe even wise. And if he was, his people simply couldn't be responsible for the depredations of which they were being accused. Maybe, Mary thought, if she could just talk to the old chief, maybe together they could figure out some way to do something -- anything -- to stop what was happening before it went too far. It was worth the risk now, regardless of what it made people think of her. And anyway, what else could she do?

After all, Chris and the others weren't going to be back for five more days, and it was clearer almost by the hour that the townspeople were never going to wait that long to deal with the trouble that had been escalating daily. And once the army arrived from Yuma circumstances would take on a life of their own, almost certainly one with tragic consequences for Indians and whites alike. Already, now, she couldn't stop the progression of tensions any more, or even slow it down. And the two deputies couldn't be expected to stem the flood tide of anger and fear and mob mentality more than another day at best. The woman drew a shuddering breath, thinking suddenly of her own son left in Gloria Potter's care, of the things that could happen, that had happened in other towns before when there had been Indian wars, and she shook the reins again and more urgently. The roan broke into a long-legged trot and the carriage rolled faster.

"HO!"

Mary drew the reins up sharply, startled by the loudness and force of the sudden call right in front of her. A slender warrior materialized from a copse of palo verde and cactus, his face dark with an intensity that sent chills coursing down her spine. What was happening here? Who was-- Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of distant gunfire off to the east, drifting to her on the wind, and Mary stood up in the carriage with one hand to her breast as she looked that direction, straining to see.

"Come!" The warrior practically barked the word at her, and Mary turned to face him with fear leaping to nip between her shoulder blades, her breath suddenly caught in her chest. He shook his head at her shortly, and took one step closer. "Come _NOW_!" he said. He gestured towards the village she knew was behind him, very near by, and the rattle of the gunfire to the east intensified as he did so.

Mary sat down with a thump on the buggy seat, and raised the reins in shaking hands as she decided to turn the roan and make a run for it. All she could see, suddenly, was the war paint on the man's face, the grimness in his dark eyes, the bare gleam of his skin as he-- His hands were on the reins, then, over hers, and she gasped and fell back away from them as the warrior leaped lightly into the carriage next to her and whipped the horse into a gallop that rocked the buggy dangerously side to side as it careened the short remaining distance to the village. Mary grabbed at the side of it with one hand, her heart racing as precariously as the carriage, feeling as wildly terrified as the roan that raced through the desert to clatter to a halt in the apparently abandoned village. No - not abandoned. For there was Kojay, moving towards her with one hand outstretched in greeting, his face confused and worried.

"Kojay!" Mary half-leaped, half-fell from the offside of the buggy, over the wheel, without benefit of the step built into the other side. The warrior who'd brought her leaped lightly to the ground from the other side and vanished even as Mary found herself falling into the old chief's hands, which clutched solidly at her elbows and held her upright against a sudden spinning sensation that made her gasp. "Kojay," she repeated, drawing herself together and then pulling her hands from his, "what--"

"Why have you come here?" The man's voice was nearly strident in its urgency, and he glanced quickly to the east as the sounds of gunfire grew suddenly louder.

"I came to . . ." Mary hesitated, her eyes widening in understanding. "Oh God!" she cried then in a low voice, "I'm too late. Someone is attacking you already, aren't they? Right now. That's what that gunfire is."

"Yes." Kojay pulled on one of her hands and began to walk very quickly towards one end of the village. Mary found herself rushing along on the tips of her toes to keep up as he continued. "You must come with my people," he was saying. "You must--"

"But . . . But, I'm not--"

"They will not care who you are," said the old man, shortly. He drew Mary closer to him as he came to a halt and looked towards another man, a young warrior astride a sturdy pony decked for battle. "Chanu," he said simply.

Mary eyed the fierce man astride the pony and tried to see the young man she knew in the face of anger and determination that looked back at her, and then took another step back as fear seized her again. No! It was all wrong! She needed to go back to town quickly, right now, before--

". . . the arroyo." Kojay had been speaking, she realized, and he had grasped her hand even more tightly. "With the others," he repeated urgently. "The Fox Society warriors will protect you. My son will show you the way. Go. Quickly."

Mary stood at the edge of the village as the moment crystallized around her, and put her free hand to the side of her head as though to still her whirling thoughts. A moment ago it had all been a vague possibility, something dreadful that might happen if she didn't find a way to stop it, and now . . . She looked around her, taking a deep and shuddering breath, and realized that she was standing near a trailing stream of women and children and old people, all of them moving with utter silence and complete concentration into an arroyo that led into a labyrinth of canyons where they might hide from the attackers. Mary felt her legs tremble when she realized that Kojay had been suggesting that she join the stream of refugees, and clutched at the man's hands as her knees threatened to buckle. He caught her once more, and held her firmly until she stopped trembling and shook herself all over, then looked at him with cleared eyes that reflected the resolve she had seen in every face around her. She nodded to him, wordlessly, and Kojay released her. He lifted his head and spoke to a woman passing close by.

The woman reached out a hand to Mary, who tentatively reached back to clasp it and be clasped in return by strong and sure fingers. Then she was moving with the fleeing people, away from the sounds of gunfire, down into the sandy arroyo, swept along on a current of moving people and dogs and bundles. Mary raised her eyes to the bluffs at either side, to see that warriors on horseback were pacing back and forth with searching eyes that gleamed darkly from beneath hair dressed for war. Even in the middle of her fear, Mary realized she had flipped opened a mental notepad and was describing what she saw, to write about it later: flecks of red paint daubed on a black and white pinto, the feather that hung down from the rope about its lower jaw that served as a bit; the wind picking up long strands of black hair on a child fleeing at her mother's side, lifting it as with a caress even as the child turned frightened eyes to look behind her at the sounds of ever-nearing battle; a low voice whispering a single word, unfurling from a warrior on the top of the arroyo bank above them as he glanced down and then back again to the east. You didn't have to speak the language to know what he was saying: hurry . . . hurry.

Mary stumbled in the loose sand, the heels of her high-button shoes sinking in it in a way that made it hard to walk. She regained her balance only to fall completely to her knees a few steps farther on, and she felt the pins in her hair jar loose as she hit the sand with a heavy thump. The woman next to her bent down, helping Mary back to her feet, people parting to stream past them on either side. Mary clambered up again, rubbing one knee, then brushed back a thick strand of hair that had snaked loose from her bun to hang in front of her face like a curtain. There was sand on the side of her hand, she realized, and she dusted it off against her skirt and then lifted the fabric so she could move more freely this time, and started off again. Several young boys with boy-sized quivers of arrows over their thin chests drew closer as she staggered on, her chest starting to burn from the exertion and the tightness of her corset, and she was certain that one of them took up a position just immediately behind her like a little shadow, and did not leave.

Then she heard two rifle shots almost simultaneously, from the slope to their west, and almost immediately after that a new burst of gunfire behind them and much closer than any yet. Most of the warriors riding the rim of the arroyo to either side of the fleeing people screamed in fury and their ponies leaped in the air and came down in flat-out runs, headed for the newer battle. The remaining warriors swept down closer to the people, and their voices took on a new urgency. The people began to run, and Mary struggled to run with them. She fell again, and this time more than one set of hands raised her up and set her back on her feet and urged her onward. She found that hands were beneath her arms now, and that somehow she was being borne along in the flood tide of running people. She couldn't help but crane her head back once, to look over her shoulder, trying to see what was behind them.

What she saw when she did -- a rising pall of dust around a knot of furiously fighting men, dark and angry and clearly in a death-struggle -- made her turn again to the front and press her lips together. All right, she thought. I might die or I might even pass out from this damned corset. But I'm not going to get anyone else killed with me.

And all the rest of the world of Mary Travis dropped away from her in that instant. Reality became an arroyo and sand and desperation, and young boys helping her run in ridiculous shoes she knew she would never want to wear again. She ran and ran until there was so much sweat in her eyes that she couldn't have seen even if her hair hadn't fallen across her face in long damp ropes. She had ripped at the buttons at her throat, pulling the fabric apart in an effort to draw more air into her bursting lungs. She had fallen and stood and fallen again until her petticoats were weighted with sand that streamed from the gathers and folds with every step. Her shoes were somehow filled with sand, and there was sand under her fingernails and in her mouth, and her legs grew heavier and heavier as her lungs burned as hot as the press at the end of a heavy run.

Mary's last thought, before her mind shut down and she became a fleeing creature with no thought but that of survival, was to wonder if Billy would be all right, and whether or not he would grow up to be a good man without her.

Part 142

Eighteen warriors. Eighteen warriors leaned lower over their ponies' necks and rejoiced as the manes flamed back against their bare chests, and they whispered in their ponies' ears to go faster, faster. The ponies settled lower to the ground, their feet flashing out and back in sturdy rhythm, their necks stretching out flat to the ground. The sand and brush close at hand were blurs flying past, the thunder of the hooves and the roaring of the wind past the men's ears drowning out any other sounds. And then, cresting a low rise, there they were: the white men coming to attack their families.

The warriors screamed their joy: joy that their numbers were not too overwhelmed, for they faced perhaps 25 men instead of a hundred; joy at being able to stop these men in time; joy at being given a chance to fight back for once, just once. They thought of their wives and children and mothers and old fathers even now fleeing into the arroyo and starting the long, fast walk to Mexico and safe haven, and they drew arrows from their quivers, over the tops of their shoulders, and nocked them to their bows, and fired at a dead gallop into the bunched riders heading straight for them.

The mass of big American horses drew up as one beast, the animals screaming as their mouths were jerked back, some of them rearing and one animal falling over backwards, so hard did its rider tug it back reflexively as an arrow struck him through the throat. Dust swirled up from the milling knot like a storm, and the warriors broke to ride around the white men on both sides and then circle behind and pass one another and come around yet again. Several plunging horses broke loose, and then pistol fire roared in tens of shots at once from the group, all the weapons pointed outward, all the muzzles smoking and dark. Three white men were on the ground already, and now one of the warriors tumbled from his pony and fell to the sand and another suddenly had bright blood running down the side of his face. Two others swept past the one on the ground, leaned down at a gallop, and drew him up to whisk him away to safety.

The other warriors dropped to the outsides of their ponies to fight, shooting beneath the necks of their mounts. The white men rallied, saw a space in the line circling them in two directions, and burst through in a flash of spurs and many yells and much gunfire. The warriors pursued them, engaged one flank as the bunch trailed out into a thick column, and four of the white men turned back to fight them. The rest rode on, with most of the warriors in pursuit. Three stayed behind to take on and hold those who had received their challenge; there was a give and take too fast to see, rapid gunfire and many arrows, the flash of lance blades in the high sun, and then men were on the ground there, too, and two horses, and one of them screaming in a high voice as it rolled and thrashed on the ground.

Now there were fewer whites, but they were headed again for the village, and the warriors redoubled their efforts, crying to their ponies to run even faster than they were, to outbest the long-legged, big, grain-fed American horses and run around them and in front of them and so bring the warriors between them and the helpless. And because they had good, red hearts and sturdy hooves and were children of the very earth, the ponies found more strength from somewhere within them, and more speed, and they reached and reached and pulled and pulled and slowly drew their riders into position to attack yet again. The white men turned astonished faces at the upstarts coming at them, raised their pistols again, and this time before they could pull back the hammers the warriors hurled themselves into the middle of the other group as a body, with a scream of outrage and desperation and victory and fury.

War clubs swung this time, sodden crashes as men were knocked from their saddles. Rifles swung, too, their barrels gleaming in the sunlight, but there were no shots for a moment, as the fighting was too close and hand-to-hand, the men mixed in such a way that any shot might strike anyone. Then a warrior went to the ground among the whites, and a rifle roared and he jerked as death snatched him. The fighting intensified, and two more whites went down, but then two more of the warriors. One leaped up again, limping, his leg streaming red, but he went down again almost as quickly, a white man riding up next to him to catch his hair and raise his head, reaching down with the other hand -- a knife in that hand -- to slice the warriors' throat through and drop him to the sand like a rag doll.

A new scream went up, this one from the fallen man's brother, and the fight grew more heated. One of the white men suddenly cried out to the others: "Break clear! Use your rifles!" And the white men spurred their mounts and tried to break out of the close fighting so they could turn and fire freely on the warriors. The warriors resisted them; not for nothing had they brought the fighting to close quarters. But one by one the whites slipped from their grasp until suddenly they could turn and fire upon the warriors still at their heels.

They raised their rifles as one man.

+ + + + + + +

The sound of the fighting urged the people to hasten more, and more than one looked back over a shoulder as the sounds grew louder and obviously closer on two occasions. Most of the people were in the arroyo now, hurrying towards the south. The Fox Society men rode alongside them, some in the arroyo but most on top, racing their ponies back and forth nervously, watching for more trouble, watching for the whites to appear to the east, breaking through the line of their brothers. Chanu reined in near Kojay and was about to tell him that he should go now, too, that the last of the people were filing into the arroyo just now, when a double shot of heavy-caliber rifle fire roared out from the slope to their west, up high. All the warriors' faces snapped that direction, looking up, waiting for more.

But there was no more.

Chanu, looking up and peering intently, caught a glimpse of something moving far away and shook his head. He turned back to his father, who stood looking up at the slope with a odd expression on his face.

"Go now," said Chanu.

Kojay lifted his hand to point to the slope, and as he did a puff of dust zinged from the ground in front of him, and then both men heard the report of a pistol from the north. Chanu had his weapons out and was racing past his father before the older man could even turn around.

"NORTH!!!" Chanu was screaming to the other Fox men as he fired arrows into the first of the riders streaming around the side of a bluff north of the village. The other warriors reacted in a heartbeat, those selected to stay with the helpless at all costs racing now frantically back and forth, up and down the line, urging the stragglers to run, urging everyone to run, not walk, RUN! _RUN!!!_ Children's faces paled, and their hands sought those of their mothers', a baby cried once -- a long wail that filled the last of the silence -- and then gunfire roared as the seven Fox men who had turned to meet the new attack drove into the body of 17 riders like a cast-iron cannon ball. Horses screamed, and there was a shouting and roaring of men's voices, of pistol fire. Lances flashed, and knives, and horses whirled as the dust thickened and hid what was happening from view.

The people ran, praying that their men would be spared behind them, but praying too that their sacrifices would not be in vain. Save our children, prayed the mothers. Save our mothers, prayed the children. Kojay ran to catch up to the tail end of the fleeing group, grabbing at an old man who had stumbled from the pace. He lifted the man and drew his arm over his own shoulder, turned to see tears streaming down the wrinkled brown cheeks.

"Leave me," begged the old man. "Give me a knife, and I will sell my life dearly. I have no wish to see--"

"We need you with us," said Kojay shortly. He drew the man with him, hastening on behind the others so that his son would not have to worry about him and so be in a dangerous position.

He did not tell the man he bore up that they might both be selling their lives to buy time for the others, before another half hour had passed. He had seen the odds, and already the death song for his son trembled on his lips, beneath his breath.

Part 143

After Vin left, the men rode silently on down the mountainside toward the village. No one spoke because the only thing any of them could think about was Vin, on his own with a hole in his shoulder, and about how they'd come to a point where there wasn't any choice other than to send a wounded man up a mountain ridge to stop something worse from happening. Nathan looked at the others. They were all tired. Even Josiah was showing signs of the long days and nights since they'd left Four Corners. JD's nerves were holding him up no question there. Ezra, well, it was hard to tell what kept him going, but he was here and he was ready and there wasn't much more to ask of a man than that. Nathan's gaze lingered on the last two men in their party, Buck and Chris. Buck rode straight and steady in the saddle as if the time spent resting on the trail had performed some miracle and rendered him cured--no bad leg, no exhaustion, no worry or fear. But Nathan knew, Buck's leg would wear out quickly, knew it must be paining him even now, though he'd set that aside for the moment. Whatever happened needed to happen fast or there'd be hell to pay.

Then, Nathan looked at Chris. Chris's face was tight and dark and determined. There was something going on between him and Buck. Vin had as much as told him yesterday afternoon. But Nathan didn't know for certain what it was. He only knew, looking at the two of them, that if Chris didn't do what he needed to do and do it soon there'd be one less man standing with them the next time their backs were against the wall.

They'd just hit the end of the rocky trail they were on, the ground flattening and spreading out into a shallow slope down to the desert floor when they heard, carrying easily in the dry desert air, the sharp crack of gunfire to the east of the Indian village.

"Hell," Chris swore under his breath. Then, they also heard, just as unmistakably, the sound of more gunfire, this time coming from much closer to the village itself. Chris never hesitated. "Josiah," he said. "You, Ezra and JD go to the village." And without even waiting to say the rest of it or for anyone else to say anything, he reined his horse to the right and headed for the gunfire to the east, confident in some way he couldn't even have put words to that the others would be right where they needed to be.

Nathan urged his horse forward, watched it stretch its neck out and run, straining a little to keep pace with Buck's grey and Chris's black. He saw Buck slide his rifle from his scabbard as they galloped. We don't even know what we'll find, Nathan thought. But they did know and even before they could see anything they could hear the guns being fired, horses screaming, and men shouting. Nathan's mind flashed instantly back to another time and another place where there had been shouting and shooting and men screaming and fighting and dying, a place where the air had been damp and cold and there had been maple trees and rolling green hills instead of scrub brush and desert, but where really nothing had been very different at all. He looked over at Chris and Buck and he could see by the tight, set expression on both men's faces that they knew too.

And just then, they rode over the hill and saw the thin rank of Indians armed with lances and arrows and shields, arrayed against the slightly larger group of white men armed with pistols and rifles and knives and it was almost a relief to know that, at least right here and now everything was just as they'd expected.

Chris raised his hand, but the other two men were already reining in their horses. The three of them were coming in behind Michaels' men, at a slanting angle so that if the men turned their heads halfway around and looked they would see them, but they wouldn't look, too busy concentrating on the Indians in front of them. The rifles were coming up, the Indians were staring at them, still working their ponies around for a desperate dash at the white men and knowing in some hyper-aware way that they would be too late, that the men would cut them down as they urged their ponies forward, but that they would do it anyway because these men would not reach their village.

Chris saw all this in half a split second as he was reining his horse in and bringing his rifle up and looking for the man--there was always one--who was going to shoot first, searching for the finger that was already on the trigger. And then, he found it and he took aim and the muscles in his own trigger finger were already tightening when there was the sharp crack of a rifle to his right and the man he'd been taking aim at jerked in his saddle and fell forward across his horse's neck. Chris had just time for a quick glance at Buck who gave him a sharp nod before the three of them were riding forward again, firing their rifles and the Indians shouted and charged Michaels' men.

For a few long minutes, everything was close and tight. Chris swung his horse to knock a man off balance. He saw a man swinging his rifle butt at Buck's head as Buck was drawing his pistol at another man. "Buck!" Chris shouted and Buck reined his horse toward Chris and ducked at the same time and Chris shot the man who'd almost hit him. Then Buck was riding straight at Chris, bringing his pistol up and Chris reined his horse hard and broke to the left and Buck flew by him, firing at the same time. Behind him Chris could hear the sound of a sharp cry of pain cut short, but there was no time to look, it took all his concentration just to turn and fire and try to see the men coming at him through the dust and the smoke.

Then, the Indians broke through the line again and somehow they managed to carry Nathan along with them and Buck and Chris who'd been fighting close together broke away on the other side and they turned as one, almost as if it had been choreographed by some world-famous dancer and fired into the re-forming line of men. Then, the two of them were backing their horses and covering each other and keeping Michaels' men busy so that this time they seemed almost not to expect the harsh close attack of the Indians when they came riding in.

Suddenly, a man rode out of the churned up dust so that Chris had to rein his horse in hard and turn sharply to his left, slamming straight into Buck's grey just as Buck was turning to the right.

"Son of a b--" Chris started to swear, but the words died in his throat as he saw something bitter and furious and uncontrolled sweep across Buck's face. And, like a flash of lightning out of a bright blue sky, Chris could see--but he didn't even quite have time to recognize what it was he saw because Buck was bringing his pistol around, aimed straight for Chris and there was just a fraction of a second, too quick to even say it existed at all, when Chris thought maybe Buck was going to shoot him. Then, Buck was firing his pistol right past Chris's shoulder and Chris didn't even have to turn to know that the man who'd been charging at them was gone.

He looked back at Buck and saw a quick flash of deep, hard physical pain in his eyes as he leaned against his bad leg and turned his horse away from Chris to look for more of Michaels' men. Chris turned too and fired his rifle twice in quick succession, taking out two more of Michaels' men. And the fighting grew fast and furious and intense again and it was all happening too quickly to think, but still, underneath all of it there was that moment when everything had become clear and then flashed away and Chris knew he had to hold onto the idea of it, had to keep track carefully until this was over and he could take it out and think about it again.

Chris abandoned his rifle finally and was drawing his pistol when another of Michaels' men bore down on him. He didn't quite have time to bring his pistol around when the man flew at him, knocking him from his horse. The hard ground knocked the wind out of him and Chris was scrambling, fighting for breath. He swung at the man who was standing above him, knocking him back. Then, he dove for his pistol and was coming around to fire even as the man was already taking aim at him. But then, just as the man's finger was squeezing on the trigger, he seemed to freeze, as if time were somehow standing still for him and then he slowly toppled forward and Chris could see one of Nathan's knives buried in his back.

He didn't even have time to look up at Nathan before Buck was there with his hand down and Chris swung up on the back of Buck's horse and Chris covered both of them while Buck caught up to Chris's horse and by the time he'd remounted and reloaded and turned back to the fight, things were splitting apart and separating and Chris could see half a dozen of Michaels' men heading for the mountain trail. A few of the Indian warriors made as if to follow them, but another warrior shouted at them and Chris found himself nodding even though he didn't understand what the man was saying. 'Let 'em go,' he thought and he spurred his horse ahead to join the Indians on their ponies heading for the village, knowing Nathan and Buck would bring up the rear, rifles ready, to watch for any stray men who might have ideas about shooting Indian warriors in the back.

And he tried not to think as he rode that they might be too late anyway, after all that, that Vin might have missed or be lying somewhere unable to move, or that JD or Josiah or Ezra might have already fallen. Because in the end everything that would happen was already going to happen anyway and there wasn't any sense in thinking about the bad things until after the fighting was over.

Part 144

By the time he got to his horse, Vin knew he didn't have time to do anything but ride straight down the slope into the village. The maelstrom of dust and flashing metal just north of it, near the edge of an arroyo, was unmistakable: the hard-fought battle of men defending their families to their last breaths. Chanu would be there, and the men were fighting too damned hard for the people to have gotten away safe already. It was the fighting of men holding a line between death and their children.

Vin bit his lips as he pulled himself up into the saddle with his left hand on the pommel, and the landscape tilted precariously a moment as he got up. The tracker closed his eyes, tipping his head back to let the breeze rush in under his hat to cool his face. He felt the hat fall gently off, to hang down onto his back from the latigo, and then straightened again to open his eyes and look down to the base of the slope. His shoulder hurt like hell, but there were men down there dying. Vin turned the gelding so it faced downslope and legged it hard, giving the animal its head and then laying the palm of his rein hand on top of the saddle horn and curling his fingers around it more and more tightly as the black began to crash and slide its way down the steeper places on the slope.

A third of the way there, and he could see that the fighting was breaking into several smaller eddies, one of which was clearly a phalanx of men trying to push their way into the arroyo. Vin blinked against the sweat running into his eyes and pushed the black on again as it slowed when it felt the shift in its rider's seat. The gelding lowered its head and plunged over a steeper bench of rock, its haunches low and stones cracking and rolling under its feet. Vin groaned as the shock sent a long stab of pain through him, but he tucked his chin against his chest and held on. Half-way down.

The slope was blurring in his vision, the dust that rose from the gelding's descent starting to drift downwind so that he had to ride through it. He coughed, bent lower in the saddle as the spasm in his chest set fire to his shoulder again, then forced himself to open his eyes to take stock of how the battle was proceeding and where he needed to alight when he came down. Three-quarters of the way there, nearly on the flat now, he saw. The village was just to his right and he was coming down between it and the arroyo. The actions of the warriors told him that the fleeing people were far to his left. The silence of the battle told him how hard-fought it was; no one had time to reload guns, so now it was hands and knives and rocks if need be. Desperation.

He turned his black towards the part of the fight that was slowly moving towards the arroyo, the warriors giving ground only slowly and only because they were so outnumbered. Pushing the animal into a hard gallop, he caught sight of a sudden flash of horses reeling away from the mass of dust and struggling figures; he heard scattered gunfire again, recognized Josiah's chestnut with its eyes wide as it tossed its head and snorted and galloped past him. He pushed the black harder, seeing suddenly that two white men had a warrior down, on the very rim of the arroyo, that one of them sat astride the man beating him as another raised a knife. Vin drove the gelding through the press of struggling men at the edge of the fight, saw a glimpse of JD smashing a rifle across a man's jaw as another man next to him raised a gun butt against him and as Ezra caught that man and spun him around. The dust descended, hiding his view, as the black carried him into the man raising the knife over the downed warrior, knocking the man down and bowling him over; then Vin half-slid and half-threw himself from the saddle against the one who was beating the pinned warrior beneath him.

The impact with the other man drove the air out of his lungs, but he felt the man give way, knocked entirely over by Vin's attack. Both of them rolled clear of the warrior, carried far enough by Vin's momentum that then they both slid in a shower of fine dust and gravel over the lip of the arroyo and down into the sandy bottom ten feet below. Vin reached out his good hand to slow his slide and stop the rolling motion, succeeded in turning himself face-up as he went, heard the warrior above him on the rim scream with fury and realized the man had leaped to his feet and was running down the embankment into the arroyo standing up and falling at the same time, racing over the top of the white man and catching up to him, falling with him in a grappling embrace as they rolled to the bottom together. A knife blade flashed high, fell, there was a scream, and Vin hit the sand at the bottom of the arroyo with a jarring thud that made sparks fly up into the dust rising all around him.

More men were pouring over the side of the arroyo, white and Indian both, and yells and curses tumbled into the narrow canyon with them. Vin rolled over, fought his way up to hands and knees, then managed to get to his feet. The arroyo spun sickeningly, but the man to his left, the warrior he'd saved, darted for him and caught him as he staggered, and he saw with a glad surge of his heart that it was Chanu -- alive still, and fighting even though blood streamed down half of his face. Two men grabbed Chanu then, and tore him from Vin and whirled him around, and the warrior kicked one down and then hurled himself upon the other with a savage cry. Vin started for the one that had been kicked to the sand, seeing the man getting to his feet again, but suddenly there were hands on his arms, and he cried out as someone pulled hard on his wounded shoulder.

He saw the man who was getting up from the sand run towards him, drawing back a fist that was aimed at his belly, and somehow found the strength to kick out with both of his feet just as the man got there, seeing one boot strike his assailant square in the mouth and draw blood. He didn't have time to see what happened then, though, because whoever had hold of one of his arms shoved hard, pushing him towards the other person holding him, and suddenly there were blows landing on his midsection and chest, and he felt the sand of the arroyo slam into his knees and they let go of him and he dropped to the ground.

Vin's vision swam with darkness, and he saw finally that his own hands were in front of him, fingers spread and palms down on the sand. Hands and knees. He was on his hands and knees, struggling to get air back into his lungs. God. He raised his head, panting as he drew in a great gulp of it finally, saw legs of men all around him, struggling, fighting, saw that one of them suddenly -- right there, right next to him -- was Josiah, and that there was a man behind him who had managed to get a loaded pistol and was drawing the hammer back on it with the barrel almost against the back of the preacher's head. Vin shoved himself into a half-crouch, screaming to Josiah to get down, and threw himself into the entire group, saw Josiah hit the sand, heard the pistol discharge, realized he had both arms wrapped around denimed legs . . . boots flashed past his face, one that struck out and caught him, kicked him in passing. He rolled to protect his shoulder and try to get his legs under him again to stand, was hit again, this time in the back hard enough to knock him flat again and drive the air out of him for a second time.

He felt the sand against the side of his face, looked across the mounds of it at another man laying not far away, his blue eyes opened and unseeing and glassy with death, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Boots and then moccassins flashed between them, cutting off Vin's view. He tried to pull himself up once more, but fell again to the sand and this time did not move.

The fight swirled and eddied on, with grunts and screams and blows, with the warriors and Ezra and JD and Josiah giving ground only inch by precious inch. The slowly moving battle left behind it a broad trail of churned-up ground, strewn with the bodies of motionless men.

And one of them, not far from the edge of the arroyo and face-down on the sand, was Vin Tanner.

Part 145

"My GOD!" Ezra, galloping with Josiah and JD into the apparently abandoned village, reined his chestnut back to a half-hopping prance that slid sideways, his face slack with shock. He'd spotted a buggy and horse tied to a small tree at the edge of the lodge circle, on the other side from where they'd come in. JD's gaze followed Ezra's, and the youth paled and then stood in his stirrups to look around the abandoned village wildly.

"MARY!" he yelled. "MARY!?!"

"She'll be with the others!" Josiah waved to Ezra and JD to keep up with him, and pointed to a long line of women and children who were running down a shallow incline into an arroyo that stretched and twisted into the maze of canyons forming the rough breaks of the mountain foothills to the west. Ezra and JD spurred back to follow, and as they did, they all saw a small group of warriors dash across the flats in front of them to hurl themselves like a bolt of lightning into a much larger body of attacking white men.

Several other warriors holding a position at the tail end of the refugees noticed Josiah, JD, and Ezra about then and threw themselves into a sudden attack against the men, mistaking them for enemies. A long, high, wavering cry went up from someone just going down into the arroyo when they did that, and both warriors practically sat their war ponies down at the sound, whirled back, and then returned to their guard positions. They kept glittering eyes on the three men for a moment, however, as Kojay staggered up out of the arroyo, his face and hair covered in dust and sweat, to gesture emphatically towards the men as he addressed the two warriors.

Then the tornado that was a tangled fury of Fox warriors and Michaels' hired men tearing one another to shreds slammed into Josiah, shoving his horse nearly off its feet so that he had a choice of leaping to the ground or falling. And after that he lost sight of anything but surviving and staying on his feet for what seemed like forever.

He heard the word passing around him in the chaos -- unbelievably -- "Seven! Seven!" -- and knew that the warriors were alerting each other to the fact that there were suddenly white men mixed into the fray who were allies. He didn't dare fire his pistols; the range was so close that a bullet would easily go through one man and into another one behind. He caught sight of JD briefly, an island as he still sat horseback in the midst of a sea of pandemonium, the youth firing straight downward into the crowd several times with his brace of Colts. Then the little bay reared, and there were hands pulling at JD from below, and Josiah tried to get there but couldn't. God! Where was Ezra!?

The preacher ducked under a swinging fist that had a huge bowie knife in it, caught the arm behind it, and twisted it savagely. The knife clattered to the ground, and Josiah swept it up just as two men flipped over where his head had been a moment before. More gunshots, several high screams, and another horse -- this one a pinto with a heavy American saddle -- careened through the melee to disappear into the dust and fighting bodies that had closed behind him. Josiah realized suddenly that the whole fight was moving, and that it was going in the direction of the fleeing people heading down the arroyo.

Damn! He reached out to grab two men who had caught a warrior by the arms and were holding him so another man could come at him with a long knife, and cracked their skulls together hard enough that he knew neither one would get up for a while. The warrior thus freed threw himself onto the man with the knife, bearing him to the ground and rolling him into Josiah's feet. They all went down together, suddenly being kicked and pummeled, and Josiah put his enormous arms over his head and shoved his way back up, tossing men aside like they were rag dolls as he did. He caught sight of Ezra briefly, the gambler's red coat flashing like a garnet in the middle of a knot of duller clothing, his back to a large stone the fight had surrounded, exchanging hard blows with far too many men at once.

Men at the back of the fight were finding enough breathing room to reload weapons now, and desultory firing broke out again. Josiah drew his own pistol and shoved his way through the throng of men towards the area the firing had come from, saw several men with their backs together taking careful aim at various targets, one of which was a warrior who was almost single-handedly stopping any man who tried to breach the rim of the arroyo. Josiah braced himself against the impacts of the struggling men around him who slammed each other against him, and brought down the one who had the warrior in his sites before he could fire again. Then he ducked a knife blow that cut so close to his eye that he heard the whistle of the metal blade cutting the air as it went past, threw a bone-crushing fist into the knife-wielder, and shoved his way closer to the armed group again, shooting sporadically over the heads of the combatants between them whenever he got a clear view.

Suddenly he felt a different impact, this one a blow to the back of his knees, and Josiah fell heavily to the stones. His pistol burst from his grip when he hit, and flew away into the chaos around him. The big man wrestled and groped his way back to the surface of the fight, gasping for air in the thick dust rising now from the desperate hands and feet slowly being driven closer to the arroyo. He caught the motion of a rangy black horse running across the flat out the corner of his eye then, and realized with a start that the rider was Vin. The tracker was already reeling in the saddle, but he drove the gelding into the press of struggling men, and then Josiah saw him break up a group that had set upon the one warrior who'd been blocking them. He started trying to get through the milling mob to help when he saw Vin go down and not come up again, and the whole mass of men suddenly started to move with him.

Then the ground dropped away under Josiah's feet, and he slid and fell down the ten feet of embankment into the sand at the bottom of the arroyo. Men were raining down on top of him and to both sides, and he shoved them aside trying to get far enough clear of the melee to get a sense of where anyone was at this point. Someone struck him on the back of the head right then, hard -- he never did figure out what with -- and Josiah stumbled and nearly went down. He managed to turn, though, and caught two men running past him and swung them around and began to beat on one of them. Then he heard someone scream his name, ducked, saw Vin throw himself into the pile of people he was wading through, and heard a gun go off.

Josiah threw the men closest to him aside, staggered and fell to the sand, winded. God! Where had Vin gone? He pulled himself to his feet, realizing that the fight was starting to get way too close to the rear of the fleeing people now, that the warriors who were left fighting were increasingly outnumbered, and that JD and Ezra had pulled together and were fighting back to back in the center of a knot of fists and knives that looked impossible to survive. Josiah flew at the men surrounding them with a roar of rage, of fury that anything like this should even happen, saw JD struck with a rifle blow to the temple so that he fell against Ezra hard enough to nearly carry the gambler to the ground with him. Josiah was throwing men aside like drift wood, knowing damn well that it was only maybe 10 more seconds before someone managed to shove shells into a pistol and start shooting again, and that then it would be all over. But he was damned if he'd let Ezra and JD go down without him.

He had just gotten there, shoved his way through the last of the men between him and Ezra, seen that JD was leaning on a stone behind him with dazed eyes, blood running down around his ear from the blow he'd received to the side of his head, when he heard a burst of gunshots behind him and grabbed the youth to throw him to the sand and cover him with his own body. Ezra was next to him, looking up to see where the shots came from, and he grabbed Josiah's arm suddenly with fingers gouging him so tightly that it made the bigger man gasp.

"Now!" screamed the gambler. He leaped to his feet and ran back towards the melee of fighting men, and Josiah looked up to see that the firing had come from Chris's big Colt, and that Buck was right next to him, with Nathan behind them both. The men were fanning out, guns blazing, the warriors with them furiously attacking both flanks of the now-fleeing men who had attacked the village. Josiah turned back to JD, and pulled the youth up from the sand into a sitting position.

"God, Son. Put this against your head." He managed to get the bandanna off his own neck and press it gently to the bleeding wound, and JD hissed and squirmed against the rock behind him.

"Geeze, Josiah! Don't PUSH on it!"

"Lemme see that." It was Nathan, holstering his pistol and kneeling in the sand. He touched gentle probing fingers to JD's head and then looked around at all the wounded nearby, his dark eyes deeply troubled. "Josiah, I'm gonna' need--"

"Josiah!" It was Chris's voice, and the gunman was striding rapidly across the sand towards the small group of friends. "Where's Ezra?"

"Here." The gambler appeared, brushing dust from a sleeve that was hanging by about half the fabric that usually attached it to the rest of the coat. He stopped as he realized its condition, and grimaced.

"Is JD all right?" Chris was looking at Nathan and the youngest member of them, now, his eyes still dark with fury. Buck had limped slowly up behind him, his hat off and hanging down his back, his dark hair standing up like a mane. He kept going until he got to JD and dropped heavily next to him on the sand with a soft groan.

"Damn, Kid. Good thing your head is so hard, huh?"

"Yeah, Buck. Ow!" JD swatted Nathan's hands away, and the healer turned to Chris.

"He'll be all right, but I need to set up some place to treat him -- and all these other wounded men."

"I'll start on it right now, Brother Nate." Josiah rose stiffly to his feet, and Chris nodded.

"I'll help as soon as I go get Vin from--"

"He's down here somewhere." Josiah suddenly remembered seeing the tracker, and looked around quickly. "At least, he was."

The men all looked around the immediate vicinity, and then Chris looked back at Josiah intently.

"Where was the last place you saw him?" The big preacher thought a moment, remembering suddenly how intense the fighting had been, the way Vin had thrown himself into the group that had been practically tangled around Josiah's feet at the time. He saw again the flash he'd seen then, of a man running on his very last bit of strength, face tight with pain, one arm hanging limp and useless, and he looked back at Chris with eyes that made the other man swear and step back. He didn't say a word, after that.

He just started walking slowly up the arroyo, a lone figure with a pall of grief wrapped visibly around his lean frame, looking at the bodies strewn across the sand.

Part 146

For an instant, it felt to Ezra as if everything had stopped with the last gunshot. No movement. No sound. But when the quiet was broken, it was broken with a flurry of activity and a cacophony of noise.

The village elders, women, and children were trickling back into the village. Soon wails rose as families realized they had lost one of their own. Excited voices discussed the battle, there was a sound of pure joy when families were reunited and utmost despair at the losses.

Chris had walked off in search of Vin. Nathan had urged Josiah to follow, not with words just an inclination of his head. Buck had followed too when he was assured JD would be fine. Nathan managed to convince JD to sit still and hold a compress to his head wound as Nathan began organizing a makeshift triage area for the wounded. And the wounded kept coming. Their injuries quickly assessed and treatment decided on. Ezra assisted the wounded that managed to return on their own to get the help they needed. And they just kept coming.

Ezra's eyes swept the area to see if with his limited medical knowledge he could be of help. He half-thought to follow in Josiah's wake behind Chris but thought better of it. No, Josiah was better suited to assist Vin and Chris and even Buck for that matter. He'd just be in the way. The uninjured warriors were mounting horses to sweep the area for any attackers left in the area. Their number was heavily depleted so Ezra quickly told Nathan that he intended to join them and started to go retrieve his horse. Ezra was nearing the picket line when he saw it and he could only stare at it.

Mary's carriage. He had seen it just before joining the battle but the chaos of all that had followed had swept it from his mind. But where was Mary? They actually hadn't seen her.

Ezra wanted to move, wanted to yell out, but uncertainty shackled his body for that brief instant where fear enveloped him at what he might find. But he had to find her. For Chris. For Billy. For Four Corners.

Ezra frantically surveyed the village but there was no sign of Mary. No white persons except the seven. Ezra flagged down Chanu who was heading out on one of the patrols.

"Have you seen Mrs. Travis?"

Chanu frowned not realizing who Ezra was talking about.

"Newspaper woman, blonde hair."

Chanu nodded. "She left the village with the woman and children fleeing to the south."

Ezra ran off in the direction Chanu pointed. The women and children were returning but Ezra didn't spot Mary among them.

He stopped several of the elders and women, "have you seen the white woman?"

But the only answers were negative shakes of their heads. They had their own to find.

"MARY. MARY."

There was no sign of her. Ezra continued to hurry down the retreat trail. Where was she? Damn, he thought he would easily find her. Tall, blonde hair, white skin, some type of calico dress. She should stand out.

Why can't I find her? Ezra was thinking he needed to get his horse and look further afield. Maybe get help. He stopped more of the refugees. "Have you seen the white woman?"

"No."

"No."

Come on Mrs. Travis. Where are you? She hadn't been seen. His search got more desperate.

"MARY! MARY!"

+ + + + + + +

Chris was almost doing a mental roll call, accounting for his men. Nathan - uninjured, tending the injured. Ezra unhurt and helping in the village. JD - head wound, it would hurt but he was otherwise okay and in the village. Josiah - unhurt and, Chris smiled slightly, with him, uninvited but wanted. Buck - hobbled up to join them. God damn it, Buck. You need to get off that leg. He knew it. Buck knew it. But he wouldn't listen to him right now and Chris had neither the inclination nor energy to demand Buck get the rest he needed. If Buck had said it to him with Vin out there, he wouldn't rest either. And in whatever happened, in what they had been through, there was a bond between Buck and Vin that had each on the constant lookout for the other.

And Vin. Jesus, why did he let him ride off on his own . . . again? Seemed like only bad things happened when Vin was off by himself. Chris knew it was right, they had needed all the others in the close quarters battle. Neither them or the warriors could have afforded less on the battlefield. But Vin seemed . . .

Josiah's voice broke Chris's reverie, "I last saw him a few hundred yards that way."

Chris was lifting his head to follow where Josiah was pointing when they all heard Ezra's cries for Mary.

"Is she here?" Chris's panicked eyes looked to Josiah.

Josiah nodded. "We saw her carriage in the village before the battle but we haven't seen her before or since."

"Vin?"

"We'll tend to him," Buck's voice would brook no argument on that score.

Chris swallowed hard and nodded. He pivoted away unwilling to deal with Vin at this moment. He couldn't do anything for him anyway. Josiah and Buck could handle it. He had said what needed to be said to Vin. On the other hand, Mary. He had never said what needed to be said to Mary. He knew he wasn't over Sarah so was he being fair to Mary? He never seemed ready, he never was quite sure what he wanted to say, and so he'd let it hang. Dear Lord. It could not happen. He couldn't lose her when he hadn't given himself a chance to really find her. He just couldn't lose her now.

+ + + + + + +

Mary found a place to finally sit. The gunfire had stopped and warriors had passed crying out their victory and reassuring all they could return to the village. The retreating village turned as one and started the long walk back to the village. Some ran to check on their loved ones. Others moved more slowly, the retreat having exhausted them.

Mary wasn't really exhausted, she could easily go on except that she was hot, tired, and her feet were killing her. She had already determined that no matter how fashionable these shoes were she was never wearing them again. Yes, Mary, worry about the important things. She looked to the villagers - the elderly, the women, and their young children - how could they live with automatic fear, automatic hatred because of who they were. Mary never really had to think about that. She worried sometimes that Billy seemed too old and mature for his years because of what he witnessed but that was nothing compared to the Indian youth.

Mary looked to her young protectors. The three boys who had helped her during the retreat. The eldest was maybe twelve years old, the youngest about six. They were somber and serious. Tension filled their young bodies and their eyes were in constant motion sweeping the surrounding landscape. They knew things that no boy at this age should.

"Thank you for all you've done."

The eldest nodded in acknowledgement.

"You can go home to your families. I'll be along shortly."

There were short negative shakes of heads from all three.

"Really. I am fine. My feet hurt and I want to remove my shoes. I can't do that with you here." Mary ducked her head slightly embarrassed at her problem.

One of the boys smirked with understanding. The eldest signaled to the other two and they started to leave.

"Really. I will be fine."

"Yes, I think you will be. The sun is strong. Don't linger." The eldest cautioned.

Mary smiled. "I won't. I promise."

Mary sat for several minutes but decided it was probably best she didn't remove her shoes. Her blisters would get dirty and get infected and she'd probably die from some awful disease. Mary looked down at her torn and sweaty dress. She swiped some loose hairs from her face.

"Well, well, look who we have here." A suave, male voice drawled.

Mary gasped and turned startled when she saw him.

The man smiled, almost leered. "My dear, it is a pleasure to meet up with you."

It took Mary a second to place him. "You're the gambler."

"Vincent Hammersmith. And you are Mary Travis."

Mary found herself nodding and then wondered why this man was here. The explanation dawned. "You brought the townspeople here and attacked the village."

"Mm, not quite my dear, but close enough. And now I need a way out of here. You will, of course, accompany me."

Mary started to back away but he was too quick and he grabbed her arm twisting it behind her back and slamming her chest against his.

She was so tight against him that she could feel his breath across her cheek and the hard outlines of his body.

He started to chuckle. "I'm sure you will be excellent company."

Mary shook her head and struggled against his strong grip.

If possible, he pulled her tighter against him. "I've wanted you. I've wanted you for many weeks and I aim to have you. You can make it easy on yourself or hard but it will happen."

"I think not." Another voice drawled.

Hammersmith drew his pistol and pivoted Mary in his arms and used her as a shield. "Ahh, Mr. Standish."

"Mr. Hammersmith." Ezra had his gun drawn.

Mary was ready to stamp her foot in frustration. Did they have to be so damn civil?

"Your lady friend will be accompanying me."

Ezra just smiled at that comment and changed the subject. "I take it you are in the employ of Sterling Michaels?"

Mary gasped. Hammersmith smiled. "How did you figure that out?"

"Mr. Michaels has been arrested and is now incarcerated, awaiting trial."

Hammersmith's face fell. Ezra smiled at that. "Well then, I must definitely take the only reward I'll get from this game." Hammersmith stroked Mary's right cheek with the end of his pistol's barrel. "Plus it will be that much more pleasurable considering she is yours."

Mary had figured out that Hammersmith thought that she was Ezra's paramour or something but couldn't figure out how to use that to her advantage. She felt Hammersmith's lips brush against her neck and she shuddered with revulsion. Mary wanted to close her eyes but she knew she had to keep her eyes on Ezra.

"Take her then because she isn't mine."

Mary felt rather than saw him. He was out of her peripheral vision but he was there to her left. Ezra saw him but he made no acknowledgement of his presence. The only thing Ezra did was make a point at looking at her left hand. Mary frowned for an instant not certain what he wanted.

"Now, now, I saw you two together." Hammersmith drawled. "Don't try to bluff me."

Ezra smiled at that and Mary stiffened. Oh Lord. What would he think?

Hammersmith looked at Mary. "I'm right. Isn't that right, my dear?" Hammersmith pulled the gun away from Mary's face.

It happened so fast. One moment Mary was in Hammersmith's arms, the next she was yanked hard by her left arm and wrapped into Chris's arms and they rolled away from Hammersmith as a shot rang out. There was a cry and a body thudded to the ground.

Chris just kept rolling, his gun out ready to fire. Mary lifted her head from his chest and saw Hammersmith on the ground taking his last breaths. Both Chris and Mary got to their feet with Chris's arm possessively around Mary's waist. Hammersmith looked up at the couple, then Ezra. "Yours."

"No. His." Ezra's eyes indicated Chris.

Hammersmith groaned. "Can't be. Can't bluff me."

"I can. I did. And you lose."

Hammersmith tried to reach his gun but Ezra's foot was on it. Hammersmith's hand fell empty as he took his last breath.

"Are you all right?" Chris turned Mary in his arms.

"I'm fine." Mary tried to reassure Chris but could sense he wasn't placated. She was right.

Chris started to shake Mary. "What the hell were you thinking?" Chris asked in a tight voice filled with fury.

"Me. What was I thinking?" Mary sputtered defensively at first but her voice firmed when she realized she was in the right, "I was thinking to warn Kojay of the rising tensions. That there was talk of a vigilante gang forming in town to ride on the reservation."

"Couldn't you just let me take care of it. Do you have to stick your nose where it don't belong?" Chris was hardly keeping his temper in check. He shook Mary again.

"Well, from your very informative telegraph, I wasn't expecting you back for five days. _It_couldn't_wait_." Mary poked Chris's chest with every word.

"My telegraph. You're complaining about my wire." Chris asked incredulous.

"Certainly. All nine words were so informative." Mary sneered. "How was I to know you knew about the danger to the reservation?"

"Why didn't you just wire me at Apex Mining."

Mary startled at that. "Well . . . well, for one thing I didn't think of it." Mary's mind raced, "and . . . and for another, you had wounded. What could you do?"

"I could put the wounded on a travois. I could ride all night."

"How was I to know that?" Mary responded sharply. "I did what I could."

"It was a stupid, stupid thing to do." Chris shook Mary with every stupid.

"Mr. Larabee." Ezra attempted to get Chris's attention.

"MR. LARABEE!"

"WHAT!" Chris head jerked up and then he froze. He was surrounded by three Indian boys. Each with a bow and an arrow nocked. There faces were flat and serious.

Mary looked up from Chris to see the boys as well. A mischievous smile crossed her face. "My protectors."

Chris lowered his hands from Mary's shoulders and took a step from her. "They do a good job."

"Boys, it's all right. This is Mr. Larabee. A friend of mine." Mary smiled at each of the boys and assured them she was fine.

"Mary, I need to get back to the village. Vin, Buck, JD . . ."

Mary immediately sobered. "Go, go . . ." Mary urged.

"Boys, watch out for her for me."

"What are you saying, Mr. Larabee, I'm not adequate to the task?" Ezra drawled.

Chris smiled tightly. "We'll talk later about Mary."

Both Ezra and Mary stiffened at that remark. "There was nothing . . ." They both protested together.

Chris nodded knowingly. "Later."

Part 147

John Bland was furious. He was so angry his hands were shaking. He should never have come west. He should never have accepted Michaels' offer. He had gotten nothing for his efforts and if he went back east the way it was, he'd not only be broke, but sooner or later, no matter what he did, people would find out. His reputation was everything. He wasn't flashy. He didn't stand on mountainsides and pick off men that he could barely see like Thompson. 'And look where that got him,' Bland thought. No, Bland's kind of game was up close and personal.

And the truth was, though he hated to admit it, he'd been off his game ever since he'd arrived. He didn't like to work with other people. That had been the first problem, reporting to someone else all the time. And then, the plans within plans within plans so that it was hard to keep track of who was doing what and what was happening next. If he'd been on his own he'd have done things differently. He'd have poisoned the healer first, that damn darkie. And he'd have done it in such a way that no one would have known. Food poisoning! It was hubris is what it was. Wanting everyone to know just what he'd done and how he'd done it. Damn Michaels anyway!

No, Bland took a deep breath. He couldn't damn the man. Not yet. He wanted his money. And more, he wanted to prove to all of them. All of them! That he was a man to be reckoned with. He looked down at the Indian village, at the bright fire burning in the midst of clear dark night and he swore at the Indians and the town and the seven men who had thwarted them and Sterling Michaels himself. 'This isn't over,' Bland thought. 'No one does me like this and leaves me flat. John Bland never fails. And he always gets paid.'

It wasn't his fault it had gone wrong. It was the fault of all the rest of them--Striker and Sullivan and Thompson. And as proof of that very fact, they were all dead now. Every single one of them. But he, John Bland, was still here.

"Well, well, well," the dry arrogant voice came from a few feet behind Bland. Sharpes. Of all the people to survive the battle, it had to be Sharpes. "Ain't this fine," the sneering voice continued. "Michaels little soft boy survives the fight. But then you would," Sharpes' voice became very soft and very deadly. Bland waited. Sharpes' voice sharpened. "Turn around and look at me, boy. I want to see your face."

John Bland turned slowly, careful to keep the gun in his hand low so that it wouldn't reflect moonlight and give him away. He was almost completely turned around and had the gun halfway up and already pointed at Sharpes before the other man saw it.

He whistled and gave a sharp bark of laughter. "Well, look'a here. You ain't such a mush after all, are you? What you gonna do, shoot me with that thing?"

"If I have to," Bland said and he was pleased that his voice didn't shake. These rough men who killed others so casually had thrown him off stride, made him careless and foolish and boastful when he should have been quiet and sly and smart. Well, that was over now. Things were going to change. "This isn't finished," he said.

Sharpes laughed again, a harsh sound that echoed against the rocks behind them. "Oh, it sure as hell is. They wiped us out today. Couldn't have been more than a half-dozen got away. We're finished, boy. And if you can't see that, you're even stupider than I thought."

Bland bit his lip to hold his temper back. As absurd as it seemed, he needed this man. He needed a rough Western man to watch his back while he went about the business of revenging himself on those seven annoying cowboys who had caused him so much trouble. And getting Michaels back. And securing his reputation, the only thing that really meant anything to him at all. "Look," he said. "Wouldn't you like to get paid? Wouldn't you like to prove to those grubby cowboys down there that they can't do this kind of thing?"

Sharpes didn't laugh this time. He smiled instead, a cold smile that made Bland glad he couldn't see the man's eyes right then. "What do you have in mind?" he asked.

Bland holstered his revolver and assessed the man coldly. This was the man who had kicked him and picked at him and probably would have shot him where he stood if Hammersmith hadn't been there. On the other hand, he was here and he was willing and at the moment, Bland couldn't afford to be all that fussy.

"Are you in all the way?" he asked. "Revenge and payback and freeing Michaels. Because if we don't free Michaels we don't get paid and everyone will know we failed."

Sharpes looked at him as he spoke and Bland knew that he was deciding right now, when all was said and done whether to throw in with Bland or whether to shoot him on the spot. And Bland wished he hadn't holstered his revolver quite so soon. But then, immediately after that, he realized that he had nothing left to lose. Sharpes would either throw in with him or not. And if the answer was no and Sharpes shot him where he stood, well, then, it didn't really matter. He smiled then as he realized that he was finally free of fear and indecision and timidity. He would get Michaels back or he would die right here in the cold desert air and it was like the blackest most evil of all signs. If Sharpes didn't shoot him, then there was no way he could fail.

He saw Sharpes nod as if to himself. "I don't like you, Bland," he said. "I guess that ain't no secret. But I don't like runnin' either. And I don't like nothin' about what happened today. It ain't about the money, you got that?" He took a step toward Bland almost as if he were threatening him with his acceptance. "I don't like losing to a bunch of low-life do-gooder cowboys and their reservation Indian pals. That's why I'm in. 'Cuz nobody does Louis Sharpes that way. You got that?"

"Yes," Bland said. "Oh yes," And, he thought to himself you've reminded me of something I'd almost forgotten. No one does John Bland the way you've done me. And he vowed right then and there to save a little of whatever poison he used for Louis Sharpes when it was all over. To pay him back for the kicks and the comments and the threats. Oh, yes, Bland thought, everything now was going to come to him.

"We'll head back to town," he said. "They won't be back until at least afternoon tomorrow. Come on," he said, heading for his horse and sounding, if he could have heard his own voice and judged it, very unlike the John Bland of previous days. "We've got to get there ahead of them and prepare."

+ + + + + + +

Josiah drew his knees up and leaned forward to wrap both long arms around them and clasp his hands together. His gaze was on the enormous fire dancing in the center of the dark circle of lodges, streamers of sparks flying up into the night in long, twisting threads as the wood snapped and popped. He wanted to speak, tired as he was, but he wasn't sure it was right to do so just now. Kojay hadn't moved a muscle since sitting down next to him ten minutes ago, and he'd stared into the fire as steadily as if he was seeing the battle all over again. The preacher hazarded enough of a sideways glance to see the firelight shining on the other man's face, reflecting from eyes devoid of tears, and then looked straight ahead again and gently cleared his throat.

"D'you mind if I ask you somethin'?"

"You just did," observed the shaman quietly. He turned to regard Josiah without any change in his somber expression, and the preacher ducked his head in embarrassment. Kojay had an uncanny knack of making him feel like JD sometimes. He sighed, grinned slightly at the thought, and went on.

"How did you know to be ready for 'em?"

Kojay turned his face back to stare at the fire again, and was silent a long moment. Then he said, "My son had a dream."

Josiah nodded, remained silent.

"Four nights ago," Kojay added, still staring at the fire. "But we did not know who or why, then." He looked at Josiah. "We still don't."

"Ahhh." Josiah stretched one leg out on the blanket beneath him and then leaned back on one elbow. "Man name a' Sterling Michaels owns a big silver mine up in the mountains, there." Josiah nodded towards the northwest. "He thought the main part of the ore, the part that gave him the legal claim to all of it, was here. On the reservation."

"Mmmm." Kojay nodded to himself. "Does this have anything to do with the trouble that was being made, between us and the people in town?"

"Yeah. Michaels' first idea was to stir up trouble he could blame on your folks, so that the town and the ranchers around here would think you were makin' war on 'em."

"And then come against us, and kill us for him."

"Yeah. Without it lookin' like Michaels had anythin' to do with it. That's right." Josiah looked at the red and gray wool of the blanket under his fingers, his face clouding over as he thought about it.

"You said that was his first idea. What was his second idea?" Kojay asked.

"Well . . ." Josiah sat up and ran his hand through his hair. "As part of that first plan, he apparently meant to kill Vin when he came out here to your festival, and have Buck . . . It's complicated. But he meant to bust up what was left of the seven of us at the same time, so that we wouldn't see what was goin' on -- so we couldn't help you or stop him. Of course, Vin didn't go to your festival, although -- well, hell, you saw him. You saw what Michaels' --." Josiah's voice had taken on an edge of anger, and he hesitated for a moment to get it under control. "Anyway, things started to sort of unravel in Michaels' plan, an' we ended up figurin' out what was goin' on. So he decided to be more direct, and sent a bunch of his men to attack your people. I guess he figured anyone who survived would figure white men are white men, and retaliate against the town."

"So we would all still die, that way, too."

"Yeah." Josiah shook his head. "Michaels is in jail now, an' it looks like his mine and all his property will go to someone else. But he set the attack on your village in motion before we could stop him."

"I wondered how you knew to be here," said the shaman. He looked at Josiah and a small, sad smile played around the corners of his mouth. "I thought maybe _you_ had had a dream."

"More like a nightmare," replied Josiah. He shuddered and sighed deeply.

"We have all paid a high price for this man's greed."

"Too high." Josiah looked at the mourners filing into the circle to sit down on the far side of the fire.

"How many of you will be left, after this?" asked Kojay very softly.

"Six for now, but God only knows by the time it's all over," said Josiah. His deep voice caught a moment before he could go on. "I've always wondered what would happen if we lost one of us. I guess now we'll find out."

And he looked away into the darkness, towards the resting place of the one who was already gone.

Part 148

It was the sound of the keening that drew him, finally, from a colorless dark into one that was black and red and edged with firelight. Vin blinked as a face came into focus, several feet away and somewhat above him. He blinked again, aware of the weight of something heavier than a blanket over him, licked dry lips, and heard his own breathing change.

"Rest easy, Brother." The voice was so familiar that it brought the face into focus for him.

"Chanu."

His friend smiled very slightly in answer as he lifted water to Vin's lips and helped him drink deeply of it. "You fight hard for a man who should be dead." The sound of the keening wavered in the air around Chanu's words, and Vin frowned as he laid back.

"How many . . . did you lose?" He knew they'd won the fight: he and Chanu were alive and talking. His friend's face darkened with grief.

"Six," he said softly. "No one here was spared a loss. And there are eight wounded, two of them badly. But they will live. More important, the People will live. All the women, the children, the old ones are safe."

"Thank God," said Vin softly. He rolled his head to one side, searching the dimness of the lodge, and Chanu spoke again.

"Your healer is moving among my warriors now," he said, laying a hand upon Vin's arm beneath the heavy hide robe that was over him, "and the man who talks with spirits is with my father."

"Nathan an' Josiah." Vin relaxed against the soft skins piled beneath him and looked at the dancing shadows of firelight on the walls of the lodge near the smoke hole. "What about the others?"

"They went to get some supper." It was Chris who spoke, and Vin felt relief cascade through him as he looked towards the lodge door and saw the gunman rising from the half-stoop of coming through it. The keening of those mourning was suddenly overlain at that moment by the strong, reedy voice of the village crier, singing the deeds of the dead warriors who had fought so bravely. Drums began to throb and Chanu rose to his feet to clasp Chris's forearm.

"I told you if I left he'd wake up. He's ornery like that." Chris's voice was dry, and his eyes flashed as he tossed a glance at Vin even as he spoke to Chanu.

"I will see you again later," Chanu said. "My place is with the others right now, and with my father." He looked again at Vin, his eyes dark, and this time he turned in such a way that the firelight fell upon a heavy bruise along one side of his forehead, and a long gash that showed a row of Nathan's neat stitches. He nodded to both men and slipped out the doorway into the night.

Chris was easing himself down onto the robes near Vin, and setting the two bowls of food he'd brought into the lodge with him on the floor as he did so. "I was thinkin' I might have to help you eat when you came to," he said, running light eyes up and down his friend, "but you're lookin' a lot better than I thought you would. Think you can handle it yourself?"

"Thanks, Chris. I ain't hungry right now." Vin was shaking his head slightly, and Chris gave a rather grim, tight-lipped smile.

"Nathan told me you'd say that. I'm to tell you--"

"Chanu said they had six men killed, eight more wounded."

The gunman sighed, his face growing more serious. "Yeah." He toyed with the spoon in one of the bowls of stew, his eyes distant. Then he looked at Vin as the tracker spoke softly again.

"Ezra," he said, "JD. Buck."

"They're fine." Chris's eyes remained heavy-lidded and he ran his gaze back down to the spoon. "JD's on his third bowl a' stew, I think." The gunman shot a quick glance at Vin, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners, as he said it.

"Those women'll love him for it," observed Vin. Then his expression tightened. "What about Buck? Where is _he_?"

"You're not worried about Ezra?" Chris's voice was taking on a teasing quality that suddenly made Vin feel angry, and he pushed himself up off the skins enough to turn his face to his friend, his features closing together with the effort of it and with the emotion he didn't have strength left to hide.

"That ain't what I meant, an' you know it." The tracker leaned sideways against the backrest behind him, panting, and gestured towards the lodge door. His voice had taken on the husky tone it had only when he was mad and trying to contain it. "Go out there an' take care a' HIM, Chris. Not me. I ain't the one that--"

"That's enough." Chris's voice was clipped. He stared back at Vin in the thick silence that descended suddenly between them.

"Is that what you want," asked Vin after a while, his voice soft but rough, "is t' do it all over again? The whole damn thing, just like before? Now that we finally got a chance t' end this?"

Chris didn't answer.

The fire licked at the wood in the center of the lodge, its flames casting shadows on the walls that danced like the voice of the crier singing outside in the village square. The mourners had stopped keening for a time, honoring the deeds of their fallen. The burning wood snapped softly, and Vin's face softened with sorrow as he dropped back to the skins with a low, deep grunt of pain and closed his eyes. He opened them again after a while and lay quietly, looking at the play of the firelight on the hides. Finally he spoke again, his drawl soft and rough.

"He left, Chris. An' he wasn't plannin' to come back when I found 'im. Can you say for sure you know where he is right now? That he ain't already gone, now that he's seen this thing through t' the end?" Vin rolled his head to one side and looked back at Chris then, and the gunman looked up to meet the clear gaze of those steady eyes and realized that for once he couldn't meet it squarely. He sighed, and dropped the spoon he'd been moving around in the stew next to him. He set his hands in his lap.

"When we came back from Mexico . . . that time . . . " Chris paused, and licked his lips as a flash of pain ran across his face. Vin waited. The gunman looked up at him then, and continued in a steadier voice. "Why is that always what I think of?" he asked softly. "We were talking about now, about . . . Belle, and . . ." his voice trailed off and he gestured vaguely, confusion drawing his brows together. "What would make me suddenly start to tell you about that, instead?"

"What were you goin' to say -- about that?" Vin's voice was so soft that the gentle snap of the fire almost covered it.

"I'm not sure. I just--" Chris hesitated, clearly groping for what he wanted or needed to say. Finally he looked at Vin and his eyes grew dark with pain and he said in a low voice thick with an emotion the tracker had never heard in it, "I don't know."

Vin was silent. After several long, long minutes, Chris stood up, nodded as though to himself, turned, and left the lodge without a word. Vin looked at the two bowls of stew sitting on the floor, and then at the door. He laid his head back on the sleeping robes and listened as a warrior outside began to sing the death song for one of his fallen friends.

Part 149

Buck slid wearily from his horse. There had been no shots fired for the last half hour or so. He'd ridden clear to the western foothills with several of the Indian warriors and Josiah, making sure that Michaels' men were really gone and weren't coming back. As they'd ridden back into the village, Ezra had cantered up to join them, having patrolled for several miles in the other direction with members of the Fox Warrior Society. As they met, Ezra shook his head. No sign of anyone.

It was over.

Buck watched the others dismount. Michaels was in jail. The raid on the reservation had been stopped. What had begun so long ago that none of them even knew it was finally over. He saw Nathan coming toward him and he took his hand off the saddle horn and pulled himself upright. He reached under the grey's neck and grabbed the other rein, but when he would have followed the other men to take care of his horse, Nathan stepped in front of him.

"How you feelin,' Buck?" he asked brusquely.

"I'm all right," Buck told him though his voice was hoarse with fatigue. He swayed slightly just then and Nathan caught his arm.

"No, you ain't," he said. He turned his head. "Ezra! Come here and get Buck's horse."

"I ain't got time for this, Nathan," Buck protested softly.

"You ain't got time for nothin' else," Nathan said implacably. "Fightin's over for now. And you need to be off that leg. You can't tell me it ain't hurtin' you."

Buck took a step and he could feel the ache of it shiver clear up his side. No, he guessed he couldn't tell Nathan that. But, no one understood. It was over. "I have to..." he began.

"You have to sit right down here and rest for awhile, Buck." Nathan led him over near the tents and took his hat and his coat and suddenly there were other people there with blankets and Nathan was pushing him down and covering him up and Buck tried to protest, but no one was paying any attention to him. "Now, you stay there and I'll come back later and look at your leg," Nathan told him. "You hear me?"

The robes and blankets were soft and warm and he was so tired... "Nathan?" Buck roused himself. "Where's Vin?"

Nathan had already turned back toward the area on the other side of the village where all the wounded had been taken, but he came back and knelt down and laid his hand on Buck's shoulder. "He's all right," Nathan told him. "He's restin' in that lodge over there. So you don't need to worry about him at all."

"I ain't got nothin' left to do," Buck complained softly.

"Nah, you ain't," Nathan said, "so just lie there for once and I'll be back directly."

+ + + + + + +

Buck hadn't intended to fall asleep. He'd only laid down to make Nathan happy, but when he opened his eyes again it was already dark. There was a large fire burning in the center of the village and he could see men sitting around it, talking quietly. He could hear the keening of mourners across the village and he closed his eyes for a minute remembering men who had been there one minute and then gone with nothing but a sharp cry to remember them by.

He sat up, throwing off the blankets and robes that covered him. Across the fire he could see Ezra surrounded by Indian children and even farther away, with his back to the fire he could see JD surrounded by older women urging food on him. He grabbed his hat and coat, which were laying near him on the ground and he stood. His leg was stiff and sore. He was pretty sure that Nathan would tell him not to walk on it. But it didn't collapse out from under him and wasn't bleeding and he figured if it had gotten him through the day so far, it could get him through a little longer. He stood for a moment and breathed in the smell of wood smoke and stew and tanned leather and buffalo robes, along with the not-yet-faded smells underneath of blood and gun powder and death.

He'd done what he'd said he'd do. He'd seen things through to the end. And Vin was all right and JD was all right and even Chris, damn him, was all right. And now it was time to go. And it was easier this time, he thought. He didn't even have his saddlebags or any clothes except the ones on his back. All the rest had burned up in the cabin fire and he figured if he'd ever needed a sign that it was time to move on, that was it. He thought about whether he should say good bye to the others, but then he wasn't sure what purpose it would serve. Vin knew. Chris ought to know, though he didn't. And maybe he should talk to JD, but he didn't want the kid to even _think_ of coming with him. JD had come a long way since he'd arrived in Four Corners. He'd learned a lot, but he needed more than he'd get from wandering with Buck--more backing, more advice, more chance to romance Casey. No, it was better done quick and fast and final. And now.

Buck turned toward the picket line where the horses were tied and was startled to see Josiah standing in front of him.

"Thought I oughta say goodbye," Josiah said in his deep voice. He offered Buck his hand.

"It ain't--" Buck began.

"Because a' me?" Josiah nodded. "I know. Or at least," his smile was self-mocking and a little bitter. "you think it ain't."

"It was always coming," Buck told him. "I just didn't know it until now."

"What'll you do?"

Buck grinned at him. "I won't know until I get there. But reckon anywhere I light there'll at least be women."

Josiah smiled at him too, sensing that Buck had been as serious as he intended to be, that the time for sharing confidences was past. "I reckon you're right there," he said. But when Buck turned away, he couldn't help but add. "You want me to tell them anything for you?"

"Just...goodbye," Buck said.

+ + + + + + +

Chris was furious. He didn't even realize it until he'd left the lodge. Who the hell was Vin to tell him what to do and how to do it? Who the hell was anybody? He didn't need this. He stalked through the center of the village, not even hearing the drums or the sounds of men and women talking quietly or the sharp protests of the injured. People moved out of his way and he didn't even notice.

He slowed for a minute as he neared the large fire burning in the middle of the circle of lodges. Was he really angry at Vin, he thought? Or just at himself? His mind flashed back to that moment earlier in the day when he and Buck had swung their horses into each other. 'Son of a bitch,' he'd started to say. And then, right then, he'd seen it. Seen Josiah crushing Buck and yelling at him: 'Son of a whore. You son of a whore." He hadn't even heard it at the time, or it hadn't registered anyway. He'd been so eaten up with frustration and anger and bitterness. He'd expected, in some way he didn't even like about himself, to see Buck in the role Chris had put him in. Not because Buck belonged there, Chris realized finally, but because Chris needed him there. And it was true that he'd done it before, when his anger had been too much for him and he'd needed someone to project it onto, Buck had been there. When Mary Travis had slammed him straight out of a clear blue sky about Sarah and Adam, something he'd thought she'd have no way of knowing and so had been completely unprepared for, he'd gone after Buck with a straight razor and Buck had forgiven him for that.

But he can't forgive me for this, Chris thought. And he could see it all laid out now. How it started and how it had gotten deeper and deeper until there had been nothing left.

Son of a whore.

Buck had never said much even to Chris about his early life, but once in Tucson, they'd been approached by a wealthy cattle rancher about working for him. The man and his son had convinced them their fight was an important and just one. They'd walked out of the saloon and had been turning to shake hands on the deal when a woman and a young boy walked by. The rancher's son had gotten in front of her with an ugly grin on his face and tipped his hat at her in a way that made it clear he didn't think she was any kind of a lady at all. Buck had stepped up and pulled him back. 'Let the lady pass,' he'd said in a low, melodic voice that told anyone who knew him that it was dangerous to cross him right then. The rancher's son had looked at him indignantly. 'She's just a whore,' he'd said. 'Her and her bastard son.' And Buck hadn't said anything at all. Just picked the man up and dumped him in a horse trough and walked away.

Damn, Chris thought. Son of a whore. And I didn't back him.

He'd realized it all right there on the battlefield when he'd looked at Buck's face as he swore. But there hadn't been time then and when he'd gotten back to the village finally and checked on everything, Buck had been asleep and he'd helped Nathan and talked to Kojay and watched Vin and he'd figured there'd be time, because even as bad as this was there was always time. If they survived the fight and came home, then there was time to take care of all the other things. So there he'd been, doing the right thing, taking care of Vin because Nathan was busy and someone had to and what he'd really been doing was putting off talking to Buck. And Vin had nailed him for it in that way he had and Chris was angry because he knew he was right. He took a deep breath and paused. Because Vin was right.

By this time, Chris had reached the center of the village where the large fire was burning. The men of the village were gathered there, those who weren't injured or keeping watch. Chris could see Josiah and off to one side, Ezra and JD. But he couldn't see Buck. He went over to where Josiah was sitting and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Where's Buck?" he asked when the big man turned.

Josiah's expression was grave. "I expect by now he's gone."

Chris straightened up. Gone. A shock wave passed through him. Son of a bitch! He couldn't be gone. Anger flared again. Cold. Familiar. Comforting. I thought you never quit, Buck, he thought as he made his way over to the picket line where their horses were tethered. I thought you never walked out. The red ember of his rage began to stoke itself into a white-hot fury. Left me. Walked out. Damn you, he thought. Damn you, Buck! Chris rounded a tent and saw Buck and he stopped.

Buck was standing on the other side of his horse, facing Chris, his head bent as he tightened the cinch. He's really leaving, Chris thought. And I brought him to it. And all the anger that he'd been stoking drained away. He could only remember one other time Buck had walked out and that had been shortly after Sarah and Adam had died. Chris had been drunk for three days in a saloon in a run down border town when Buck had come to get him. Chris hadn't even let him speak, knowing already what he was going to say. Buck had walked up to him and Chris had decked him with a single solid right to the jaw. And Buck hadn't left then. Chris had pulled his gun on him and threatened to shoot him. And even then Buck hadn't left. He hadn't left until Chris had sat down opposite him and laid it all out, every small minute detail, all the reasons, laid out one by one, one after the other, why it had been Buck's fault that Sarah and Adam had died, why Buck should have died instead of them. And Buck had listened to him and when he had finished, he'd said. "Yeah, you're right, Chris. That's exactly right." And he'd stood up and walked away.

And suddenly, as if it were his day to be pummeled with one lightning bolt after another, Chris realized that Vin had been completely and absolutely right about something else too. If he let Buck leave, if he didn't say exactly and everything he needed to say, he would have to do this whole thing over again. And it might be too late. Might already be too late, he realized. But at least he had to try.

He crossed the distance between them. "Buck," he said quietly.

Buck looked up at him. Shadows played across his face, cast by the light from the big fire on the other side of the Indian lodges. One minute his features were almost completely hidden and the next, his face stood out in clear and stark relief. He didn't say anything, but he waited and Chris took that as a sign to continue. "I'm sorry about this--"

"Yeah, I know," Buck cut him off and gave one last tug on the cinch, letting down the stirrup and testing the set of his saddle.

Chris realized Buck wasn't going to make this easy. No reason he should, he thought. "Do you ever think about how many times you've saved my life?" Chris asked him.

Buck had turned away to pick up a bed roll and throw it on the back of his saddle but now he paused and looked at Chris with a puzzled expression on his face.

Chris continued, taking a step forward as he spoke. "I don't, you know," he said quietly. "Can you believe that? I don't even think about it. We've known each other over ten years and you've saved my life...hell, I don't know how many times and it doesn't even cross my mind from one day to the next."

"You've saved my life a time or two," Buck admitted grudgingly.

Chris took a deep breath and took another step forward and then, because Buck continued to stand there and he figured that maybe he had a chance, he took a third step forward because just for once it seemed important that he look at Buck and see him clearly, without shadows or flickering reflections of firelight or anything to get in the way. "It ain't the same," Chris said.

Buck looked puzzled and then angry. "What the hell are you talking about, Chris?"

Chris came around to stand directly in front of Buck. "Ever since we got back together in Four Corners I wanted you to betray me. Not," he said when Buck started to protest, "because I expected it. Not because I ever thought you would. Not deep down. But because I _wanted_ you to."

"Why the hell would you want that?"

"Because then it would be all right to blame you for Sarah and Adam's deaths."

There was a sharp silence between them. Behind them were the sounds of the village, of singing and drums beating and people talking, but neither man heard those sounds.

"It was my fault, Chris," Buck said quietly. "I kept you in Mexico that night."

"I could have left. You didn't keep me." And though Chris had said those words before, this time they seemed both sadder and more sincere. "I should have backed you against Josiah," Chris said. "I didn't. And I was wrong. And I'm sorry."

Buck bent his head. Chris realized that this, whether Buck accepted his apology or not, would make all the difference for him, for Chris. And then he realized that it didn't matter. He couldn't use Buck any more to make himself human or inhuman or good or bad. Whatever he was going to be, he had to be it. What counted in this moment was no longer Chris, but Buck.

Chris waited.

For a long moment, Buck stood silently next to his grey, looking at his own hands as he tucked the end of the billet strap into its holder and smoothed it flat. Then he laid both hands on the seat of the saddle and raised his head and looked at Chris with a guardedly neutral expression. His eyes slowly softened though no smile appeared. He gave Chris a quick nod.

"All right," he said softly. Then again, "All right."

Part 150

"You sure you're ok?" Chris had one arm around Vin's waist and he had the tracker's good arm over his shoulders. He was looking earnestly at his friend's face as he spoke.

"Yeah." Vin's voice was soft and a little disgusted. "I'm fine." He kept walking, slowly. As a matter of fact, he didn't feel fine at all, but he had no intention of saying anything about it right now. The buggy was all of another 15 feet away, and there were warriors in nearby lodges who were hurt a lot worse than he was. Be damned if he was gonna' -- _shit_! He caught his breath and drew up short as a stab of pain hit his shoulder and raced out through his chest and arm without warning, and Chris stopped walking to steady him a moment. Vin shook his head to clear it, feeling a cold sweat break out all over him at the same time. He really, really didn't want to start shaking visibly, so he started towards the buggy again to get there before that could happen. It was just a few more feet.

"Damn stubborn, is what you are, not 'fine'," corrected Nathan. "Blood poisonin' ain't nothin' to fool aroun' with, Vin, an' you ain't even been clear a' fever for 24 hours yet. You can't just decide you're well an' start actin' like it." The healer was walking towards them from the buggy, his face lined with concern and fatigue. He'd been up most of the night tending wounded men, and Vin doubted he'd even eaten. As a result, he didn't say a word to defend himself, knowing that Nathan understood why he'd pushed himself so hard the day before anyway. Instead, he let the healer take his bad arm gently by the elbow encased in a heavy sling and help Chris ease him into the buggy. Vin let out a sigh of exasperation and looked at Chanu, standing nearby. The warrior's face was expressionless, the line of stitches on his forehead looking like hair that had fallen grotesquely out of place. As if feeling Vin's eyes on them, he raised a hand to finger the stitches and then smiled slowly.

"You have a good healer," he said. Then he grinned more broadly. "You should listen to him and do what he says."

"Thanks, Chanu." Vin's voice was so dry that JD and Buck, sitting their horses nearby, both chuckled. Vin looked over at them and gasped.

"JD!! Are _you_ ok?"

"Yeah." The youth looked almost embarrassed about the enormous swath of bandages around his head. He had his hat hanging over his saddle horn, and Vin was certain it was because there was no way to wear it over all that.

"Now Vin, you KNOW how hard this boy's head is." Buck's eyes were clear and relaxed, Vin suddenly realized, in a way he hadn't seen in . . . he leaned back against the fabric-covered frame supporting the buggy's covering, feeling nearly dizzy. He couldn't remember how long it had been. A long time. He realized that Chanu was speaking again, and turned his head to regard his other friend with a look that must have conveyed the fact that he'd missed whatever had been said.

"I said," repeated Chanu, coming closer to the buggy, "that your young friend will heal quickly and well because he was not struck through his clothing as you were."

Nathan was getting into the buggy on the other side to drive it, but at those words he paused and looked across the vehicle at Chanu. "Is that right?" There was a curious sound to his voice that made Josiah chuckle and shake his head to himself as he pulled his chestnut to him by its reins so he could mount up.

"We gotta' get back to town before nightfall, Nathan," observed Chris, with a sly grin on his face. Mary, sitting Vin's gelding behind the buggy, smiled at the gentle teasing.

"Now jus' a minute, now, Chris." Nathan looked intently at Chanu again. "Tell me what you meant, please."

Chanu shrugged genially. "The bad sickness and fever from a wound, it comes most often when a man is struck through cloth. Does it not?"

Nathan was silent a moment, turning over cases he knew about in his mind. Then his eyes darkened. "You know, I think you're right."

Chanu nodded. "Yes. It is so."

"Is that why you all fight -- well, sort of . . ." JD stammered to a halt, unsure of how to say what he wanted to say.

"Yes!" Chanu's face brightened. "If you would remove your garments to fight, you would suffer less from the wounds you receive. Heal faster."

"Well," Chris shifted in his saddle and looked at the assembled company with a smirk darting around his lips. "I think the ladies in town might complain if we all stripped down every time we --"

The gunman was drowned out by gentle laughter -- until a ruddy-faced woman standing nearby cried out loudly, her large round body shaking with hilarity, "Oh, those white women are fools!" At that the entire group burst into very loud laughter. Mary threw one hand over her face as she blushed scarlet, which made the others laugh even more.

"What d'ya' think, Vin?" Buck legged his grey up close enough to the buggy to look in under the covering at the tracker, across Nathan. "Shall we give the ladies a' Four Corners a li'l treat the next time someone tries to rob the bank?"

"Aw hell, Buck!" Vin's voice was hoarse, and he colored too. "I'll take my chances with blood poisonin' ANY day, 'stead a' . . . aw HELL." He shook his head, and Buck roared as Nathan clucked to the buggy horse and the group started out.

"For once, Mr. Tanner," called Ezra, legging his horse into a rapid jog past the buggy on the tracker's side, "you and I are in _complete_ agreement!" He mock-saluted the wounded man and then urged his mount into a lope to catch up with Buck and JD.

Vin leaned back against the seat behind him, enjoying the good feeling of smiling again just because of being happy. It seemed like such a simple thing, but . . . well, hell, he thought again to himself. You just never knew which way the wind would blow next, or what it would bring with it. He looked out at the desert rolling slowly by, at his friends riding along in little clusters: Buck carryin' on telling JD some kind of story as Ezra shook his head at it; Josiah riding just outside the buggy's front wheel on the driver's side, next to Nathan, the two of them talking in low, steady voices; Chris riding alongside the buggy near Vin, sometimes watching Buck's shenanigans, sometimes exchanging a long steady look of satisfaction with Vin, and sometimes stealing sideways glances at Mary when she chanced to look somewhere else and wouldn't know it.

The miles crept by and the sun began to slide lower in the sky, and slowly Vin's eyes drooped shut despite himself. But even when he had fallen asleep, his head sagging against the side of the carriage and bobbing with the rhythm of the rolling wheels, his features were relaxed and a gentle smile still graced them.

Part 151

After the first hour on the trail, the men grew quiet. JD's head ached and the bandage was starting to itch. He'd have to talk Nathan into taking it off or at least giving him a smaller one when they got back to town. But at least--he looked around at the other men riding with him--they were all back together again. And finally, they were riding back to town.

Thinking about Four Corners got him thinking about Casey and he wondered how she was doing. Had she missed him? Well, gosh, he hoped so! But he just was never sure around her. Never sure what to say, never sure what to do, and particularly never sure what Casey was thinking. She had a way of mixing him up so he didn't quite know what to say or think. One minute he'd be seeing her as someone to go fishing with or drop hay on from the loft, and the next minute he'd want to grab her and kiss her and not let go. He sighed, wishing he had Buck's easy way with women instead of his own stumbling...well, you could _call_ it a style, but it sure wasn't much. The thing was, though, that Buck really loved all those women and JD just couldn't see himself that way, ever. He figured that for him it'd be pretty much forever when he fell in love and he knew that was why he was such an idiot around any woman that he maybe even thought he might, possibly, could like.

Josiah had mixed feelings about returning to town and the closer they got the quieter he got. It'd been awhile since he'd had the chance to think on how he'd acted in town. He looked over at Buck, riding near the buggy. Buck had been quiet for awhile, riding along with his head down as if he were half-asleep, and in the last fifteen minutes or so, he'd shifted in the saddle so there was less weight on his bad leg and Josiah figured it was bothering him again though he'd likely never say anything. He'd apologized to Buck and that'd gone all right, better than he could have expected. And he had to figure that Chris had finally apologized to him too, seeing as how Buck was still ridin' with them. But how did he, Josiah, apologize to a town? They deserved better than him for a preacher. They deserved more than they were ever likely to get. He sighed. Well, he'd do the best he could, he guessed. It was all a man could do when it came down to it, anyway.

Nathan looked at Vin, sleeping restlessly beside him in the buggy, then he looked at Buck who he could tell was tired and probably hurting more than he'd admit, but doing all right compared to how he'd been. He rubbed his own tired eyes for a minute and realized how glad he'd be to get back to Four Corners. 'I'm goin' telegraph Miz Ruby right away, though,' he thought. 'Once I get Vin settled.' And he smiled to himself at Miz Ruby's likely reaction to receiving a telegram. 'Well, things are gonna be different now,' he thought. 'they're just gonna be different.'

"What're ya thinkin', Nathan?" Vin's quiet voice beside him was easy to hear even over the creaking of the wheels and the shift and squeak of the buggy.

"Thinkin' I'm goin' ta' be glad to get home," Nathan said. He looked at Vin, shrewdly assessing the tiredness and pain in the tracker's eyes. "Reckon you will be, too," he said.

"Yeah," and a small smile played around Vin's mouth as he looked at Nathan and then at the other men and at Mary riding near them. He hadn't really thought much about coming back to Four Corners, had figured when he'd left that things would never be the same again. Well, maybe they weren't the same, but, he looked at Buck and Chris and Mary and the others, they were looking pretty good at the moment anyway.

Chris looked at Mary and tried to figure out what to say to her. He wasn't sure why he thought he needed to say anything, but it didn't feel right, just riding there not talking. "Uh, Mary," he began, but he was interrupted by Ezra riding back down the trail toward him.

"Mr. Larabee," Ezra said, "you'd better come look at this."

Heads snapped up on the other men at Ezra's tone and even as Chris legged his horse into a lope and followed Ezra up the shallow rise ahead of them he could sense the alertness of the others as their hands went to their guns and they gazed sharply at the desert landscape.

As they topped the rise, Ezra reined in and pointed toward Four Corners. They were still maybe a mile and a half outside town, but they could clearly see the livery and several other buildings from where they sat their horses. Just beyond the livery there were clouds of dust being raised, signaling at some kind of unusual activity.

"More trouble, Mr. Larabee?" Ezra asked.

Chris's eyes narrowed, but they were too far away to tell exactly what was going on. He heard the sound of horses behind him as Josiah and JD joined them. Chris's horse danced sideways, picking up tension from its rider. "We'd better check it out," Chris said grimly. "JD," he said, "you stay back here with the others."

"No way, Chris!" JD protested. "Casey's there."

"I'll stay," Josiah said calmly. "Go."

Ezra, Chris, and JD took off at a gallop, hoping to reach town before whatever seemed about to happen, happened. Just as they were leaving, Buck jogged up on his grey. Josiah could see the pain it caused him, to ride his horse at anything faster than a walk, though he tried to hide it. "What's up?" he asked.

Josiah pointed toward the town and the clouds of dust kicking up behind the livery.

"Hell!" Buck said, angry that after everything that had happened, there would still be trouble, but mostly angry at his own weakness that kept him from riding after the others.

Josiah clapped him on the shoulder. "The others'll take care of it, Buck. You and Vin, you've done enough."

"Well, hell!" Buck repeated as Mary on Vin's horse and Nathan and Vin in the buggy came up even with him and Josiah.

Vin looked toward town seeing what the others had already seen. He looked at Chris and Ezra and JD moving rapidly away from them. Then, he looked at the bandages wrapped around his shoulder and his chest. He pushed himself up straighter in the seat and even that small effort left him panting. "Damn," he said softly, echoing Buck's sentiment.

"It don't matter," Nathan said, though it was clear to both Buck and Vin that Nathan wished he were up there with the others too. "Chris and Ezra and JD they can take care of what needs doin'," he said. "You and Buck already done enough."

"That's just what I told 'em," Josiah said with some satisfaction.

Buck and Vin looked at both of them with narrowed eyes, but neither of them spoke and when Nathan flicked the reins and the horse drawing the buggy started forward again at an easy walk, Vin settled back against the cushion with a sigh and Buck edged his horse to the right and took up a position once more beside the buggy. Mary watched them all and tried to hide a smile. It was good, she thought, to have them all back again. And then, like a small thing that she knew wouldn't go away until they were there, she worried about what was going on in town.

+ + + + + + +

Yosemite watched with his arms crossed as most of the men from the town and surrounding farms checked their cinches and straps and ammunition and rifles one more time. There was little talk; the mood was grim. Women stood on the boardwalks and watched their husbands who would look over at them occasionally with tense and guarded faces. Horses danced nervously, throwing their heads high as, one after the other, the men mounted.

'No good will come of this,' Yosemite thought. He had seen this kind of thing before, when white men rode on an Indian village. When it was over, men on both sides would be dead and no one would be the better for it.

The last straw had been Mrs. Travis. What had she been thinking? Things were stirred up enough without her taking off for the reservation yesterday morning. And now, no one had heard from her. That was what had finally driven the men to start up a posse. Men you wouldn't expect it of, but that's the way it went. Men who figured they didn't have any choice any more. And maybe they didn't, but it wouldn't matter when it was done. There would still be warriors and town folk dead. There'd be women and children dead too. Yosemite knew. He'd seen it. No matter how good the men who rode out were, no matter how close to the front of the church they sat on Sunday morning, if they rode out scared, if they rode out afraid for the lives of their own families, it never, ever failed, they'd end up killing someone else's.

He should have known it'd come to this, when they wouldn't listen to him about the white man with Nettie Wells's horses. When they couldn't hear him say it was a white man who shot the deputy from Eagle Bend. He should have known. But what could he do about it? That's what he'd been worrying on ever since yesterday. Mrs. Travis was gone. The seven men whose job it was to protect this town were all gone too. And he was just one man.

With a heavy sigh, he uncrossed his arms and stood straighter. "Listen, fellas," he said. And his voice was lost among the low murmur of the men's voices and the stomping of their horses's feet. "Hey!" he shouted.

A few men turned to look at him, but before he could say anything else a man on the edge of the group suddenly legged his horse to the inside and stood up in the saddle, pointing with the broad brim of the hat in his hand to the north. "Looky, there!" he shouted. "Riders comin' in."

Yosemite could hear the sharp, stomach-dropping sound of a half-dozen rifles being cocked. Hell, he thought, it's gonna start right here.

"Good heavens!"

Yosemite heard Nettie Wells's shocked voice and he spun around. As he saw who was riding in, his jaw dropped. 'Just like 'em,' he thought. 'When they're most unexpected.'

"JD!" Casey exclaimed as she ran forward, breaking the tension among the gathered crowd.

Chris, JD, and Ezra reined their horses in just in front of the large group of mounted men. Chris's eyes narrowed as he studied them. "What's going on here?" he asked in a quiet voice that somehow seemed to carry through the entire crowd.

One of the men in the middle of the group raised his rifle above his head. "We're goin' after them damn Indians! The ones out at the reservation! They been attackin' our homes, killin' our cattle. It's time to stop 'em."

Murmurs of assent rippled through the crowd.

"Yeah!"

"That's right!"

"Teach 'em a lesson."

Chris looked at the men, looked squarely in the eye of any of them who'd look at him. Ezra and JD sat easily on their horses behind him, a quiet, but nevertheless formidable presence. Gradually, the men fell silent again.

"What makes you think it was Indians?"

"Well, hell!" One man said with disgust. "We can tell that I reckon. We seen 'em! Wearin' buckskins and feathers! Whoopin' up a storm!"

"Saw 'em up close, did ya?" Chris asked. His voice was calm and he was even surprised himself at how steady he felt in the face of all these angry people.

"Well..."

"Hmmm..." The men hedged a little, but their faces were still angry. They weren't willing to back away yet. They'd been badgered and frightened and worried and someone, they figured, had to pay for that.

"It was a white man killed that deputy," Yosemite spoke up in the brief quiet. "I told you that!"

The men looked at Yosemite and then looked away, knowing in their hearts that they hadn't wanted to listen to him. If the problem was Indians, they could take care of that. If the problem was white men though...well, then things didn't make any sense at all.

"I saw 'em," one man insisted stubbornly. "They was dressed in moccasins and buckskins and they was wearin' war paint. You can't tell me they wasn't Indians."

Chris looked at him for a minute. "Were they wearing buckskin shirts and leggings?" he asked.

"Yeah! I told you!"

"They weren't Indians," Chris said flatly.

"You don't know that," the man insisted.

"Yeah, I do. Indians don't wear buckskins when they're fighting. But white men would--to cover their skin."

He saw some of the men nod their heads. "That's right," one of them said to another. "I seen 'em. Indians around here don't wear practically nothin' when they fight." The men on horseback, started to shift their horses and separate a little bit.

Chris pressed his advantage. "Look," he said. "I know what's been goin' on and it ain't Indians. First, we just came from the reservation. Second, like I just told you, the men who've been attacking your ranches ain't Indians. And, third," he said firmly when one of the men would have interrupted him, "the man behind this whole thing--a _white_ man--has been caught and put in jail."

"Wait a minute!" one man said. "You ain't explained anything. Who _is_ this man you say is behind everything? And," he was standing on the ground and he planted his hands on his hips and stepped toward Chris belligerently. "if you was out at the reservation, where's Mrs. Travis? We know she headed out for the reservation yesterday. And ain't nobody seen her since."

Chris dismounted and stepped toward the questioning man. Casey sidled around the edge of the crowd and edged over toward JD. "JD," she said shyly. "Are you all right?"

JD looked down at her and grinned. "Yeah," he said. "This ain't nothin'," he told her, pointing to the bandage on his head.

Casey looked toward Chris, standing toe-to-toe with the man who'd questioned him. "JD," she asked. "Where _is_ Mary? Is she okay? And," she drew in a deep breath. "Where are the others? Buck and Vin and everyone? They're not...I mean...they couldn't be..." her voice cracked.

"They ain't dead," JD said in a rush. His horse took a quick step sideways sensing his agitation. "Gosh, Casey--"

Chris took a step back and looked at the others in the crowd, those on foot on the boardwalk and those still on horseback. "Look," he said to all of them. "There was some trouble at the reservation. But things are fine now. Mrs. Travis is fine. She should be here in just a little while and you can see for yourselves. There won't be anymore 'Indian' trouble." He stepped forward, pulling on his horse's reins and forcing the man in front of him to step back. "Anyone wants more explanation than that can wait until after we all get a bath and some dinner and whiskey."

And with that, he walked his horse into the livery stable, though JD saw him glance back up the trail and he figured that Chris was hoping he could see the others coming. JD figured that Chris was choosing to stay in town because it would make the townfolk feel better and because he knew that the others would be okay. And JD figured that while they'd do that, stay in town and make sure the townsfolk were really calmed down and that no one was planning anything foolish, what all three of them, Chris and JD and Ezra, really wished was that everyone was already back there and things were back to normal.

Part 152

"I told you I needed the really caustic stuff," Bland said calmly, though inside his stomach was churning itself into knots. "This won't do at all."

Sharpes stood by the boarding room door and tried to remember why it was he'd decided not to shoot Bland. Revenge, oh yeah, that was it. Well, with Bland's poisonous underhanded help he'd have his revenge and when it was over he'd have one bullet saved just special for John Bland. "I got you what they had," he said now. "You want to remind me again why I'm runnin' errands for you all over town?"

"I told you," Bland said patiently, though his usual exasperation couldn't help but seep through. "They know me in this town. That's why you had to get this room, why you need to buy the supplies. And keep an eye out. What have you heard so far?"

"Well, they ain't back yet. I'd expect them late this afternoon. Word is that Michaels himself ain't gonna be here until tomorrow at the earliest. They been haulin' him down out of the mountains slow like, with a reg'lar army a' deputies. Like he's got any men left to help him." Sharpes snorted like this was some kind of sour divine joke. "Anyways, they ain't gonna keep him here long, just to collect evidence and clear the way for haulin' him off to some big city with its own courthouse and all where they can have a big trial for the kinda big man Michaels is."

Bland nodded as if this were not an unexpected and unwelcome piece of news. "Well, if that's so, we'll just have to make the best of it. We can make it work, I think. Yes, it could work very well. Poison a few people. Specifically some of those trouble-making cowboys and, of course, the guard detail around Michaels. Leave them in chaos and pick off Michaels before they haul him off again."

"They'll hunt him down like a dog," Sharpes said. "Maybe this ain't such a great idea after all."

Bland sat up and looked at Sharpes. "This is my plan," he said. "We eliminate the men who have caused us trouble. We get Michaels and we make certain he gets ahold of his money. What happens to him after that, well," he smiled, a small cold smile. "I don't really care, do you?"

"Nah," Sharpes drawled. "I guess not." He laughed. "Hell, Bland, I didn't think you had it in you. Figured you'd just cut and run the first time things got rough. So, we gonna pick 'em off when they come back into town? They won't be expectin' a thing," he said with some anticipation.

Bland looked at him condescendingly. "For once, we shall proceed with subtlety and delicacy. I know that Mr. Michaels thought himself capable of complex plans, but this time there will be only one plan, with only one outcome. And we will proceed cautiously and quietly and without error."

"Ah, hell," Sharpes complained. "How long's that gonna take?"

Bland measured white powder from one of the half-dozen bottles in front of him into a small porcelain bowl. He didn't look up as he responded to Sharpes. "I have no idea. How long it takes is of no consequence to me. That was where I went wrong previously. Allowing myself to be pushed and hurried. If I take my time and do this right, I can take each and every one of them before anyone knows what's happened."

"Well, time is important to me," Sharpes said. "I don't see any Goddamned reason to mess around here for who knows how long. Why don't we just walk up to one of 'em, stick a gun in his back and make 'em trade straight up--the cowboy for Michaels?"

Bland looked up at him, momentarily interested. "Do you think that'd work?"

"Hell, yes, it'd work. They think things are over, getting back to normal. They're tired of the whole thing. Anyone would be. We do it quick and bold, they ain't even gonna know what hit 'em."

"What if the marshall won't make the trade?"

"Hell, I don't know." The truth was that in some ways Sharpes didn't care. He'd told Bland it wasn't about the money and it wasn't. If he had enough to eat and a place to sleep he didn't care much beyond that. But he wanted to shoot someone. And if, in the course of shooting someone he could set Michaels free and get some money. Well, hell, that just made the whole thing better. "Come on, Bland. Quit playin' with them powders and poisons and do somethin' straight up for once." He sneered. "Can't actually fight like a man, can you?"

Bland picked up the pistol he had lying on the table beside him and pointed it at Sharpes without actually looking at him. "Go away," he said. "I don't need you anymore."

Sharpes drew in a quick breath, trying to decide whether to kill Bland right now and be done with it or wait until he was finished with everything else. Might as well wait, he thought. Save the best for last.

Well, the hell with you, Bland, he thought as he backed slowly out the boarding house door. I'll take care of things myself, he thought, straight up and right down the line and without waiting a bloody great heaping load of days for you. And he took himself off to come up with something easy and simple and fine that would get him revenge and perhaps get Michaels freed too.

And when I'm done, he thought, that idiot Bland will still be sitting here mixing powders and potions and I'll just walk in sweet as you please and I'll take care of him too.

Part 153

Nathan rubbed his hand across his eyes again and leaned against the balcony in front of his small clinic. The sun was just sinking below the horizon and the town was cast in fading greys and browns. They'd been away so long and yet things seemed so little different, Nathan thought. There were a few lingering people along the boardwalks who had not yet sought out their evening meals, a man was walking down the street with a burning brand, lighting the fires that had been laid earlier. Otherwise, things were peaceful and quiet.

Earlier, when they'd arrived in town, Nathan had been surprised to see so many people gathered at the livery. Chris, Ezra, and JD had already unsaddled and stabled their horses by the time the rest of them had arrived. But they'd all still been at the livery, waiting, not quite able to let go even when they knew there was no danger left.

After that, things had gotten confusing for a little bit with people shouting at him, clapping him on the shoulder, saying they were glad to have him back. Everyone a little too eager, maybe, but trying all the same to get things back to normal as quickly as possible. There'd been all sorts of help and it'd seemed like suddenly a veritable sea of humanity had been helping him get Vin out of the carriage and up to the clinic with Vin protesting quietly the whole time that he didn't really need the help. Nathan had glanced over his shoulder once to see Buck leaning against the livery with his horse's reins in his hands, his face still for once and lined with a tiredness that Nathan knew he'd been trying to hide for the better part of two hours. He'd wanted to go back then and bring Buck along with him. He'd known that bandage needed checking and Buck needed a good long sleep with no one to interrupt him, but things had just kept moving right along and there he'd been in his clinic with people asking him what he needed and running and getting it and he somehow hadn't left since. JD had even taken his message to Miz Ruby to the telegraph office for him, practically snatching it out of his hands in an effort to be useful.

Well, at least Vin was getting some rest. Nathan'd been pleased when he'd changed the tracker's bandages to see that the wound was staying clean and there were even signs that it was finally starting to heal right and proper like it should. He figured Vin had to be pretty tired of being laid up with it and he'd assured him that if he'd just, finally, take it easy it'd get better right quick.

"I damn well hope so," Vin had said as he drifted off to sleep.

Nathan heard steps on the wooden stairs and he straightened. A moment later, Mary Travis came into view carrying a large tray with starched white cloths laid over the dishes. Nathan hurried forward and took the tray from her.

"Now don't tell me, Mrs. Travis, that you've been cookin' the whole time since we got back here. You need your rest too, ma'am, you know."

Mary laughed softly. "It's from the hotel," she said quietly. "But I thought you'd be hungry and that Vin might like something." She paused and looked at the tired man in front of her. "I could sit with him awhile if you'd like."

"Nah," Nathan told her. "Ain't no need for that. He ain't got a fever and his wound's healin' up just fine. Just needs a quiet place to rest for a little while." He nodded his head toward the food in his hands. "Thank you for this, though."

Mary brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead. "I think we all have a great deal to thank you for," she said, smiling at him.

"Now, Mary," Nathan began.

"No, no, I'm not going to embarrass you by going on about it," she told him. "Just," she laid her hand on his arm. He could barely make out the features of her face in the dimming light. "know that I know. About all of you." And with that she turned away and was gone, leaving Nathan standing on the balcony looking after her.

+ + + + + + +

Buck was sitting on a chair outside the saloon with a beer on the table in front of him and his eyes closed. He'd been sitting there in a pleasant haze, dozing off and on for the last hour and a half. There was something really down right satisfying about sitting there and listening to the night sounds of the town, to know that he could get up at any moment and walk inside and be a part of it, but he didn't have to. He could hear voices through the open door--Ezra's drawl, Josiah's lower rumble, the bright laughter of one of the saloon girls.

He heard the saloon doors swing back and smelled the light scent of lavender . He smiled and reached out without opening his eyes and grabbed a woman's hand. He looked then and saw Flora, one of the newer saloon girls, smiling down at him.

She tugged on his hand. "C'mon, Buck," she said gaily. "C'mon inside. We're celebratin' in there. Why'd you wanna be sittin' out here for?"

"Well, now, darlin'," Buck said with a grin. He pulled her toward him thinking to set her on his lap but the sharp twinge in his right leg when he moved warned him that he'd better rethink that strategy so he contented himself with pulling her down close to him and kissing her hard on the mouth.

She pulled away from him, laughing and tugged on him again. "C'mon," she wheedled. "Inside."

Buck laughed again and was about to rise and follow her when he saw Casey Wells standing in the shadows just past the saloon entrance. When she saw him look her way she stepped back and stood, holding her hat in her hand looking over at him. Buck looked at Flora. "Listen," he said. "You go on now, darlin'. I'll be right behind you." Flora looked at him for a minute, hesitating, but Buck waved her away. "I promise," he said, winking at her. "I'll be there." Then, he smiled and Flora couldn't help but smile back and, laughing, she sashayed back into the saloon.

Buck settled back into his chair. The saloon doors were still swinging when Casey crossed over to stand in front of him. "You lose JD already?" Buck said with a smile.

Casey grinned and ducked her head. "No," she said. "He's gone off to Nathan's to see if he can get him to change that bandage on his head. He's all right, isn't he?" she asked, suddenly serious. "I mean, he looks all right, but--"

"JD'll be fine," Buck said. "You don't need to worry about that. It'll take more'n a knock on the head to get that boy down."

Casey looked at him for a minute then she pulled out a chair and sat down, resting her elbows on the table in front of her. "I'm glad you're okay," she said in a voice that practically resonated with emotion. "I was so worried. I thought--" she broke off and Buck waited for her to continue. "I thought I'd never have a chance to thank you for what you did for me."

Buck shook his head, almost like he was brushing away a fly. "You don't have to thank me, darlin'. I was glad to do it." He smiled at her, a quieter smile than the one he'd given Flora earlier, as if he and Casey had shared something together that made them both different in some way than they'd been before.

Casey ducked her head again. "But," she began. She looked up again, looked him straight in the eye and he was startled by the intensity there. "It caused a lot of trouble. _I_ caused a lot of trouble. I mean everything--"

Buck held up his hand. "Now, darlin', I don't want you sayin' that. It didn't cause any trouble at all."

"How can you say that?" Casey protested. "Josiah got mad. And Chris got mad. And you left town. And then you got hurt. And Vin got hurt. And--"

"Whoa now, just a minute there," Buck said, laughing. "How much blame were you figurin' on takin'?"

"All of it!"

"Well, now I can't let you do that. You gonna take the blame for JD gettin' hurt? For them Indians that were killed fightin' Michaels' men out at the reservation?"

"No...I guess not."

"All right then." Buck leaned forward and laid a hand over hers. "Look, Casey. The best you can do is what you do. I helped you because I wanted to help you. Because you needed help. I'd do it again in a minute. And I hope you'd ask me again. Anything else that happened is just, well...it's just what happened. You got no control over it. Don't you see?"

Casey looked at him doubtfully. "Well,..."

"Look, darlin'," Buck said, lifting her hand and grasping it in both of his. "I accept your thanks and I was glad to do it and I don't want to hear any more about it. All right?" And he smiled at Casey and just like Flora a few minutes earlier, she couldn't help but smile back.

"Hey! What's goin' on here?"

Casey would have jumped up at the sound of JD's voice, but Buck held onto her hand. He grinned at JD. "Well, now," he said, "I see you talked ol' Nathan into lettin' ya put that hat back on."

JD looked at Buck. He looked at Casey across the table. Then, he grinned and tapped the hat on his head which fit a little lop-sided even with the smaller bandage Nathan had provided him with. "Yup," he said cheerfully. "Knew you'd like it, Buck. Seein' you're so fond of my hat and all."

Buck released Casey's hand and she jumped up. "Oh, JD," she said. "Me and Buck were just--"

JD held up his hand. "You can have your own business, Casey," he said. "You ain't gotta tell me about it." He reached out and took her hand. "Only what you want 'ta tell me, I mean." Then, he looked over at Buck and Buck gave him a short nod of approval before JD and Casey turned to walk down the street.

Buck watched them for a moment until they disappeared into the fading twilight, then he rose from his chair and limped into the saloon.

+ + + + + + +

Miz Ruby looked at the sheet of yellow paper in her hand. One of the youngsters from the mine had brought it to the house a little earlier, saying it was for her. She'd folded it carefully and put it in her pocket and shooed the young man off after giving him a big slice of pie. Then, she'd gone on to fix dinner for that new man, Mister Steven Borall from the Delano mine and some of the shift foremen. Mr. Borall was staying down in the barracks with the other men, but she'd persuaded him to come to the house for at least some of his meals. She'd set Bitsy and Coco to cleaning the house from top to bottom, too, knowing that someone new would be coming sooner or later to live there.

But what's to happen to us, she thought. What's to happen to us? And now she sat in the kitchen with a pot of coffee sitting on the back of the stove and looked at the yellow piece of paper and wondered what it said.

'It gots to be from Nathan,' she said. 'Gots to be.' That boy'd said he'd send her word. And this had to be that word. But what if it was bad news? What if it was a telegram from that Mister Chris, tellin' her that Nathan'd been killed? She looked at the paper and sighed. She knew a few words to read out a' the Bible. But she jes' didn't know the words for this.

She heard a noise in the hall and she rose stiffly from her chair and made her way across the room. There was a man standing in the main hall, looking a little lost. Miz Ruby recognized him, though for a minute she couldn't recall his name. Fraser, that was it. The bookkeeper.

"Mista' Fraser," she said. "Can ah he'p you?"

Mister Fraser jumped as if he hadn't expected to see anyone else. "Ah, no...I mean, I was just checking on the safe and the books and tidying up a bit, just tidying up." He drew a breath and looked at her full on. "Things have changed so much," he said. "It takes a bit of getting used to."

"That it do," Miz Ruby said, shaking her head. "That it do. I gots pie and coffee in the kitchen," she said. "You wantin' some a' that?"

"Oh no, I wouldn't want to be any trouble."

"No trouble," Miz Ruby said, hustling him toward the kitchen. "It ain't no trouble at all."

Several minutes later, Charles Fraser laid down his fork with satisfaction. "Ma'am," he said. "That's some of the finest apple pie I believe I've ever had."

Miz Ruby beamed at him, then a thought struck her. "You're a readin' kind 'a man, ain't yo, Mister Fraser?"

"Why yes, ma'am. I have to be, to keep the books."

Miz Ruby pulled the folded yellow paper from her apron pocket carefully. "Then yo reckon ya'll kin read this heah fo' me?" she asked diffidently.

"Oh, yes, ma'am. Yes, ma'am," Fraser said, happy to do anything that made him useful. He reached out and took the telegram from Miz Ruby, handling it with the same care she had. He took a pair of small wire-rimmed glasses from a case in his jacket pocket and fixed them on the bridge of his nose. "Now let me see here." He said softly to himself. "Let me see. All right, then. This is what it says: HAVE ARRIVED BACK IN TOWN STOP ALL SAFE STOP WILL BE IN TOUCH STOP NATHAN.

"There now," he took off his glasses and carefully folded the paper again along the creases Miz Ruby had already made. He looked up at her and saw a smile on her face. "Is that all right, then?" he asked.

"Yessuh," Miz Ruby said quietly. "That's right all right indeed."

+ + + + + + +

Bland sat back in his straightbacked chair and looked at the small collection of bottles in front of him on the table. 'Yes,' he thought with satisfaction, 'I believe I have everything I need.'

He looked toward the closed door. 'Damn you, Sharpes,' he thought. He was pretty much stuck in this room until morning when he'd start to put his plan into effect. He rose and went to the window and looked out through the curtains at the street below. At least he had a front-facing room, he thought. Tomorrow he would carry out his plan. Sharpes had said that Michaels was due to arrive tomorrow so that would be the perfect time to take out the seven men who protected the town. It's what should have been done in the first place, he thought. Kill each of them quietly. Permanently. Michaels had thought he knew better. Had wanted to look Chris Larabee in the eye and tell him how clever he'd been. Well tomorrow things would finally be done the way they should have been done in the beginning. Starting with that damned darkie doctor who'd never learned his place. And at the end of the day tomorrow it would be John Bland standing, looking at Sterling Michaels. And Michaels would finally know who was the one he should have trusted from the beginning. Who was the one he should have listened to. Who was the one who took care of the mess Michaels had made of his intricate plans. John Bland.

He shut his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath and when he opened them again he felt relaxed and in control and ready for anything this dusty cow town had to offer him.

+ + + + + + +

Chris Larabee sat at a table in the back of the saloon with a glass of whiskey in front of him. He hadn't really thought much on coming back here. From the moment Striker had hit him on the head and hauled him off to Michaels' compound, or maybe even before that, when Buck and then Vin had left and he had followed them he hadn't thought much about the future. He'd been thinking instead about the one thing right in front of him and then the next thing, about getting away from Striker and out of the cellar, about warning the stage and stopping Michaels.

But now he was here. Chris saw Buck walk in through the swinging saloon doors and was glad to see a smile on his face as he bent down to kiss one of the saloon girls. Even above all the other voices and the chairs scraping back and the slap and shuffle of cards, he could hear Buck laugh. 'You can always count on Buck,' he thought, 'to let you know when things are back to normal.'

"Mr Larabee."

Chris looked up to see Ezra standing in front of his table with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. Chris gestured to the chair and Ezra took a seat.

"Saw you playing cards over there," he said to the gambler. "Didn't think we'd see you out of that until at least sun-up tomorrow."

Ezra poured himself a glass of whiskey and downed it in one swallow. He leaned back in his chair and grinned at Chris. "The men in this town are so relieved to have an end to their difficulties without bloodshed that they are hardly paying attention to the cards at all. For me to continue to play with them would be like taking candy from the mouths of proverbial babies."

For a moment the two men looked at each other. Chris's mind drifted back to the Indian villlage, to Hammersmith and Mary. As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Ezra straightened in his chair and looked down at his hands for a moment. When he looked up again he tilted his head sideways as if trying in some way to assess Chris's mood more accurately.

"Mr. Larabee--" he began.

And suddenly, Chris didn't want to do it, didn't want to know why Hammersmith had thought there was a relationship between Ezra and Mary or what might have happened when he wasn't in town. 'Things go forward from here,' he thought.

"Ezra," he said, "let it go."

Ezra looked startled for a minute then he relaxed and nodded.

For a short while, the two men sat in companionable silence. Chris could see Ezra look around the room with an appraising eye, saw him stop and note the location of Buck and Josiah and several rough-looking men who were sitting quietly against the opposite wall. One of the men stood suddenly and flung off his coat and Ezra's hand went quickly to his revolver before he noticed that the man was laughing heartily and he wasn't even armed. He gave Chris a sheepish look.

Chris smiled at him and poured him another glass of whiskey. He raised his own glass and looked at the refraction of the light through the colored liquid. "To whiskey," he said and downed the drink.

Ezra looked at him for a minute, looked at the relieved men in the saloon, laughing a little too loudly maybe, but at least for the moment secure in the knowledge that they had a future to work toward. He tapped his fingers on the table, picked up his own glass and raised it to Chris. "An excellent choice, Mr. Larabee. But for me, tonight, I would say rather, 'To tomorrow.'" Then, he too downed his drink, feeling the liquid burn down his throat and figuring that if he did plan to play cards at any time later this evening he probably ought to switch to beer.

Chris looked at him for a minute, then he nodded once and Ezra saw something that seemed perilously close to a smile cross his lips as he rose and left the saloon.

+ + + + + + +

Sterling Michaels was not a happy man. He hadn't been happy for several days of course. Not since Chris Larabee and his annoying band of misbegotten cretins had managed to foil his plans. But he was becoming more and more unhappy with each passing hour.

He was on the trail, uncomfortable every second of the way. Sleeping on the ground, for gods sake! He'd tried pointing out to these idiot deputies that he could afford to pay for a carriage and a place to stay at night and one of them had actually accused him of trying to bribe them!

They would be arriving in Four Corners soon and he would finally be able to talk to someone important enough and powerful enough to help him. He still had money, by god. And he still had influence. He knew power. And these...these dusty..._men_. They would not stand against him.

Maybe he wouldn't be free today. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not even for several weeks. But as long as he was alive, he would never be finished.

One of the deputies came over to where he was sitting with his ankles and wrists shackled, several feet away from the fire, and shoved a plate of beans into his hands. Michaels glared at him. Not finished, he thought. Not yet.

+ + + + + + +

Josiah left the saloon shortly after he saw Chris Larabee stand up and stroll out. He'd been restless all evening, feeling guilty about even being in the saloon after all that had happened, after the reason this entire thing had started in the first place. People could say that Michaels had been manipulating them. That he had sent Belle, that he had intended for Josiah to be enraged, for Buck to leave town, for all of it--all of it!--to happen. But it was Josiah's own weakness that had precipitated things. His lack of faith and his dark moody drinking. And now that he was back in Four Corners, he had to face that square on and find a way to live here again.

He walked out into the center of the street and looked up at the stark clear sky. He could see the stars laid out like bright pinpricks against the velvet blanket of the night sky. A horse and rider rode slowly by him, the soft clop, clop of the horse's hooves calling him back to the town around him. He walked on across the street and stepped onto the boardwalk in front of Mrs. Potter's store. You couldn't tell now, he thought, the damage that was done here. The baskets had been repaired. The goods restacked and moved almost a dozen times since then. There was nothing left to say except this is where Josiah Sanchez almost betrayed his friends and got them killed. Nothing.

"Mr. Sanchez?"

Josiah turned to see Mrs. Potter standing in the doorway of the store where she'd apparently been finishing up some chores. Josiah tipped his hat to her. "Good evening, ma'am."

Mrs. Potter closed and locked the door behind her and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Josiah offered her his arm. "May I walk you home, ma'am?" he asked.

She slipped her hand under his elbow and the walked down the street. "Josiah," Mrs. Potter said after several moments of silence. "I hope you know how grateful we all are for what you've done for this town. For everything, I mean, though mostly for, this time, keeping us from making a terrible mistake."

Josiah looked down at her. "Well, ma'am, we all _do_ make terrible mistakes from time to time."

He could feel Mrs. Potter's eyes on him as she replied. "We do," she said. "But, you know," she told him. "as long as we have another day we can grow and change and become more than the person we were before."

"Some mistakes can't be paid for," Josiah told her, his deep voice rumbling in the evening air.

"And some of them get paid for every day." Mrs. Potter stopped with him in front of her own small house and patted him on the arm. "Maybe _someone_ expects you to be perfect," she said. "But it isn't me."

"I thought," Josiah said, "That no one would want to come to the church anymore. After...everything."

Mrs. Potter gave him a direct and penetrating look. "Maybe someone won't," she said. "But maybe someone else will say, 'There's a man who makes mistakes and keeps on trying anyway.'" She patted him on the arm again, making Josiah feel as if he was a very large bear. "I'll see you on Sunday, Mr. Sanchez," she said as she opened the gate.

Josiah tipped his hat to her again. And this time he smiled. "On Sunday, ma'am. I'll be looking forward to it."

+ + + + + + +

Sharpes stood in the shadows of an alley and watched the town. He'd seen the seven men--well, except for the darkie and that tracker who'd been shot in the shoulder--one by one as they walked down the street or went in and out of the saloon. 'I could take any one of 'em,' he thought. And that was what he figured he would do. Come morning, he'd find one of them, alone, without the others around him and use him to get Michaels back.

Damn, Bland anyway, he thought. His way was too slow and, if the truth were told, too sneaky. Sharpe liked facing a man directly, liked seeing their face before he shot them.

Yeah, he grinned to himself. Come tomorrow, things ain't gonna never be the same.

+ + + + + + +

Vin woke and found himself blinking in the dim light of a single kerosene lamp. For a minute he couldn't figure out where the hell he was. Michaels? The Indian reservation? No, they'd come back to town. He was at Nathan's. He tried to sit up, but his shoulder protested sharply and he sank back down against the pillows. Damn. Wasn't he ever going to feel better?

Nathan, who'd been sitting at a table on the other side of the room writing in a leather-bound notebook, got up when he saw Vin moving and came over to him.

"Feelin' better?" he asked.

"Aw, hell, Nathan," Vin said. "If I was feelin' better, I wouldn't even be here. If I was feelin' better, I'd been down in the saloon right now playin' cards or eatin' a steak dinner or somethin' a mite more excitin' than sleepin' in your clinic."

Nathan nodded as he quickly and efficiently checked Vin's bandages. "It's to be expected, what with everything that's been goin' on, that you'd be gettin' a mite cranky."

"I ain't cranky!"

And then Vin had to laugh at the way Nathan looked at him with one eyebrow raised. "Okay," he conceded, "maybe a little."

"All right, then," Nathan said. "You ain't got any more fever, at least, and that means that if'n you can finally get some rest--just like I been sayin' all along--then you will start to feel better."

"I hope so," Vin said with a sigh.

"You feelin' hungry?" Nathan asked, 'cuz I got some soup I can heat up."

"Yeah," Vin said. He hadn't noticed until just that minute, but he _was_ hungry, starving in fact and he felt better just thinking about eating.

Nathan set the pot back on the center of the stove and propped Vin up so he could rest the soup bowl on a tray on his lap and feed himself. He managed to eat two bowls full and by the time he was finished, he was feeling tired, but also better in some way than he'd felt for a long time.

"I reckon I could sleep now," he said to Nathan and the healer quietly helped him lie back down. As he was turning away, Vin grabbed his arm. Nathan looked back at him. "Thank you," he said. "For what you done in that house for us. For me. I know it wasn't easy and," his eyes drifted shut and he forced them open again, "it made all the difference. All the difference in the world..."

Nathan stood there for a minute as the tracker drifted off to sleep, then he loosened Vin's fingers from where they were still holding onto the sleeve of his shirt and placed his hand gently on the bed. "Thank you too," he said softly. "Thank all of you." And he walked outside again to stand on the balcony once more and look down on the town.

Part 154

Buck Wilmington was feeling better than he had in a long time. His leg still hurt, ached real bad in fact, but that was to be expected after the fight at the reservation two days ago and the ride back yesterday. And the night he'd had...well, let's just say, Blossom had been real glad to see him.

He stood on the boardwalk and watched the town come to life. It was still early, only a little after sun-up, but he liked that, only time he could ever stand the quiet really, just a moment before all the activity of the day began. He saw JD on his horse trotting up the street, heading for Nettie Wells' ranch he figured. He'd seen JD's face when they'd heard about what Michaels' men had done to the place and Buck figured nothing would get JD to leave there until all the fences were put back right and things were in order again. He still had a bandage on his head from the fight two days ago, but otherwise he looked all right. 'Good thing he's a hard-headed kid,' Buck thought.

"Good morning, Mr. Wilmington. I believe it is one of the finest mornings I've seen in quite some time."

Buck turned to see the gambler sauntering toward him. "Mornin' Ezra. Mite early for you ain't it?"

Buck could have sworn that Ezra almost looked embarrassed. "Yes, well, I..." he coughed. "That is to say I felt in the mood for an early morning stroll."

Buck had heard from Josiah and JD all that Ezra had done while the rest of them had been out of town. He laughed now. "I'll bet you did. I'll just bet you did. Tell you what, Ezra," he said "I'll stand you a drink later at the saloon."

Ezra's eyes widened. "You, Mr. Wilmington?" Then, he smiled. "I believe I already said it was a fine morning, but I didn't understand until this exact instance that it was also a miraculous one."

Buck's eyes narrowed and Ezra figured if he actually wanted to get that drink later it would be prudent to change the subject. "How is our friend Mr. Tanner this morning?" he asked.

"Don't know. Figured I'd stop on my way down to the livery."

Ezra raised an eyebrow. "Leaving us again so soon?"

Something dark flickered across Buck's face, making Ezra sorry he'd said it, but when Buck spoke his voice was normal and relaxed. "Nah," he said with a soft drawl. "When we rode into town yesterday, my horse seemed a little off on his right front. Yosemite was going to check it for me, but I figure with everything that's happened lately, I'd better make sure he's all right."

Ezra touched a finger to the brim of his hat and continued his tour of the town. It was something he couldn't quite give up, something started during that dark week when there'd been no one else but him and JD and, though it embarrassed him to do it, it made him feel better in some way to see the shops opening and people stepping out with brooms to sweep the dust from the boardwalk and putting out their baskets full of merchandise, making ready for the day.

Buck crossed the street and met Nathan coming downstairs from his clinic. "Hey," Buck said, his voice quickly becoming serious. "How's Vin?"

Nathan studied Buck for a minute, trying to assess how he was doing, but, really, he looked okay. His face was no longer grey with fatigue and since he wasn't right precisely at that moment walking, he wasn't limping. "He's real tired, Buck," Nathan said. "All that fightin' and then the ride back yesterday."

"But he'll be okay." Buck said it as if it were a statement of fact cast in stone, but Nathan could hear the question underneath.

"Yeah, he'll be okay. If'n he rests and quits worryin' that shoulder like he's been."

"Ah, hell," Buck said, "things are gonna be so quiet around here from now on we'll have to go into the desert and shoot empty whiskey bottles just to keep from goin' off our heads with boredom."

"You better hope so, Buck." Nathan's face grew stern, but in a laughing kind of way as if he knew that Buck, just like all the others, would do whatever the hell he was going to do anyway. "You oughta be off that leg a' yours. Walkin' around on it ain't gonna help it get better."

Buck raised his hand as if to dismiss Nathan's concern, but then he said, "You plannin' to go back out to the mine, make sure Miz Ruby and them are all right?"

Nathan nodded. "Things get settled here. Yeah, I'm figurin' it'd be good to ride on back out there for a little bit."

"You let me know when," Buck said. "I'd be right pleased to go with you."

"Kind of a different kind a' woman for you, ain't she, Buck?"

"Oh, I don't know," Buck said with a laugh. "Them cookies a' hers...well, they could just make a man change his ways over night."

Nathan laughed, but then he said, "That leg. I mean it, Buck, it ain't gonna get better if you don't give it a chance."

Buck pointed down the street. "Livery. Gotta check on my horse." He stepped off the boardwalk. "But then, Nathan, I promise."

When Buck had left the boarding house, his leg had been stiff and achy, but he'd almost been able to walk without limping, but by the time he got to the livery the pain had turned sharper and he was not only limping badly, but thinking that it was going to be a damned long walk back to the saloon. Damn, he thought of Nathan back at the clinic, I hate it when that man's right.

The livery was dark and quiet when he entered. He called out, "Anybody here?" But it appeared that everyone was off on other tasks. Buck limped toward the stall where his own horse was tied. "Hey, old fella," he said softly. The horse nickered at him softly in greeting and he offered the gelding an apple he'd swiped from the back porch of the boarding house. "Let me look at that leg a' yours," he said.

He was straightening up a few minutes later, giving the horse one more pat on the withers when he heard the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked. His hand started moving automatically to his own gun, when a voice, cool and dark, said, "I wouldn't move that hand one inch further if I was you."

Buck straightened. "Who the hell are you?" he snarled.

The man grinned at him, his teeth showing white in the dusty dimness of the livery stable. "Don't matter who I am," he said. "What matters is that you're coming with me."

Buck's eyes narrowed. "I don't think so."

"Oh yeah, you are."

The man took a step closer to him and Buck made a move toward him, but his bad leg slowed him too much and the man's gun came up so that he had it jammed right into Buck's throat. "That's enough," he whispered. Buck could feel his hot breath on his neck. The muscles in his body tensed reflexively and the skin tightened across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose.

"What the hell do you want?" he choked out.

The man stepped back, slipping Buck's pistol from his holster as he did so. He never took his eyes from Buck's and his gun never wavered as he single-handedly shook the bullets onto the dirt floor of the stable. "My name is Louis Sharpes," he said conversationally, as if they were meeting in a saloon somewhere. When the gun was empty he threw it back to Buck, who caught it easily and slipped it back into his holster. His other hand clenched into a fist so tight that the knuckles turned white. "I just need you to help me out for a little bit."

Buck straightened and he could see Sharpes' eyes narrow. "I'd have to be in hell before I'd help a man like you," Buck said.

"I'm afraid you don't really have a choice," Sharpes said.

"There's always a choice," Buck said blackly and made as if to move forward.

Sharpes raised his gun and aimed it straight at the center of Buck's chest. "Don't think that I won't shoot you. And when you're dead, I'll stay around long enough to shoot a few of your friends, too." He smiled with some satisfaction at the way his words made Buck freeze in place. "Yeah, that'd be too bad, wouldn't it? After all they've been through."

"What," and the words tasted so bitter in Buck's mouth that he had trouble grinding them out. "are you after?"

"Oh, I thought that would be obvious. I want to make a trade--not you particularly, you were just, luckily, the first one to cross my path. But since you have--I want to trade you for Sterling Michaels."

For just a moment, Buck actually saw black, like dark thunder clouds creeping in along the edges of his vision. Sterling Michaels. Were they ever gonna be rid of that man? "You son of a bitch," he breathed.

"Yeah, I am, ain't I? Sharpes said with a hint of satisfaction in his voice.

"I won't do it."

"Look," Sharpes said a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice. "You don't have a choice. If you don't ride out of here with me now, I'll hit you over the head, load you in that wagon there and cart you out of town under a blanket. And," he added darkly, "it might piss me off so much that I might just have to kill somebody on the way out of town. As a kind of message, see?"

Buck tried to think. It was hard enough just to hold his fury in check, let alone try to figure a way out of this. How could this be happening? Who the hell was this guy? Michaels was defeated. This was over. _Had_ to be over after everything they'd been through. But, he closed his eyes and tried to will himself to calm down, this man had a gun on him and Buck could tell by the look in his eyes that he was the kind of man who would use it. 'I gotta get him outta town,' he thought. 'Get him away from everyone else.' If he could get Sharpes on his own, there'd be a chance he could take him. And if not...

"How you gonna tell people about this trade?" Buck asked Sharpes.

The man smiled that infuriating smug smile again. He jerked his head toward the back of the stable. "Got the livery man tied up back there. Figure it'll take him about an hour to get loose. Figure he can take a message for me."

Buck looked at him, just looked straight at the man for a minute. He figured Sharpes would have to ride him out of town without tying him up. Figured that was why he'd unloaded his revolver and given it back. It was still early enough there were few people out. The livery was on the edge of town anyway, so it was a risk, but a calculated one. Only thing was, it left Buck with his hands untied. Once they got far enough out of town he'd make his play. Either he'd take Sharpes or he'd leave Sharpes no choice but to shoot him. One way or the other, there would be no trade to make. And no one else would get hurt.

"All right," he said grimly. "I gotta saddle my horse."

Sharpes waved his gun toward Buck's grey. "Be my guest, Mr. Wilmington. Be my guest."

Part 155

Chris woke slowly, a luxury he had not been able to afford for a long time. He'd stayed the night in town and he could hear the early morning sounds of wagons and horses and shopkeepers greeting one another. He rose, dressed, poured cold water into a basin and washed his face. With a towel in his hand he walked to the window and looked out at the street below. He hadn't expected to care about this town or even to stay as long as he had. And today, for maybe the first time ever, or at least the first time he cared to admit it, he was glad to be here.

In front of the saloon, where he was headed for breakfast, he found Josiah sitting comfortably in a straight backed chair reading a book. "Mhm, mhm, mhm," Josiah said when he saw him. "It's a righteous day today, I'd say."

Chris leaned against a support post. "I'd say you might be right there," he said. "Michaels is under arrest. Judge Travis should be here tomorrow morning. The reservation and this town are still mostly in one piece. And," he grinned. "we're all still alive."

"Amen to that brother," Josiah agreed.

At that moment Ezra walked up to them. "Good day, gentlemen," he said. "I observed young Mr. Dunne on his way to the Wells ranch this morning. I expect we won't see him until very late this evening."

Josiah nodded in agreement and glanced back down at the book he held in his hands. "Perhaps," he said, "just for once, it'll be a quiet day." The expression on Ezra's face showed that he was in total agreement with that sentiment.

"What about Buck?" Chris asked. "Either of you seen him this morning?"

"I saw him a while ago," Ezra said. "At that time he was headed to the livery. I have not seen him since."

Chris looked down the street. The livery. He took a step off the boardwalk.

"Chris," Josiah said and there was a note of warning in his voice.

Chris looked back, his mouth twisted into a small smile. He shrugged. "It's a long walk back," he said. "And Buck ain't feelin' as good as he thinks he is. Figure someone ought to make sure his stubborn hide is all right."

"And it's a nice day for a walk and all," Josiah said with a smile.

Chris tugged at the brim of his hat and then turned away and headed for the livery. He knew that Buck didn't need him at the livery. If his leg hurt he could sit and rest or get Yosemite to help him or send someone to entice one of the saloon girls down there to lean on on the way back to his room. Chris rolled his eyes as he thought about it. No, it wasn't really that he thought Buck needed him at the livery. It was more that after the long days gone, after all the fighting and turmoil it was hard just to settle into quiet mornings and easy breakfasts and slow conversation. There was something unsettled in him. Hell, maybe there always would be, but this morning it was pushing him to know where everyone was and what they were doing, to know that none of them needed him in some way. And then, he told himself, then, he could relax.

+ + + + + + +

When Chris walked into the stable he saw Buck there saddling his horse. Something in the way he moved or the set of his jaw gave Chris pause and he stood in the doorway for a minute and watched him. There was a tension in the air that he couldn't place somehow, almost like the other night at the Indian reservation before Chris apologized. Only this time Chris had nothing left to say. 'I already said everything,' he thought. 'What if it wasn't enough?'

"Buck," he said quietly.

Buck looked up at him.

"You headin' out to help JD and Miz Wells?"

"No."

Something was really off-kilter here, Chris thought. But he couldn't figure out what it was, didn't quite trust himself anyway to make a judgment anymore.

Buck turned away from him and Chris could see how tight he was, tension radiating from him in waves. Buck threw a bedroll across the back of his horse and Chris's eyes narrowed. "You're leaving," he said flatly.

Buck's face thinned down even further if that was possible. "Yeah," he said.

This can't be happening, Chris thought. Then he took another step forward. He looked at Buck intently. And yet, it clearly was. "You son of a bitch," he growled.

Buck turned away from his horse, straightening as he did so. He didn't say a word, just looked at Chris and waited. "You were just gonna leave," Chris said. "Just ride out. All over again. Like before."

"That's right." Buck's voice was so quiet, Chris could hardly hear it from where he stood.

"If you leave this time," Chris said tightly, "don't ever bother to come back here."

The skin across the bridge of Buck's nose was stretched so tight it looked almost white. "I won't," he said.

"I guess I was wrong about you," Chris said.

"Yeah, well," Buck's voice was hoarse. "Guess you wasted that apology the other day now, didn't you?"

Real anger flared in Chris at that, but he forced it back down. "I ain't got anything more to say to you."

"Then, I guess you can just get out now, can't you?"

Chris said nothing, just turned on his heel and left.

+ + + + + + +

There was silence in the livery for a long minute after Chris left. Buck looked after him until he'd completely disappeared up the street and then he relaxed just a fraction, though there was still a dark look in his eye, a look that someone might mistake for anger, but wasn't.

Sharpes stepped out from behind the stall where he'd been hiding. "Damn!" he said with the hint of a smirk in his voice. "That fella don't like you much. Maybe he won't trade for you."

Buck turned to face him again. "Maybe he won't."

The two men looked at each other. Sharpes gestured toward the livery door with the barrel of his gun. Buck tugged on the grey's reins, loosening them from where they'd been looped through a tie ring.

"Maybe," came a completely unexpected voice from the back of the livery. "He doesn't have to."

Buck froze. Sharpes was still several feet away from him and Buck could see him, in the split second he had to do it, trying to decide what move to make. Then, he grinned at Buck and started to pull back the hammer on his gun. Buck threw himself desperately to the left. Chris shouted, "Stop, mister!" Two shots rang out. One man fell. And then there was silence.

Sharpes lay face down on the floor and Chris checked him quickly, kicking his gun into an empty stall. He hurried over to where Buck was sprawled on the ground.

"You all right?" he asked, grabbing Buck's arm and helping him to his feet.

Buck steadied himself and pushed Chris away from him. He hobbled backward a step and Chris could see that there was still a dark look in his eyes. "What the hell, Chris!" he said in a voice that seemed almost an equal mix of relief and anger.

"I'm sorry, Buck," Chris said. "It seemed like the best way to handle it."

"Oh, it did? It seemed like the best way? You thought that I would leave? After everything! After--" he stopped abruptly as if all the action of the last few minutes had finally filtered through his brain and for the first time he fully realized what had just happened. "How the hell did you know?"

Chris holstered his gun and ticked points off on his hand. "One, you wouldn't leave. You only ever did it twice that I know of and I drove you to it both times. Everybody knows when you're mad, Buck. Well," he grinned wryly. "Everybody but me. And you weren't mad this morning. Two, there ain't no rifle in your scabbard." He pointed toward the empty rifle scabbard on Buck's saddle. "And three," he pointed at the ground and Buck could see the shells Sharpes had dumped from his pistol earlier sifted in among the straw and dirt. "I stepped on one of these."

"Damn, Chris," and Chris could tell that there was still something bothering Buck. "You were good. I thought you meant every word of it."

Chris dropped his hands. "I'm sorry," he said.

Buck took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. "I know, I know. Just give me a minute to get used to this."

Chris looked down at Sharpes. He turned him over with the toe of his boot. "You know this guy?" he asked.

"One a' Michaels' men," Buck said, glad to have something concrete to talk about for a minute. "He was wantin' to trade one of us for Michaels."

"Damn," Chris breathed, "I thought this was over."

Both men heard the sound of running footsteps and they drew their revolvers in unison, though Buck realized a second later that his wasn't even loaded. He was trying to decide whether to re-holster it or bluff when Josiah and Ezra ran in with their pistols drawn.

"We heard gunshots," Ezra said, a little out of breath. "What happened?"

Chris jerked his head toward the body on the ground. "He was one of Michaels' men. He was tryin' ta kidnap Buck."

Ezra looked down at him too. "Might one enquire why?"

"He wanted to make a trade for Michaels," Buck said. "I was just the lucky fella who walked in on him." He jerked his head around. "I think maybe Yosemite's tied up somewhere back there."

He started to take a step forward, but Josiah held up his hand. "We'll check it out," he said and he and Ezra moved into the shadows at the back of the stable, checking each empty stall as they went.

"I want you two to check out everything," Chris said when they returned with an annoyed Yosemite accompanying them. "See if you can find any sign of anything that looks out of the ordinary. Michaels will be here soon and after that he's finally out of our hands for good."

Ezra nodded sharply and he and Josiah left the livery. Buck turned to follow them and Chris laid a hand on his arm, holding him back for a minute.

"You okay?" he said.

Buck looked up at a dark corner of the barn for a minute before he replied. "It's just...things are different now," he said.

"Different how?"

"More complicated."

"Because you don't trust me."

"Nah, I always trusted you." And Chris realized that that kind of thing was simple for Buck in a way it would never be for Chris. "But I got used to one way of thinkin' and it's takin' me awhile to realize things ain't that way anymore."

"I'm glad," Chris said, 'that things _ain't_ that way anymore." He held out his hand and Buck accepted it and then grabbed Chris's wrist with his other hand. And the two men held like that for a moment, looking at each other and seeing something there that both of them at one time or another had thought perhaps was gone forever.

"I gotta say, though," Chris told him with a wry quirk to his lips. "That sometimes you're kind of a pain in the ass."

"Ah, hell, Chris," Buck said, clapping the gunslinger on the shoulder. "You know them ladies like me that way."

Chris sighed, then grabbed Buck's arm when he stumbled as they walked out of the stable. "Yeah," he said. "I know."

Part 156

Buck felt better than he had in a long time and nothing was going to ruin his good mood. The last of Michaels' men were dead and it was over and things were getting back to normal. As normal as they would be for now. But it all somehow seemed right, Chris saving his life then retreating to saloon to share a drink. And although he never questioned he had lost his touch with women, it felt good to have women seek him out. It was never really in doubt but there was that small qualm after Josiah's Belle went off on him. To even accuse him of rape. Damn. It's over, Buck. In some ways, it never happened because for Belle, it was all an act. Let it go.

"You're supposed to be resting that leg," Chris dryly observed as Buck emerged from the saloon. Chris was leaning against a post, his relaxed pose just a fa�ade for the alertness that tensed his whole body. His pose told just how much they had been through and the unwillingness to let their guard down even now when it all seemed resolved.

But Chris relaxed enough to smirk as a broad grin crossed Buck's face, "now, now, I couldn't disappoint Pansy and Flora."

"Both?" Chris raised an eyebrow but he really shouldn't have been surprised.

"There is something about love in the morning," Buck waved his hand with a flourish and he looked over at Chris almost with a leer and teased, "you should try it." When that didn't get a rise out of Chris, Buck followed his gaze to see what had him so distracted. Ezra Standish was walking down the boardwalk with Billy Travis their entwined hands swinging and Billy was skipping along to keep pace with Ezra. Billy was talking animatedly and Ezra laughed at something he said. Mary stepped out from the Clarion's office, a broad smile on her beautiful face and they talked briefly when Ezra stiffened. Buck grinned, 'yup, Ezra just realized Chris was watching -- intently.'

Buck almost burst out laughing as Ezra tipped his hat to Mary and then made his way directly towards them, Ezra fidgeted and pulled at his coat sleeves and straightened up as he approached.

"Is there something you haven't told us about what happened in town while we were gone?" Buck asked slyly.

Ezra bristled at Buck's jab and valiantly tried to change the subject. "Aren't you supposed to be resting that leg?"

"Then I'd miss out on all the town goings on," Buck smiled wickedly when he felt Chris stiffen even more beside him. Ezra must have realized it too because he immediately started explaining which just caused Buck to start chortling.

"I was just escorting Mr. Travis home from his place of employment. Since Mr. Tanner is indisposed, I have magnanimously stepped into the breach again," Ezra tried his best to act affronted. "I, of course, took on this duty while you were all gone."

A tight, almost feral smile crossed Chris's face. "You making trouble, Buck?"

"I'm trying, Chris, I'm trying," Buck laughing, agreed.

"There's no trouble here." Ezra visibly relaxed. "Ezra was just -- " Chris paused for a long moment as if searching for the right words, " -- helping out."

There was something in the stiff tone of Chris's voice that caused Ezra to look sideways at him as if he still doubted that Chris believed him that there was nothing going on between him and Mary Travis. Chris just smiled placidly which caused Buck to laugh more.

"You causing trouble, Buck?" Josiah's deep rumble interrupted the threesome. "Here's Ezra acting responsible and taking an interest in the well-being of the town's citizens . . ." Ezra almost turned green at Josiah's description, which just got Buck laughing even harder. Josiah took pity and turned on Buck, "aren't you supposed to be resting that leg?"

"Now Josiah, I might miss something." Buck tried not to grimace as he placed weight on his right leg. He didn't want to lie down, he didn't want to rest. He wanted to be on the boardwalk, alert, watching, just in case. It would be awhile before he could rest and just let it go. He just wasn't ready yet. Just like Ezra. Ezra'd been making rounds. Not once. But on a regular schedule. Just couldn't let go yet.

"It's over," Josiah clapped Buck on the shoulder. But wondered who Josiah was trying to convince.

Buck swallowed hard and jerked his head in a nod, "it's over." Like saying it would make it so.

In fact, all the men were quietly grim as they surveyed the street to assure themselves that 'yes indeed, it was done.'

At least three of them smiled and started to relax, when Nathan came down the stairs from the clinic and immediately stalked across the street. They could all see it coming. "Buck, I have told you and told you, get off that leg."

Buck stiffened and was ready to tell Nathan just where he could stuff his advice. He just couldn't rest now but Josiah distracted all of them when he seemed to out the blue ask about JD.

"JD gone to the Wells farm?" Josiah asked. Ezra cocked his head sideways seeming to know Josiah's memory wasn't that bad, he'd told him where JD was earlier. Besides, it was a stupid question -- where else would the kid be? Josiah just smiled placidly, "the reason I ask is that Andreas has prepared a special meal for us and I know JD hates German food."

"I hear right, a special meal by Andreas?" It was a great tactic to distract Nathan from harassing Buck about his leg for he loved German foods even more than Ezra.

Buck clapped Josiah's back in thanks as Josiah answered Nathan. "Indeed you heard right, Brother Nate. He's under the impression that we have been starved for a decent meal . . ."

"And you weren't inclined to disabuse our fine chef of his misconception," Ezra drawled pointedly.

"Well, I could hardly sing the praises of Miss Ruby or tell him of the fine feast at the reservation," Josiah demurred.

"You couldn't?" Buck asked skeptically.

"Indeed, I couldn't. He obviously has been preparing this fine meal for us all morning."

"Don't you go to hell for lying?" Nathan asked with a broad smile.

Josiah straightened and with solemnity explained, "I will of course do due penance." A broad smile then lightened Josiah's face, "just after we eat."

"Let's eat then," Chris broke the silence. And the five headed toward the German restaurant.

+ + + + + + +

Bland eased from the shadow of the alley. He rubbed his hands in anticipation. This was turning out better than he could hope for. Five of them. Sharpes was a fool. Take one hostage and exchange him for Michaels. First, who was going to make that trade? None of them individually was worth it. Together, they were damn near invincible. Sharpes death proved that. You couldn't cripple them, destroying them was essential. Killing five in one fell swoop would certainly do that.

They'd never know who'd done this. For four of the men, he didn't care if they did. His job by necessity was carried out with stealth. It didn't make for a long career to be known for your exploits as a mass murderer. If it wasn't for that damn healer. He foiled him once. Just wouldn't die. He would have loved for that damn darkie to know who killed him but this was just too good an opportunity to pass. Five dead. Besides it was done.

Now for the last two. He hadn't seen the young one. He could be patient besides the kid would be overwhelmed with their losses. He would die. Bland vowed to see to it. But he could wait. Patience would ensure success.

But the other one. Talk in town said he would survive. Bland could just leave him. That man was too weak and sick to interfere with Michaels' release. One would think that at their peril. He was in town and available. That was enough to ensure he had to be taken out.

What did it take to kill these men? A team of the deadliest hired guns, some would say assassins, were hired for one purpose, eliminate these men but they had failed, and failed, and failed . . . Bland would not make that mistake.

Five down.

Now to get the bedridden one.

+ + + + + + +

"Mmmmm, let's eat," Vin smiled sardonically at the empty room. Vin had begged and pleaded with Mary Travis to have a meal sent from the hotel when she had visited earlier and Nathan had gone to check out the trouble at the livery. She was busy but promised to arrange it for him and of course, not without making it clear it was against her better judgement and he didn't even know pain if he ever let on to Nathan that it was her who arranged it. Mary enlisted Lily, a serving girl from the hotel as a co-conspirator in obtaining a decent meal and when Vin had managed to persuade Nathan to check on Buck, Lily had brought him the steak and potatoes he'd been craving but she had to run back to her serving duties at the hotel. Well, what he lacked in good company was easily made up by the great meal.

Of course, Lily was no better than Mary all worried she was hurting Vin and he did look awful pale and thin, and shouldn't he be eating broth or soup? Vin rolled his eyes. It had taken quite some convincing on Vin's part that he needed his strength and the only way was with a hearty meal of steak and of course, all the fixin's.

Vin just wished he thought to have Lily cut the meat before she left. He hated to admit it but he needed help. The pain that would slash through him every time he sliced with his knife convinced Vin to give up even trying to cut it. He'd tried cutting with his left to no avail so instead, he tried jabbing the meat with his fork in his left hand, and turned his head trying to catch an edge with his teeth to chew through. But the steak was too large to control with his usually weaker hand. Damn, what he wouldn't give to be a lefty like Josiah right now.

Vin heard a heavy tread on the balcony outside Nathan's door. Please, please, let it be anyone but Nathan. Please, please. To be so close to a steak dinner and not even get one bite.

Vin's pleas were heard. There was a brief knock at the door then it opened. Vin didn't recognize the man who entered with a napkin-covered tray. Vin was convinced the man almost dropped it when he viewed Vin and the steak meal on the tray in front of him.

"Hi, Nathan's not here," Vin greeted.

"I know. I was sent with lunch while they eat at the restaurant. The cook made them a special meal." The man shook his head in confusion, "I must have misunderstood. I thought you were very ill. I was sent over with soup." He placed the tray he carried on the dresser.

"Do I know you, mister?"

"My apologies. Name's John, John Bland. I'm new to town, my family will be settling here on a farm outside of town. Just heard about all the Indian troubles and wanted to show my gratitude for how you all handled that."

"Nice to meet you, John," Vin extended his left hand. "Vin Tanner."

"Your reputation precedes you, Vin. My pleasure to meet you." And there was a brief shake of hands. Bland frowned at the plate of food, "I thought you'd be too sick for a meal like that," he inclined his head at the steak meal.

Vin smiled broadly. "You gotta promise not to say anything to Nathan, the healer. John, you could help me here. With this shoulder, I can't seem to cut the meat."

John seemed to pause but lifted the tray off Vin's lap to place it on a makeshift table and cut the meat into smaller pieces. Vin couldn't immediately put a finger on it but there was something about John that bothered him.

"John, you sure we haven't met before?" Vin asked.

"Well, at least not formally. I was here before the troubles started but from what I understand you left soon afterward," John smiled pleasantly and resumed the task of cutting Vin's meal.

Vin frowned at that. What was it about this man? He started to watch John intently. Vin watched as he saw John sprinkle something on his food. "Hey John, I can handle the salt and pepper shakers. It's just cutting meat I can't handle."

John startled at Vin's comment and looked almost guilty as he smiled and presented the food to Vin again.

Vin took a deep breath and a slow smile crossed his face. "Nothing like it," pure pleasure wreathed Vin's face at the aroma of steak.

"Please, go ahead and eat. Don't stop on my account. I'll just stay and take the tray out so you don't get caught. Our secret," John smiled conspiratorially.

Something made Vin pause. What was it about this man? And then it suddenly occurred to Vin -- his hands. Soft hands, almost clammy but definitely unused to hard labor. Vin tried to laugh both at his suspicions and suddenly upset stomach, "guess my eyes were eyeing a prize I'm not quite ready for. I'm sorry, John, please take this away. I just don't think I can eat right now."

Nothing prepared Vin for the pure rage that crossed Bland's face. The tray was slapped off the bed and crashed to the floor and Bland tried to put an arm across Vin's neck as he reached into a pocket and triumphantly pulled out a vial. With his teeth, Bland pulled the cork. Vin valiantly tried to struggle and throw Bland off him but his strength was no where near normal and Bland was surprisingly strong despite his soft hands. Vin clenched his teeth and thrashed his head from side-to-side to prevent Bland from putting whatever that stuff was down his throat.

"You just won't die," Bland redoubled his efforts to subdue Vin enough to drink the poison in the vial. "That ends now," and Bland slammed an elbow into Vin's right shoulder. Nothing could stop Vin from crying out in excruciating pain but at that instant the door slammed opened.

Bland bolted up from the bed and faced the furious man at the door. All Vin could do was collapse back and cradle his inflamed shoulder fortunate that none of the vile liquid had reached his throat.

Both men had their guns drawn but neither had fired. A savage leer crossed Bland's face. "Perfect. Well darkie, what'ya goin' to do?" Bland licked his lips in obvious anticipation of doing serious injury to both men. He moved his gun away from Nathan and pointed it at one of Vin's knees. "How bout we make him an invalid for life?"

"NO!" Nathan lunged forward to find Bland's gun pointed at him. Nathan stopped short and Bland again pointed the gun at Vin's leg.

"Tut, tut. Now that wasn't what I wanted," Bland relished his superior position, "now, drop it." Bland indicated Nathan's revolver, Nathan bent his knees and slowly lowered to the ground to place the gun down.

Nathan held his hands out in a placating gesture, "now what?"

Bland smiled. "The belt too," Nathan reached with his right hand to loosen his gunbelt, "no, no, left hand."

Nathan reached for the buckle with his left hand, Vin was hoping Bland's attention was on Nathan so he could get some kind of leverage that he could distract Bland or prevent him from killing them both. There was no doubt in Vin's mind that would be the ultimate outcome if Bland had his way. But a slight move on his part had Bland slamming his right shoulder with his clenched left fist. Vin howled in pain and valiantly tried to hold onto consciousness. Where these fucks learn to fight? -- in a gutter. Bland must've been taking lessons from Sullivan. Shit, shit, shit and with that tight anger Vin held on.

"Tut, tut. Now I'll get to you but first to take care of you," and Bland indicated Nathan. "What to do with a darkie healer?" Bland's sing song inquiry almost wanted one to strangle him with his bare hands. "Now poison didn't work. I thought just to shoot you but I'm not even sure I want you dead."

Bland was nuts or the very least in a jealous rage and the target was Nathan. What had Nathan ever done this man? Vin figured to ask, "what's Nathan ever done to you?"

"Done to me? Done to me?" Bland's mouth was frothing that he couldn't put words to his rage. "He wouldn't die."

Vin was hurting, he'd admit that but Bland was just not making sense.

"He needed to fail. He thinks himself some kind of doctor, saver of lives. He needed fail, to be shamed, and judged unwanted and unworthy by the town. Well, I aim to make that happen. Now, what does a healer need?" a slow grin crossed Bland's face that made Vin fear for Nathan. "What's a healer with no hands?" Bland raised his gun aiming at Nathan's right hand.

"NO!" The anguished cry broke the otherwise tense quiet in the room. Then, there was the thud of a fallen body.

Bland was on the ground, one of Nathan's knives protruded from his heart, his eyes open and lifeless. Nathan grabbed his gun from the floor and walked around the bed keeping his gun sighted on Bland. "Vin?"

"Yeah, I'm all right."

Nathan cracked a smile at that obvious lie. He kicked the gun away from Bland and then cautiously bent and checked he was indeed dead. He then came over to the bed and to check on Vin. "Let me look at that shoulder?"

Vin relaxed back on the pillow. "You know, you keep blaming me for my shoulder troubles. But if these Michaels' men didn't keep hitting it, I wouldn't be in this fix."

Nathan looked at Vin skeptically. "Oh yeah, of course, traipsing around the country with a bullet in your shoulder, the gun fight at the cabin, riding out to the reservation when you coulda stayed at the mine, or shooting a long rifle have nothing to do with your slow recovery."

Vin just smiled placidly, "like I was saying, Michaels' men."

"Uh huh," Nathan was still skeptical. "What do you want tell me about that steak?"

"Uhhhhh . . ."

"Vin don't try lying. Just admit it. You talked some gullible female into believing you are some kind of invalid and that I'm a mean ogre and they would be saving you from starving to death or some such nonsense." Nathan smiled down at Vin.

"Me, sweet talk a girl?" Vin smiled broadly.

"I didn't say that. Buck sweet talks, you flash those baby blues and look all pitiful with that 'aw shucks' manner of yours -- yup, who did you con?"

Vin grinned, "you sure you're not confusing me with Ezra?"

"Vin . . ." Nathan was going to pursue it when he was distracted by the tray on the dresser and lifted the napkin to see a bowl of soup. "Who brought this tray?"

"Bland. Said I was some kind of hero and wanted to show his thanks."

"You are some kind of hero," Nathan murmured more to himself than Vin, "but it just don't make sense . . ."

"What's that Nathan?"

Nathan didn't answer. His eyes swung around the room from the tray on the dresser, to Bland on the floor and back again.

"Nathan, what're you thinking?"

"I was just thinking about something Ezra said," Nathan mused as he made his way slowly back to Vin.

"And you do this often?" Vin raised his eyebrows in patent disbelief.

"Yeah, more than I like," Nathan admitted sheepishly.

"What he'd say this time?" Vin was sure it was something to get Nathan's goat up.

Nathan shook his head like it was a silly thought. "JD brought Ezra breakfast after I was recovering from being poisoned. Asked him if he thought it was okay to eat and Ez said they wouldn't make the same play twice."

"The same play?"

"Yeah, poisoning the town. Ezra was convinced the town was the target and they wouldn't try poisoning again. They'd do something else."

"And now?"

"Not the town . . ." Nathan scratched his head, "not the town." Nathan's eyes widened. "US!" He dashed for the door and was gone.

"Us? Now what. Hey Nathan, now what?" but Vin was talking to an empty room again.

+ + + + + + +

"Ezra, you hungry?" Buck seemed to ask for the thousandth time.

Ezra considered not even deigning to respond but sincerely doubted that WOULD SHUT BUCK UP. Ezra closed his eyes trying to rein in his irritation with Mr. Wilmington. The man was entitled to eat, it wasn't like he hadn't endured enough. Nathan said he'd be just a few minutes checking on Vin. He wanted to let him know where he'd be and if needed anything for a bit. That had been at least thirty minutes ago and the four men were restless. If it wasn't Buck incessantly asking if they were hungry which was, of course, obvious; Andreas would peek his head out on the lookout for Nathan so he could begin serving. Each time he did that had all of them jumping or reaching for their guns. When would he relax again? -- Ezra wanted to know. Enjoy a card game or just a meal without forever reaching for his gun. When would he miss a dawn? -- Because these days he was barely sleeping so he'd get out of bed and do rounds to assure himself that nothing was indeed going on.

"He wouldn't mind if we went ahead without him," Josiah assured the group.

"Andreas," Chris called out and Andreas came out from the kitchen. "We're going to start, it seems something held up Nathan."

"Certainly, Mr. Larabee. My pleasure." And Andreas disappeared back into the kitchen but immediately returned with a laden tray.

Ezra found himself looking to the door and outside the window to the boardwalk as the others complimented Andreas on the feast. 'Something held Nathan up.' Something or someone, Ezra thought. Without conscious thought, Ezra found himself laying his napkin on the table and making his excuses. It was with great relief when he initially saw Nathan but then realized something was really wrong and Ezra rushed to the door to meet him.

"What is it?" Ezra asked anxiously.

"Is it Vin?" Buck was already lumbering to his feet to make his way to the clinic.

"No, no, he's fine" Nathan panted, out of breath. "Just don't eat the food."

"What? Are you nuts, Nathan?" Buck asked.

"Andreas went to a great deal of effort . . ." Josiah averred.

Chris was on his feet, "Nathan, what's up?"

Nathan took a deep breath and began, "when I got to the clinic, a man was there. One of Michaels' men. He was trying to poison Vin but I interrupted him. He had taken a tray to Vin with soup but Vin had gotten someone to bring him a steak dinner," Nathan looked at the assembled men and their blank faces and nodded satisfied that none of them were Vin's accomplices.

"Probably Mary," Chris commented.

Nathan nodded and smiled. "Anyway, when that didn't work, he tried to force Vin to drink poison and that's what I stopped. I killed the man but then I got to thinking about what Ezra said."

Chris raised an eyebrow at that but Ezra didn't have a clue to what Nathan was referring to.

"And what pray tell was my insightful observation?"

Nathan smiled, "it was about running a scam and not making the same play twice. Seemed like this man hadn't heard of it. And he was shocked I was there, like I wasn't supposed to be."

"And you think he poisoned the food?"

"Little doubt."

Andreas was already sweeping up the tray into his burly arms and returning to the kitchen. "I will remove all food from the kitchen and pantry. Please gentlemen, with your permission, we will put off this feast till tomorrow."

"Andreas, you don't need to go to this trouble."

"Yes, I owe you. I owe you all. This is such a small thing. Let me do this for you."

Chris answered for all of them, "tomorrow then." Andreas nodded satisfied and returned to the kitchen.

Buck relaxed back in his chair. "Thanks Nathan."

Josiah smiled and Chris extended a hand in thanks. "Good work," he commented gruffly.

Nathan just looked at Ezra. "Not me. Ezra figured it out."

"Hardly, Mr. Jackson." Ezra could not take credit for Nathan's timely intervention.

"Yeah Ezra, you did. Thanks," and Nathan shook Ezra's hand in gratitude, "not just for today but for all my tomorrows."

Part 157

Chris leaned against a post outside the jail house and watched Buck across the street. It had been several hours since Nathan's final confrontation with John Bland. Marshal Gant and his deputies had brought Sterling Michaels into town an hour or so ago as the sun was falling steadily toward the western horizon. They had him locked up now, right in the jail behind Chris, with six men watching him. Tomorrow Judge Travis would arrive and remand him to some federal prison or other pending his trial.

It was done. Finished. Things were back to normal. So why did Chris still feel a tight ache in his gut? And why was Buck wearing a groove in the plank flooring in front of the saloon, looking like he wanted to shoot the next man who looked at him?

Earlier, when Gant and his men had hauled Michaels into town, Chris had been surprised at how much he'd changed in the few days since they'd seen him last. His clothes were dirty and starting to tatter and his face was drawn and pale and old-looking. The others had been there to see him, all except Vin who was still up in Nathan's clinic. And when Michaels had looked at them, Chris had straightened unconsciously because there was still something in his eyes, something really dark and malevolent and brooding. He'd looked at Chris, passed his eyes over the others until they'd lingered for a moment on Nathan and then Buck. "I see the tracker didn't make it," he'd said. "Too damn bad." And then, he'd laughed, a dry, nasty laugh, like nothing they did could ever really touch him.

It had taken both Josiah and Chris to keep Buck from tearing Michaels from the saddle and ripping him limb from limb. Since then he'd been pacing the boardwalk in front of the saloon, his hand on the butt of his revolver as if deciding over and over again whether he should just shoot Michaels straight out or not.

With a sigh, Chris pushed himself away from the post and started across the street. It wasn't that he blamed Buck, exactly. Hell, he felt pretty much the same way himself. He just figured Buck had been through enough. He didn't need to be eating himself up over Michaels. As he reached the boardwalk on the other side of the street, he could see Buck more clearly. Though his eyes sparked with unsuppressed anger there were lines of fatigue on his face and the shadows under his eyes were returning. Chris would bet his leg was hurting him, too, though it was hard to tell by the way he walked.

"Buck," he said quietly. Then, when he didn't get a response, he repeated the name louder, "Buck!"

Buck stopped pacing. His coat was pushed back behind his gun and he stood there, wound so tight that Chris thought he'd almost have to explode from the tension.

"It's over, Buck," Chris said.

"Ah, hell, you don't know that," Buck said harshly. "That..._man_ over there," he gestured wildly at the jail. "he doesn't think it's over."

Chris stood calmly in front of Buck. "It doesn't matter what he thinks," he said quietly, as if the quiet itself would seep out of him and into Buck and give him the peace of mind he needed. "He's in jail now."

"You think he ain't got more men out there?" Buck asked angrily. "You think we ain't gonna find another fella waitin' in the livery some morning? Or maybe Mrs. Travis's newspaper office? Maybe we'll find one of 'em in there some day!"

Chris felt anger flare through him at Buck's words. Because of course he was right. There was no way to know that this _was_ over. Still..."You can't spend your life eatin' yourself up over this," he told Buck.

Buck snorted and looked out across the tops of the buildings on the other side of the street. "That's rich, Chris. Comin' from you."

And then, Chris heard himself laugh too. Not much, just one 'hmmph,' like something he'd done so long ago he'd almost forgotten. "Yeah," he said, "I guess it is. But," he continued after a short pause. "you oughta' listen to me. I reckon I know what I'm talkin' about."

There was silence for a moment. Then, Buck took a deep breath and Chris could see the tension leave his shoulders as he breathed out. "All right," he said.

"All right," Chris repeated. He laid his hand on Buck's arm. "Come on," he said. "Let me buy you a drink. I believe that I could use one myself."

+ + + + + + +

Vin was bored with sleeping and lying in bed. He knew he needed the rest, had nursed enough sick animals to understand that sometimes sleep was just about the best medicine there was. But it was still boring as all hell, just lying there, wondering what the hell was going on outside. Even though his shoulder ached something fierce from Bland's attack, he'd worked out a deal with Nathan that would allow him to move to the boarding house tomorrow. And that meant he could start getting around again, maybe sit on the boardwalk after breakfast for a little bit, maybe drink a little coffee and watch the sky. It wasn't much, but given the way things had been for the last couple of weeks, it'd be pretty damned nice, he thought, just to sit in a chair for a little while and look at the sky.

Besides, if the truth were told, Vin's view of the whole thing, from the time he'd left town until he'd gotten back here yesterday was just a broken jumble of fragments. And had anyone bothered to fill him in on all the details, he thought grumpily? Hell, no. Oh the highlights, maybe. But they sure as hell hadn't told him everything. Once he got out of here he was going to nail _someone_, make them sit right down and tell him all the details, every single one, until he had the whole damned story from front to finish.

He looked up at the ceiling. The lamp on the table sputtered, the kerosene burning low. Where was Nathan, he wondered? What the hell time was it? Come to think of it, when was the last time he'd seen anyone?

He heard steps on the stairs and tensed, remembering the last time someone had come into the room unannounced. He was scanning the room, marking out the locations of the kerosene lamp, Nathan's rifle in the corner and his own mare's leg, when the door opened slowly.

"Well, well." Josiah's voice identified him even before his face was recognizable in the evening shadows and Vin relaxed against the pillows. Josiah maneuvered the tray he was carrying around the edge of the door and set it on the table, moving the lamp to one side as he did so. "Thought you might be gettin' hungry," Josiah said.

Vin could smell fresh baked bread and something else...stew maybe. His stomach growled. Then, he thought back to John Bland and the events earlier that afternoon and his appetite faded.

Josiah looked at him knowingly, sweeping the cloths from the dishes on the tray to reveal two plates and two bowls. "Thought I'd join you for supper," he said. "Figure if we're goin' to go, we might as well both go together."

Vin laughed at that and realized as he did so that his shoulder didn't hurt quite as much as it had. It was the first time in as long as he could remember that he had really felt the promise that he would heal. For days...forever almost, it seemed like, it had felt as if he'd always be weak, always be feverish, as if everything else were just old dreams he'd never dream again. But just now, tonight, he felt really clear-headed and eager, almost, for tomorrow and maybe even the next day to come again. He grinned at Josiah and pushed himself gingerly up against the back of the bed. "All right," he said to the big preacher, "But I'm waitin' until you take the first bite."

He and Josiah ate in companionable silence in the warm, shadowy light cast by the kerosene lamp. When they'd finished and Josiah had taken the bowls and utensils and set them back on the tray, Vin said, "How's everyone doin'?" he asked. "You know, after...things."

Josiah shrugged and settled himself in one of the straight-backed chairs at the table. "'Bout like you'd expect," he said. "Chris is pissed, but holdin' his own. Buck'd like to take someone's head off. And Ezra--"

They were interrupted by the opening door. "And Ezra, my friends," the southerner drawled as he entered the room. "is in desperate need of someone willing to join him in a round of poker."

"Ah, hell, Ezra," Vin said, a quiet pleasure in his words at the knowledge that he had, finally, regained a companionship he'd thought perhaps was lost and gone, "they run you out of the saloon again?"

Ezra clasped a hand to his chest. "I am wounded by the implication of your harsh words, my friend. I thought merely of your comfort, the long hours all alone, the painful..."

"Yeah, yeah, Ezra," Vin said. Josiah had already jumped up and started moving the table over closer to the bed. "Just deal them cards."

Ezra grinned at him and his gold tooth flashed. He shuffled the cards and dealt them so quickly that Vin had to blink twice before he reached forward with his left hand and picked them up. Without saying anything, Josiah moved a couple of rolled up blankets and another pillow behind Vin so that he could sit up comfortably without expending too much effort. They played in silence for awhile, in a comfortable quiet, broken by the sound of cards and their own soft voices saying, "Call." "I'll take two." And "I'm out."

Ezra had just dealt the cards out again when Vin looked at the other two men with him. "I wanta' know the whole story," he said. "Reckon I missed a hell of a lot of it."

"Now?" Josiah asked.

"Startin' now."

Ezra threw a coin into the middle of the table and moved a card from one side of his hand to the other. "Well, now, Mr. Tanner, that's a tall order. But I suppose it really all began when I found myself abandoned, left alone in this hellacious town to protect the innocent, care for the sick, and--"

"Ah, hell, Ezra!" Josiah's calm rumbling voice belied his words. "You gotta at least tell him a story he'll believe."

"Now, Mr. Sanchez," Ezra countered with wide-eyed look, "I believe history _will_ show that my version is in fact correct in all important details."

"Don't listen to 'im, Vin," Josiah advised, adding another coin to the pot. "_I_ can tell you what was really goin' on. Now, first of all, you gotta understand..."

And Vin leaned back in the bed and smiled because finally, for the first time, maybe, he felt like he was back again.

+ + + + + + +

It was closing in on dusk when JD rode back into town. The street fires had all been lit and the town was quiet for once with only a few people on the streets, most of them headed home for their evening meals. JD was tired from working all day out at Nettie's and his head ached just a little from the knock he'd gotten two days earlier. He felt good, though. Things were back to normal again. Everyone had come home. There'd been a time when JD had expected that as a matter of course. He didn't quite have that same expectation any more. He was gradually understanding that even people you cared about a lot could die in an instant just when your back was turned, just when you least expected it, maybe even when you were thinking of something else entirely. And in some way that made today even sweeter, that they'd all come back again.

He stabled his horse and spent some time brushing him down. He figured the others were in the saloon and he thought maybe he'd join them there later, but he liked having a few minutes just to enjoy the quiet familiarity of the stable in the evening and to savor the familiar scents and sounds.

He was leaving the stable sometime later when he saw someone leaning against the corral beside the livery staring out into the desert just beyond.

"Nathan?"

Nathan turned and looked at him. "Evenin,' JD," Nathan said. "You have a good day?"

JD shrugged. "Got most of the fences back up. But the chickens...you know, it'll be awhile."

Nathan nodded. "Be awhile for all of us, I guess."

His voice sounded odd to JD, not sad, really, not angry, but...sober, maybe. And that didn't quite make sense to JD. Wasn't this all over?

"Somethin' happen?" JD asked and just in the process of asking he felt tension rise in him. Was someone hurt? Dead? What had happened when he hadn't been here to stop it?

Nathan shrugged and turned around to lean against the corral with his arms crossed in front of him. "Coupla' Michaels' men made their play today. Wantin' to get us to release him, I reckon."

"Really?" JD's hand went unconsciously to the butt of his gun. "I thought we took care of 'em at the reservation."

"Yeah." Nathan rubbed his face in a way that even in the dim evening light JD read as a cover for the weariness he was feeling. "Reckon some men just don't know when things are done. Some men don't know when they're losin'. Can't go out without tryin' ta take everyone else with them."

"Was anyone hurt? Everyone's all right aren't they?" JD couldn't hide the fear in his voice. It had happened again. Again! He'd been gone when his friends had needed him.

Nathan reached out and laid a hand on JD's arm. "It's all right, JD. It's been taken care of. Michaels' men are dead. Michaels himself is in the jail over there. Headin' out tomorrow. No one was hurt."

This time, JD thought. No one was hurt this time. But what about the next time? And the time after that? "Aw, hell, Nathan," he said disgustedly. "I shoulda' been here."

"You can't be everywhere at once, JD," Nathan told him tiredly.

JD just looked at him for a minute. Maybe it was the gathering darkness or the events of the last few days or the quiet desert night that surrounded them, but for just that one moment he thought he could see things that he'd never really understood before. "You ever think about just givin' it all up, Nathan? About maybe not tryin' to help people any more?"

Nathan was still for a moment. JD could hear the horses moving in the corral, the soft swish of their tails. Finally, Nathan drew a deep breath and pushed himself up off the railing. "I do think about it, JD. When people act like they don't want your help. Or when trouble just keeps comin' no matter what we do. But," he said, slapping JD on the shoulder and turning him so they were facing the saloon down the street. "I reckon it's pretty much too damn late to change who either one of us are right now."

JD grinned at him, not realizing until right that moment how much he counted on and appreciated Nathan's quiet good sense and calm control. And he was glad once again to be back here with everyone alive, with the promise of at least another day. He fell into step beside Nathan and they headed for the saloon together. "What you're really sayin,'" he said with the grin still firmly planted on his face. "Is that we're just too damn stupid to change."

Nathan laughed. "I don't rightly know about you and me, JD, but Ezra--"

"And Buck!" JD laughed with him as they walked through the swinging doors into the saloon.

Part 158

Miss Lottie Gray Tucson, Arizona Territory December 30 Dearest Mother, It's hard to believe I've been in Tucson for four months now. Soon a new year will begin, one unlike any I have ever yet lived if I am to judge by all that has happened in the short time I have been here so far. Oh Mother! I do so wish I could show you what it's like here so you would not worry about me! The winter desert is more beautiful than I could have possibly imagined. Sometimes I miss the snow that must lie on the fields and pastures of Lancaster even now, yet I cannot help but step out onto the slope beside my little house and feel my heart rise within me as I gaze out into the limitless expanse before me there. You can see over a hundred miles, Mother. Think of that! A hundred miles and more of great mountains and sweeps of flat basin, of stretches of desert so thick with cactus of all varieties that it is almost lush, and of other reaches so bare as to lay open the very heart of the earth itself to the sky. And oh that sky, Mother! It is turquoise! I wish you could see it; you would realize you had never in your life until now known what a blue sky is or truly can be. The children at my school are all so dear to me, almost as if they were my own. Each of them is so serious about their education, so grateful for the opportunity to learn their letters and numbers, and many of them have to ride hours and hours just to get here each morning. They don't get home after school until it's long past dark, and then they have chores to do. It makes me remember the way so many of the children at home take an education for granted, the way sometimes even I did, and then I feel like we must all have lost touch with things of elemental meaning to life somehow. Maybe it's the living in a genteel land that does it, I don't know. But I do know these people out here appreciate the things that matter, and they do so from a very young age. I have heard more about what happened when I was coming out here on the stage, that caused the adventure I wrote to you about in an earlier letter. When that woman on the stage told me the men who had saved us were famous in this region, she knew what she was talking about. And now I understand a little more why that's so, and what it means. They say, back East, that the West is lawless. And I remember reading in my books about European history that there was a time when the law was "might makes right," and about how the knights of old were therefore sent out to back up Right with a good strong arm and a shining blade of pure steel, to bring Law -- the noble face of Justice herself -- into a land where there was none. That is what it is like here, unbelievable as that may sound. Many men here wear a gun, Mother. Most men do, in fact. And most of them are good men, who have wives and children and who love their families and honor their neighbors very deeply. Yet, they have sometimes used those guns to kill other men. In Pennsylvania, they would be outlaws or at least pariahs. But here, they are knights pure and simple. And those men who intercepted our stage on its way to an encounter with disaster are the grandest of a grand lot in that regard. Mr. Larabee, who was the man all in black, is a tragic figure who rumor has it lost his entire family several years ago to the very sorts of people who would have slain all of us that day on the stage without a second thought. Rather than succumb to the grief of that event, however, he has risen from it to protect others and to try keep the same tragic experience from befalling them. In doing this, he has apparently attracted to his side the arms and hearts of six other men, each of whom would be scorned and despised by the fair hearts of Lancaster, but each of whom here is secretly revered by the populace and openly feared by the cruel and the grasping. It was because of this that a powerful mining man here, Sterling Michaels, decided that he had to destroy this group of men before he could carry out plans he had laid to steal land away from others by conspiracy and outright murder. He did not own the land that the law decreed he had to own in order to mine the vein on his own property, so he decided simply to take it. The attack on our stagecoach was planned to look as if it had been carried out by Indians, so as to instigate open warfare that would cause the deaths of many, many innocent people but deliver into Mr. Michaels' grasping hands the land he coveted. Since he knew these men would stop him even without knowing all that was going on, that they would see wrong things happening and step into the breach, he attacked them first to try to destroy them before he moved. Despite that, and despite even two of Mr. Larabee's men being grievously wounded in the process, they rallied to discover the plot against our lives and protect us from the attack that waited along our way. I am happy to report that all seven of these men survived and have now returned to the town that harbors them and gives them an eagles' eyrie of sorts, from which they stand protective watch over the broad sweep of the West that they have taken under their collective wing. They have protected Indians and colored people, wayfarers and cattlemen, and even women who have fallen into the most shameful of hard times because of tragedy and circumstance. And of course, they have protected me. Me, Mother. Were it not for these brave and strong men, I would have been dead before I ever even got to Tucson. It seems, here, that one does not judge a man by what he does or how he does it. Or at least, if one does that it is at one's peril, for it will lead to grave errors of judgment. The question is not "does he wear a gun?" or even "does he fight other men?" The question is "why does he do the things he does?" If it is for his own gain, then you will not find his name upon people's lips with admiration and approval. The heroes are the ones who stand between those men after their own gain and the rest of us. They are the ones who do what they do for the sake of others. And they do it even at the cost, all too often, of their own lives. Many of them do not live to see their middle years. For them, there is never a wife, a home, or a family of their own. But thanks to them, the rest of us can have those things. We can dream and know we are safe to do so. We can love and know that we will not come to harm, that our children will live to see adulthood. And so, dearest Mother, I close with news of another sort, telling you that I have been being courted by a range rider of this very stripe, and that tomorrow night at the New Year's gathering and dance in town, we plan to announce our engagement to be wedded this coming May, as soon as the school year ends. His name is Francis Corcoran, and he was born in Ireland but came to America as a youth and has lived in Arizona Territory since the end of the war. He is the finest man I have ever met, and even knows Mr. Larabee and company and thinks them the grandest men of the West. He says if he wires them about our upcoming nuptials, they will probably all come dance at our wedding! Imagine that! Mother, we will come East to visit you so you can meet my wonderful soon-to-be husband (husband!) as soon as we are married. When we return to Arizona Territory, as I am sure you can see we must, I hope that we can convince you to come with us. It is very different here, it is true, but oh Mother! Life is so BIG out here!! It makes you wonder how you lived all those years before without ever bumping your head on the ceiling of your days. Do give it serious thought, Mother, for there will always be a room in our house for you. And Francis says he is certain you will love it here as much as I do, for he says my heart and soul are such that they must have come from something already in my blood, something that would then be in yours, as well. I will write again soon. Think of me, and pray for our future, and especially for that day in the spring when Francis and I will be joined together in the eyes of God and all our new friends here. And when you do, say a prayer of gratitude for the men who preserved my life that day in early September, so that I could come at last into this, the fulfillment of all the dreams I could ever have dreamt. Your loving daughter, Lottie

Part 159

Chris Larabee walked wearily up the street toward the saloon. It had been a long week. There'd been a bank robbery over in Eagle Bend and Vin, Josiah and Buck had been gone with the posse for the last three long cold days tracking the men responsible. Nathan had been working straight out for a week or more delivering one baby after another and Chris had had to haul Ezra, of all people, out to the Andrews' place after cattle rustlers and they'd ridden clear out almost to the reservation before they'd caught the two men responsible. Several days earlier, JD's horse had stumbled and sent him flying into a tangle of brush, scratching him up something fierce and causing him to sprain his ankle. He'd been complaining to anyone who'd listen ever since.

In fact, Chris slowed as he neared the saloon, JD was probably in there right now, waiting for someone to walk in and sit down so he could complain to them. Aw, hell, he thought shaking his head, he'd even listen to JD if it meant he could sit for a bit and drink a whiskey or two.

He was just about to push the swinging doors to when they burst open to reveal Buck Wilmington with one of the saloon girls clasped tightly in his arms. He grinned when he saw Chris. "Well, hell, Chris, I didn't see you there."

Chris glared at him, but Buck either didn't notice or managed to pretend that he didn't. "Heard you been huntin' cattle rustlers," he said as the saloon girl whispered something in his ear. "Any luck?"

"I want to talk to you, Buck--" Chris began.

But before he could get more than a word or two out, Buck turned away from him. "All _right_, darlin'" he said with a laugh. "I'm with ya right now." And without waiting to hear what Chris had to say he grabbed the girl around the waist and swung her down the street amidst a swirl of fancy petticoats.

"Damnit," Chris said under his breath. He turned away and walked into the saloon.

Even as grey as the afternoon was outside it took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. He looked around at the few men in the room, relieved to see that JD wasn't there. Vin was, though, and Chris moved across the room to join him.

The tracker slid the whiskey bottle toward him as he sat. "Howdy, pard," he said in a quiet voice. "Long day?"

Chris poured himself a glass and swallowed it, barely noticing the hot raw burning as it ran down his throat. "You find them bank robbers?" he asked.

Vin looked away from him for a minute. "Found 'em." He shrugged. "Took care of 'em." Vin studied his drink for a minute. "You know, Buck and Josiah...they're not men you'd want to be gettin' on the wrong side of."

Chris was trying to decide whether or not he wanted to hear the story behind that statement when a sharp, southern drawl interrupted his thoughts.

"I don't know how I can be expected to function," Ezra complained as he took a seat with the others, "when I smell of...of..._cattle droppings._"

Vin sat forward and leaned his elbows on the table. "Aw, hell, Ezra, you think anyone playin' cards with you cares what you smell like?"

"I will have you know," Ezra began, "that as an expert in my field--"

"Afternoon, fellas," a low, rumbling voice interrupted Ezra and Chris looked around to see Josiah and Nathan approaching the table. Chris reached for the whiskey bottle and poured himself another shot. Whatever happened to sitting quietly in a corner, he wondered.

"Anybody seen Buck?" Nathan asked as he sat down.

Chris gestured toward the saloon door as if that were explanation enough.

"Mrs. Potter's lookin' for him. Somethin' about a shipment of hats that just come in."

"Why? Does he owe her money?" Ezra asked, searching his clothing for his cards and looking steadily more disconcerted until he finally found them in an inside vest pocket.

"I don't owe that woman one dime," came a low soft voice from behind Ezra. Buck pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat down with the other men. "Just asked her to look out for somethin' special for me is all. For a friend of mine," he said and winked.

"I assure you," Ezra began, "I did not in any way mean to imply that--"

The saloon doors swung to again and this time JD Dunne limped slowly into the room. All the men at the table were quiet as they watched him limp across the room. Buck and Chris reached for the whiskey bottle at the same time. Chris gave Buck a dark glare, but gave way and after Buck had poured a drink for himself he reached across and poured another one for Chris.

"Hi fellas," JD said, seating himself with a sigh.

"Aw, hell, JD," Buck said, "how long you gonna mope around? It ain't like ya broke anything when you took that header off your horse."

JD's face flushed scarlet and Chris realized in a blinding flash of insight unusual for him that JD's pride was hurt more than his ankle. He'd told them all what a good rider he was right from the start and the truth was that he _was_ a pretty fair hand with a horse, but he was still learning that what they called riding in the west and what they called riding in the east were sometimes not quite the same thing. "Don't worry about it, JD," he said. "Why once Buck--"

"Hey! Hey!" Buck protested and there was an underlying snap in his voice that caused Josiah and Vin to look at him carefully despite his laughing countenance. "You ain't gonna tell that story, Chris Larabee, and I'll tell you why."

"Why is that, Buck?" Chris asked.

"Because--"

This time it was Ezra who interrupted. "As fascinating as I'm certain this exchange will be," he said, "I see a gentleman over there who has recently arrived in this area and who has been lately expressing an interest in a 'real' game of poker."

"A new mark, ya mean," Vin said laconically.

Ezra raised an eyebrow at him, snapped his cards into one hand, slipping them easily into his pocket, and tipped his hat to the others as he walked away. They watched as he approached a tall, thin man with greying hair.

Chris eyed Buck speculatively. "Buck, didn't you just leave here with a 'lady friend?'"

Buck looked at the empty glass in his hand. He stretched his long legs out in front of him. "Told her I'd walk her home," he said.

"Mighty short walk," Chris observed.

"Yup."

"She had a little trouble with one a' the fellas," Vin said. "She was feelin' kinda, what would you say, Buck? Shaky?"

Both Buck and Chris had turned to look at Vin as he spoke with nearly identical expressions of silent bemusement.

"Yeah," Buck said after a moment. "Yeah, that'd be right."

Chris nodded and didn't say anything and for a moment the men sat in companionable silence. Then, Nathan put his hands on his knees and started to stand. "Gotta check on a few things," he said.

Josiah laid a hand on his arm, giving him pause. Nathan looked at him. "Emergencies?" Josiah asked.

Nathan shook his head. "Just wantin' to see how the Jenkins and Taylors are doin'."

"Tell you what," Josiah said as he stood and settled his broad-brimmed hat on his head. "I'd be right glad to pay a visit to 'em, see how they're doin'. Anything they need you for, I'll come an' fetch ya." And he left before Nathan had time to do more than open his mouth in protest.

As Josiah disappeared through the saloon doors, Nathan sank back down into his chair and smiled slightly. "Left me with nothin' to do," he said and the others could hear the traces of bone-weariness in his voice.

"Now," Buck said, leaning back, his legs still stretched out in front of him and his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. "Where have I heard that before? It sounds right _familiar_ to me."

"It's a different thing, Buck," Nathan said, trying to sound stern. "When you're injured and hurting and you won't even take it easy for _one minute_."

"One minute," Buck said musingly, as if Nathan had said something particularly profound. "You'd think a man could relax for one minute." He looked at Nathan and his eyes crinkled with amusement. "C'mon, Nathan. Relax. You probably deserve it more than anyone." Buck shoved a full glass of whiskey toward Nathan.

Nathan took the glass and looked at it without drinking. "I got obligations to this town," he began.

"You got obligations to yourself, too," Chris cut in smoothly. "You ain't got any choice, Nathan," he said and he raised an eyebrow at Buck who smiled back at him. "We're gonna _make_ you relax. And don't think we can't do it."

Nathan laughed outright at the satisfied expression on the two men's faces. "I hope you remember this conversation next time you're hurtin' and refusin' to listen to me," he said as he raised the whiskey to his lips.

Buck slapped his chest with his hand. "Nathan, I assure you, we would _never_ cause you one minute of trouble or care."

Vin looked over at him. "That was down right unconvincin', Buck."

"Really?" Buck looked across the table at him. "I thought it was pretty good myself."

"Nah, see, what you gotta do if you're tryin' ta be convincin' is open them eyes real wide and look, just..._awful_ sad--"

"Enough!" Nathan held up his hand, but he was laughing. "I ain't gonna subject myself to this nonsense anymore. JD!" he said, turning to the young man who, though trying rather hard not to mope, still couldn't help feeling just a little sorry for himself. Everyone else was bein' cheerful and healthy and altogether way too glad to be alive and here he was--thrown from his own horse for gosh sakes! He looked up, though, when Nathan said his name. "I believe Ezra needs our help at that poker table. What do you say?"

And JD grinned at him, forgetting all about his own troubles. "That'd be _great_!" he said. "He'll be kinda peeved at us, though. Don't ya think? Interruptin' his big game and all."

"Nah, he won't be," Nathan assured him. "He'll be right glad to see us." And it did appear when they'd crossed the room and sat down at the table with Ezra and the tall, thin man that Ezra at least wasn't horrified that they'd decided to join them. And a few minutes later Vin, Chris and Buck, the only three left at the original table, could hear conversation and laughter coming from all the men sitting at the poker table.

"Well," Buck said with satisfaction, "I reckon we cheered them up considerable."

Chris looked at him with narrowed eyes. "You tellin' me that everything you said here at this table was on purpose?"

"Well a'course, Chris. _Everything_ I say is on purpose."

Chris leaned back in his chair and felt the weariness and tension seep out of his body. The place felt warm and relaxing in its way and the idea of taking his bottle of whiskey and retreating to a back table by himself seemed to have left him. He took a deep breath and let it out slow. "You know, Buck," he said. "I'd be damned careful of making that claim. I remember a saloon down near the border where--"

"Either of you fellas interested in goin' huntin' with me tomorrow?" Buck said quickly.

"Huntin'?" Vin sat up straighter. It'd been a good long while since he'd been out of town for anything other than ridin' from one town to another.

"Kinda thought it might be nice to go huntin' turkey," Buck said.

"And you can't do that yourself?" Chris said.

Buck looked at him. "I can hunt a turkey by myself," he said quietly. "Just thinkin' I'd enjoy the company is all."

"I'd be right pleased to go with you," Vin said. "Get out of town for a bit. Maybe we can find somethin' to take out to the reservation too."

Buck nodded. "Good idea," he said.

Both men turned and looked at Chris.

"I could go, I guess," Chris said. Then, he smiled. "Reckon somebody has to make sure you two fellas don't get into trouble out there."

Part 160

Ezra had to admit to himself, he was enjoying this round of cards. Nathan and JD were holding their own with the stranger they were playing with. And they were playing cards not chasing some banker robber or rustler or some other fugitive across the desert in December, thank you very much. Ezra couldn't quite decide which he despised more: the dry heat of summer or the biting winds of winter, which seemed to be especially vicious this year.

Ezra sighed deeply realizing it was time to brave the elements to carry out a duty. He went ahead and folded on this hand.

"Gentlemen, excuse me for a few minutes, I have one task to see to and will return shortly," as Ezra rose from his table both Chris and Vin were rising from a neighboring table.

"Hey, where y'all going?" Buck asked from where he was sitting with Chris and Vin.

"I was going to escort Mr. Travis . . ."

"Billy will be finishing at Potters . . ."

Chris looked from Ezra to Vin and back again. Ezra smiled tightly but regained his seat. He enjoyed his conversations with young Billy but clearly Mr. Larabee was to do this chore today.

Vin wasn't as quick to relinquish the enjoyable task. "Thought you and Mary weren't talking to each other?"

Chris looked at him, an eyebrow raised, "And whose fault is that?" he asked dryly.

"NATHAN'S!" Vin, Buck, JD, and Ezra chorused together and started to laugh.

"Now, how you'd figure that? It was Vin made her get him that steak dinner," Nathan defended himself.

"But it was you who banned her from delivering meals to the clinic," Vin immediately retorted.

"Yeah, how she supposed to find out what's all going on if she can't come to the clinic?" JD asked innocently enough but Ezra knew he was inciting at least a skirmish if not a war.

"Yeah, but it was Vin who caved after getting months of the silent treatment and told her that it was Chris who ratted her out," Buck defended Nathan.

"Buck!" Vin groaned as Chris turned to him.

"It was you?" Chris was clenching his fist.

"Uhh, yeah, sorry about that," Vin apologized quickly hoping to avert a right cross to his chin.

"Wait a minute, but you didn't know that -- you were laid up in the clinic."

Vin smiled broadly, "Ezra told me."

"Mr. Tanner!" Ezra protested and then turned to Chris. "It was Mr. Tanner with his stunning lack of discretion who has inserted himself into your relationship with Mrs. Travis and created the current frostiness."

"Sure it ain't just that it's the middle of winter?" JD asked.

"Now JD, that's the best time for love -- get all close and cuddly," Buck smiled expansively and starting looking around the room for company.

"Well in-between Ezra, Vin and Nathan I'm never going to get things fixed with Mary and now I'm late," Chris started to leave the saloon.

Josiah passed him just as he reached the batwing doors. "Hey, one of you boys supposed to be picking up Billy from Potter's? He's anxiously waiting on ya."

"On my way, Josiah." Chris responded as he walked out onto the boardwalk.

"I thought him and Mary were on the outs?" Josiah asked his friends in general. "You do something to fix the trouble you caused, Nathan?"

"Me. Chris don't need help from me to mess things up with Mary. He's doing right fine on his own."

"Yeah right, Nathan," Buck called out.

Ezra felt the need to set the record straight. "In Mr. Jackson's defense, Mr. Larabee didn't do himself any favors when he called Mary stupid. Not once, but several times. And he was indeed the one who identified Mary as the culprit for procuring steak dinners for Mr. Tanner against Nathan's explicit instructions."

"Okay, is it just me? But didn't all these things happen months ago," JD asked.

"Mary's a reporter, she doesn't forget," Josiah observed. "Look how she was able to put all the details together on the Apex Law and the other mining stuff during the Michaels' situation."

"Yeah, that was impressive. So how does Chris make it right?"

"He ain't you, kid," Buck observed dryly, "I'm sure he'll work it out." But JD had folded his cards and was hobbling to the batwing doors himself. "Where are you off too?"

"I saw Mrs. Wells and Casey," JD quickened his step even more. "I haven't seen her since I had this dumb accident."

"Oooh JD," Buck teased, "good move, son. Get her all weepy over you being hurt. Now listen, don't tell her you fell off your horse -- we gotta come up with a better story."

"Buck, I ain't going to lie."

"And why not? Look where honesty has gotten Chris. Mary had no business going out to the reservation and Chris called her on it."

"I think JD has a point about letting it go," Vin commented.

That stopped Buck. His eyes locked with Vin and he gave a short nod.

Ezra forced himself to swallow past the sudden tightness in his throat. Let go. After the Michaels' incident, Ezra still found himself hyper-vigilant. He'd caught more dawns in the last few months than he had his entire life. And sleep, well let's just say it was a fleeting achievement. Let it go. It was time.

"JD, hold up there, I'll come with you," Josiah called out.

"Ahh Josiah," JD whined, "I don't need no chaperone."

"Now, I have to protect the reputation of my niece. Ever since Miss Nettie came to me insisting you two should be married because you stayed at the ranch without a chaperone, the only way I could convince her to leave it was that you two would not meet alone."

JD turned back to look at Josiah. "First, she's not your niece. Second, it's been months now; I don't think Miz Nettie intended for this to go on this long. And third, we'll just be in town."

Josiah's goat was up with that protest especially the niece comment but of course, Nathan defused it. "You can't go with him. First of all, JD's right - they'll just be walking the boardwalk and second, you need to give me report on the Jenkins and Taylors or I'll just have to go look in on them myself."

"No, you won't Mr. Jackson. Join us, Josiah, we need a fourth here," and Ezra hadn't quite gotten over looking out for Nathan's interest. He quickly shuffled the cards and got ready to deal.

Buck looked over at Vin, "make that two more Ezra."

Ezra smiled broadly, "certainly gentlemen."

"So, do you think Chris can smooth things over with Mary?" Nathan asked his assembled friends as he surveyed his cards and smiled satisfied.

"Nope," Josiah answered.

"No," Nathan answered raising his eyebrows.

"You obviously haven't read the editorial in today's Clarion," Ezra commented, "please, allow me" and Ezra pulled the paper from his jacket pocket.

The Clarion
Four Corners, Arizona Territory
Editor: Mary Travis

Is It Time for a Sheriff?

+ + + + + + +

"Hi there, Mr. Larabee." Gloria Potter greeted Chris with a bright smile. "It's been quite awhile since you have walked Billy home. Have you and Mary made up?" Chris grimaced at that, did the whole town know his business? "After today's editorial, I'm surprised at that. I don't agree with Mary at all. No siree, you boys do a fine job protecting the town."

Chris smiled pleasantly enough and surprised himself he could be so civil, "Mrs. Potter, do you have a copy of that editorial?"

The smile quickly faded from Gloria's face. "You hadn't read it."

Chris lips twitched at the kindly shop owner's dismay, "nope."

"Here you are. I feel I should plead Mary's . . ."

"Chris," the young Billy Travis called out as he launched himself into Chris's arms, "I'm glad to see you." And Billy wrapped his arms around Chris and gave him a hug.

"Hey pard," Chris's own arms tightened around the boy, "I'm glad to see you too."

"Mrs. Potter, don't worry. Mary and I will work it out."

Gloria Potter smiled weakly. "I'm sure you will. Take care now."

Chris tipped his hat and made his way out of the store with Billy in his arms.

Billy's chatter occupied Chris on the short walk from Potter's to the Clarion's offices that he didn't have a chance to read the editorial. But he could just feel himself relaxing. He was going hunting with Buck and Vin in the morning and maybe he could enjoy some quiet for the first time in weeks.

The bell over the door gently rang as he opened the door. Billy indicated down and then rushed into the back where the private residence was, "Ma, I'm home."

"Hi honey. How was your day?"

"Fun, can I have snack?"

"I'll get something for you. Go hang up your coat and you're not tracking mud through the house, are you?"

"No Ma. Chris gave me a ride home."

There was a slight crash and then Mary timidly came out into the main office. "Chris."

"Mary," Chris was enjoying Mary's uneasiness. "No, I haven't read the editorial."

"Well, I've already written the retraction for tomorrow's edition. Sheriff - NO!" Mary showed Chris the banner. "You won't believe how many people I've had in here today singing your's and all the sevens' praises."

"And you agree?" Chris asked quietly.

Mary's blue eyes looked into his, her head was slightly cocked, and slow smile crossed her face, "truce?"

"Oh yeah," Chris walked around the counter and gently pulled her into his arms. He dipped his head for a brief kiss, just a light whisper across her lips but it fit the tentative restart to their relationship.

Still within his arms, Mary leaned back to look at his face. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Milk and cookies?"

Chris smiled broadly and followed her back to the kitchen.

+ + + + + + +

JD hurried out the saloon as fast as he could with his hobbled leg. "Casey, Casey -- wait up." His depression lifted as he saw her turn to him and the sweet smile cross her young face. She waved brightly and waited for him to catch up to her. Her broad smile quickly changed to concern when she got a good look at him.

"JD, oh my gosh, what happened to you?" Her hand gently touched his cheek and she was looking him over. "You're hurt."

"Ahh Casey, it ain't nothing," JD ducked his head hoping to avoid giving the details.

"Does it hurt much?" Casey's hand was on the lapel of his coat and she was so close it wouldn't take much to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her close -- if only, they weren't on the boardwalk and his promise to Josiah and Miz Nettie.

"It wasn't a pleasant sensation," JD dryly commented.

"Now, you sound like Ezra," Casey scolded.

"Really Case, I'm fine. Let's walk," JD presented his elbow and Casey slipped her hand in and they slowly made their way along the boardwalk.

They walked together in companionable silence, the few folks on the boardwalk on this bitter winter afternoon would nod their heads in greeting and if it wasn't so cold, it would have been really nice. Casey was shivering after a few minutes and JD wanted them just to have time alone. "Come on Casey," JD urged, "I've got a place we can go."

+ + + + + + +

"Yoo-hoo, Mary, are you here?" Nettie Wells called out as she entered the newspaper offices.

Mary walked out from the back of the building, "Hi Nettie, I wasn't expecting to see you in town today."

Nettie smiled sheepishly, "it was my own impatience. Mrs. Potter is waiting on an order of mine to be shipped in," Nettie sighed deeply, "it wasn't in her last shipment."

"Must be something real special," Mary smiled.

"Just some magazines and fabric, but I was really looking forward to them. With no gardening to do, I find it hard to fill my days."

"How's Casey?"

Nettie rolled her eyes. "Mr. Dunne has not rode out in four days. And each of those days with Casey were longer and longer."

Mary chuckled. "Well, JD had an accident so he hasn't done much riding the last few days."

"Oh my, he'll be all right?"

"His pride is taking longer to recover than his injuries," Chris dryly observed.

Nettie's head jerked up to look at Chris, she then looked back and forth between Chris and Mary, "I take it you two have settled your disputes."

Chris looked to Mary, and Mary said, "yes. So, where's Casey?"

"She's not here," Nettie stiffened and a slow anger started to build. "Fifteen minutes. I gave her fifteen minutes to talk to JD and then she was to meet me here."

"I'm sure there is some reasonable explanation they're delayed," Mary attempted to defuse Nettie's rising anger.

"Mm hmm, hanky panky. Those two are not to be alone and they know it. They promised."

"Ma'am, wait here, I'll go get them for you," Chris offered and left to go out into the bitter cold.

+ + + + + + +

Josiah raked in the pot, his third in a row, and was thinking the day couldn't get much better. It was nice and quiet in town and he was sitting with good friends that he could rely on and who could rely on him. That was a special place to be that he hadn't had most of his life -- this sense of home and family.

At that moment, Chris crashed through the saloon doors. "Where's JD?"

"Three guesses and the first two don't count," Buck answered quickly.

Josiah's hand slammed on the table, causing drinks to slosh and wetting some of the playing cards.

"Now Josiah, calm down," Nathan exhorted.

Josiah was out of his chair and stomping across the saloon. A red fury consumed him at the betrayal of JD. He promised that no harm, reputation or otherwise, would come to his niece. Yes, he was aware Casey wasn't blood related, but they had a special bond these past months since they had been there during their darkest days dealing with Josiah's Belle and Casey's attack. If any harm . . . Josiah couldn't even finish the thought.

All the men at the poker table stood. Josiah shrugged off the arm Chris extended but Buck called out "you and Nathan better go with him, in case he finds JD first. I've got some places Vin, Ezra, and I can look."

"If you find him, send them over to the Clarion," Chris called out as he pivoted to follow Josiah.

Josiah made a beeline straight for the church to retrieve his rifle. He wasn't quite sure what he'd do with it and he was well aware that Chris and Nathan were behind him but it just seemed like the thing to do. In fact, by the time he had reached the church Josiah wasn't sure what he'd do.

Josiah slowly took the front steps up to the church. JD was a good boy. He'd never gave one pause to doubt his integrity or his heart. It was just that it was Casey . . . but it was also JD . . . and Casey . . . Did he really trust one and not the other? After everything? Josiah took a deep breath.

He stepped into the knave of the church only to be brought up short. He almost felt like bursting out laughing at his worry. Sitting in the pews were Casey and JD. Oh, not together. Casey was forward in one pew with two empty rows between her and JD who was in the last row. Chris and Nathan came up behind him.

There was a long moment of silence before Chris said quietly, "Casey, your aunt is waiting on you."

"Oh my gosh, I let the time get away from me," Casey said oblivious to some of the tension surrounding the men.

"Josiah, is something going on?"

Josiah couldn't say anything and just shook his head no.

"I would be honored if you let me escort," JD stood and extended his elbow and Casey slipped her hand in. The young couple exited the church.

"Josiah?" Nathan asked tentatively.

"I'm all right. For a moment, I just thought . . . If any harm . . ."

"You know JD respects her too much," Nathan said.

"Yeah, I know."

"Why don't you ever lecture Buck like you do JD? You watch JD like a hawk," Nathan asked.

"Buck's a man."

"JD is a man. He's proved that," Chris said.

Josiah nodded affirmatively, "indeed he has. None finer."

Chris clapped Josiah on the shoulder, "how 'bout a whiskey?"

"Excellent idea, brother. I'm just going to check. . ."

"No, no, no" both Chris and Nathan exclaimed as they herded Josiah to the saloon.

Josiah could only laugh. Laugh at young love and laugh at the antics of his friends.

He was home.

Part 161

Vin pulled the lapels of his coat closer together with one hand as the wind whistling through the dark street got a little more tooth to it, briefly making even the heavy wooden sign hanging from the hotel balcony dance and shiver in its icy grip. It skittered away, then, leaving only the cold stillness of a December morning, an amber glow on the eastern horizon marking the site where the low sun was rising. The morning star gleamed like a pale jewel in the indigo sky above it. Vin let go of his coat and rubbed his hands together, slapping them vigorously to warm them up and laughing at the sight of his own breath fogging out in front of him as he stepped up onto the boardwalk and stomped the dusting of heavy frost off his boots. The cafe door creaked plaintively as he pushed it opened to step into the dimly lit room and then shut it behind him with a heavy sound that suddenly made him realize just how cold it had really been outside. The tracker smiled more broadly as he heard the voice from the kitchen at the back of the cafe.

"Vin chil'? That you?"

He slipped off his hat and ran a hand through his hair as he threaded his way between the silent tables waiting in their red-checked oilcloths for the day's trade. "Well, if it ain't then I reckon you're in trouble."

Miz Ruby laughed and leaned backward so she could eye Vin from inside the kitchen that was spilling out warm light and the smells of yeast and cinnamon and coffee. "Trouble? Heah?" She snorted and vanished behind the wall again, and Vin heard the sound of the heavy oven door opening. Her voice floated out as he got closer: "Gits yo' se'f in heah an' eats some a' these good cinnamon rolls Ah gots fo' ya'."

Vin stepped into the embrace of the warm, glowing kitchen and looked around. Miz Ruby was setting an enormous pan of cinnamon rolls on the massive table in the center of the room, while Coco was rolling out dough on a side table and Bitsy was pouring steaming black coffee from a gallon-sized enamelware pot into a heavy mug. She grinned at Vin as she held it out to him, and the tracker wrapped his cold hands around the warm mug and grinned back.

"Now looka' heah," Miz Ruby was saying. She was lifting a mass of two or three of the huge rolls of dough and cinnamon and sugar out of the pan on a spatula and setting it on a platter. "Y'all starts on this, an' Ah'll gits ya' some eggs goin'--"

"Whoa, whoa!" Vin laughed and held up his right hand to her, palm out, the coffee cup in his other hand. The cook looked up at him feigning surprise, and he hooked his arm around her neck and shoulders, and drew her to him in a sideways embrace. "If I ate all that, I wouldn't be able to climb up on my horse!"

"Now we's already done talked 'bout this, young fella'," answered the woman. She snatched at the waistband on the front of Vin's pants and tugged on it. "Look how skinny y'all is, chil'! Looka' heah, Bitsy! Ain't no meat a-tall on these po' bones a' his, an' him worried 'bouts--!"

"Miz _RUBY_!" Vin gasped, laughing, and twisted away from the cook, holding his mug of coffee up high enough not to spill it on her as he did so.

"Now Miz Ruby, don't tell me you're tryna' get in that boy's britches again?" Buck walked into the kitchen, ducking to clear the low door frame, his eyes twinkling in the lantern light as Vin blushed scarlet and backed into the table where Coco was rolling out dough. The girl giggled and put a hand over her mouth, then shook her head merrily and started putting dots of butter onto the thick sheet of dough.

"Y'all thinks Ah's gon' be flustered at that, _Mister_ Buck?" Miz Ruby put her hands on her hips and advanced towards the tall gunslinger, who grinned nervously and backed a step immediately.

"Well I--"

"Ah's sixty-fo' years ol'. . . or mebbe sixty-five. Don' rightly recall at this moment. But Ah's OL' enough t' have changed YO' diaper, Honey-chil'! So don' go thinkin' y'all kin--"

"Hey! I _WANT_ your cinnamon rolls!" Buck managed a grin that was simultaneously flirtatious and wounded, and Miz Ruby put back her head and laughed outright.

"An' how many eggs?"

"Make it half a dozen," said Buck nonchalantly. He threw a conspiratorial glance at Vin and then pulled one of the hot rolls from the platter and studied how to get it to his mouth without having it unfurl itself.

"Half a dozen," Vin scoffed, pushing himself from the table. He intercepted the cinnamon roll inches from Buck's opened mouth and deftly maneuvered it into his own. "My roll," he said to Buck, chewing. "Miz Ruby made 'em for _me_."

"For you." Buck eyed the tracker with thinly-veiled amusement and then cocked his head to look at Miz Ruby. "I am hurt," he declared. "Truly hurt. You would make pans and pans of cinnamon rolls for Vin and leave ME out? When you _knew_ I was gettin' up early today to come have breakfast here so you wouldn't have just this mangy tracker to keep ya' company?"

"Now see, that's where y'all jus' shows how much ya' gots left t' learn 'bouts Miz Ruby." The woman opened the oven door and slid a second enormous pan of rolls onto the table next to the first one. "These," she said, fixing Buck with a pointed stare, "gots pecans on 'em. Ain't y'all the one always tells me--"

"Pecans!!?" Buck's face lit up with delight that made him look for all the world like a schoolboy, and everyone in the kitchen laughed.

"Bitsy, chil', go'n turns the sign over t' 'open' an' light the lamps in the dinin' room," said Miz Ruby. "Coco, go'n tell Pedro it's time t' gits up an' do chores an' gits ready for school. An' _y'all_ two galoots takes them rolls an' sits yo'selves down at a table out there. Go on now, an' gits out from under mah feet so's Ah kin cook. Go on!" She swept her hands at both men and they retreated to the dining room where Bitsy was lighting lamps and giving a last straightening to the oilcloths. Coco darted in to hand Buck a steaming mug of coffee and then vanished up a stairway at the other side of the room. She came down a moment later and raced back into the kitchen, followed by the giggling Bitsy.

"I see you laughin', Gal," called Buck after the older girl. "Don't go thinkin' you're gonna' hold this over me, now. I'd just have to go tell Nathan about the doctorin' you need done on that pretty little--" A tiny shriek from the kitchen told Buck he'd scored as intended, and he shook his head and raised the coffee to his lips. "Ooohhhh," he said, "She's got it _bad_."

"You're a cruel man, Bucklin. Cruel." Vin leaned back in his chair and slid part way down with a satisfied sigh.

"Yeah, that's so." Buck sipped at his coffee thoughtfully, a mischievous sparkle dancing at the corners of his eyes. "'Course, I ain't the one who's always sweet on old ladies, neither."

"Old ladies." Vin eyed Buck steadily.

"Yep." The moustached man set down his coffee mug on the table with a sigh and pulled a pecan from the cinnamon roll on his plate and began to chew it pensively. "First Nettie Wells. Now Miz Ruby. Here you got a whole town full a' young ladies just _dyin'_ for your attention an'--"

Vin leaned forward and grinned slyly. "Diapers," he said.

"On the other hand," said Buck, "Chris outta' be comin' in about now. Where do you suppose he is?" The tracker chuckled and pushed himself up straighter in his chair as Bitsy came in bearing two plates of steak and eggs that she set down in front of the men with a smirk and a toss of her head.

"He's half-frozen from the long, cold ride into town from his shack," said a voice from the door to the street. A gust of cold wind blew in with the words and rattled the hanging folds of the oilcloths on the tables. The lamps guttered briefly but then flared up warm and steady again as Chris shut the door behind him and advanced towards his friends, unwrapping a long wool scarf from around his neck and then pulling off heavy gloves as he did so. "You _sure_ you wanna' go huntin' in this weather, Buck?" He set his hat on the table and grinned at the two men as he shrugged out of his overcoat and pulled out a chair to sit down.

"Oh yeah," said Buck, smiling beatifically. "Miz Ruby says if I bring her a turkey she'll fix it up for us special, with all the trimmin's."

"A _big_ 'un!" amended the cook's voice from the kitchen, and the three men chuckled. Chris looked up at Bitsy, who was coming out of the kitchen towards the table, and nodded at her genially.

"Just bring me the same as they've got," he said.

"Pecans or not?" asked the girl.

"Surprise me."

"Might not be the best thing to suggest around here right at this moment, Pard," observed Vin in a low voice. Buck grinned, and they heard a spoon bang in the next room.

"Ah kin hear y'all jus' fine, ya' know," said the voice from the kitchen. Chris raised his own voice pointedly to reply.

"What about a goose instead of a turkey, Miz Ruby?"

The woman came to the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. "A goose? Sho' nuff?"

Chris nodded, smiling, and began to sip the coffee Bitsy had set in front of him. "Saw some on my way into town this mornin'. Whole flock of 'em out at the marsh by the river."

"Wal! Ain't that jus' a perty idea! A goose'd be right fine, now, Mister Chris!" The woman jumped slightly and a sassy look raced across her face as the door opened again. "Wal, if it ain't Mister Andreas! These fella's is gon' get us a goose an' Ah's gon' cook it up for 'em with all the trimmin's. Whatchy'all thinks a' that?"

"I think if you'll serve me some of whatever you've made that smells so good, I might just be talked into contributing some dumplings and German pastries to your goose dinner." The German cook from the restaurant down the street smiled and doffed his hat, and Miz Ruby's eyes shone with pleasure.

"Y'all kin sweet-talk 'mos' good as that Mister Buck," she grinned. "C'mon in heah an' lemme hear 'bouts these 'German pastries' y'all makes while Ah fixes ya' some breakfas'." The two cooks walked into the kitchen side by side, and the men at the table could hear the low exchange between them for a moment more before their voices faded into the details of ingredients and measurements. Chris sighed and stretched out his long legs under the table as Bitsy brought in another plate of steak and eggs, and one roll with pecans and one without. Chris eyed the plate and then the girl, and grinned at her.

"That's mine," said Vin, reaching across the table towards the pecan-less cinnamon roll on Chris's plate. The gunman laughed and laid a rapid hand over the tracker's, pinning it to the table.

"Not any more." He smiled sweetly, and Vin laughed and shook his head and thought about how long ago the summer seemed now, and how good it was to be sitting together right here, right now, horsin' around and watchin' people come in to Miz Ruby's cafe for breakfast. He leaned back in his chair again, his eyes sweeping the room, and felt just plain-down dog happy. Huntin' with his friends this morning would be fun, and it was even fun to have them up early with him for a change, havin' breakfast together. As to later, and "a goose with the all fixin's" -- hell, he wasn't even sure he knew what "all the fixin's" to a goose dinner were. But it didn't matter, he thought, bringing his relaxed gaze back to the two men at his table who were eating their breakfast with evident relish. What mattered was the bein' here.

He lifted his coffee mug silently towards his friends in a casual gesture that no one would see was a toast, and drank it down with a feeling he was sure was as good as any he'd ever had.

And then he quietly stole the last half of _his_ cinnamon roll off Chris's plate and popped it into his mouth with a triumphant smirk.

Part 162

"Got that end tied down good, Brother Nate?"

"Yep." Nathan's voice was muffled, coming as it was from the other side of the heavily-loaded and tarp-covered wagon, but Josiah nodded his big head that he'd heard, and grinned.

"Then we're all set to go." He gave a final shake to the knots he'd just tied and ran his eyes and hands, both, over the back of the tarp as he walked around the tailgate of the wagon to meet the healer, coming towards him from his side and doing the same thing.

"Josiah! Nathan?"

The two men turned to face the boardwalk from which their names had been called, and Nathan stepped forward to greet Mary as she hurried towards them with a shy smile on her rosy cold face. "Here," she panted, holding out a large paper sack to the men, her breath puffing out in little white clouds, "I thought . . . well . . ."

Nathan peered into the sack with a puzzled smile, and then beamed as he drew out a long stick of hard candy and looked back up into Mary's face. The woman twisted her hands nervously and looked down.

"The children," she said softly, and then she looked up again and gave them a dazzling smile that was like the sun coming out. "I thought they might like something special. There's 25 sticks in there."

"That is _very_ thoughtful," approved Nathan, handing the sack to the preacher.

"They'll be plumb tickled," added Josiah in his low rumble. Mary smiled again, visibly relaxing, and then turned to look behind her as they all heard JD call to them.

"You headin' out now?" His cheeks were every bit as rosy from the cold as Mary's were, and his dark eyes sparkled like twin stars in a winter sky. Mary cocked her head at him as Nathan and Josiah both nodded that they were, in fact, about to leave.

"Where are _you_ off to, so cheerful this early in the day?" she asked.

JD looked down at his feet and a flush rose up out of the collar of his heavy coat and spread all the way across his face so quickly that the three people watching almost felt sorry for him. Mary put one hand over her mouth.

"Oh dear," she said. "I'm sorry, JD." But she couldn't help grinning just a little in spite of herself.

The youth shrugged and tried to look nonplused. "Well, I don't know what for, Mrs. Travis. I'm just headin' out to . . . well, that is, to take this stuff Miz Wells ordered from Potters' out to her. Mrs. Potter says they'll be needin' it right away." He waved a wrapped parcel bound with string at the assembled group and Mary smiled again and nodded as if she was mightily impressed by JD's philanthropic motives, her face taking on a terribly serious expression.

"Well," laughed Josiah, "have a good time. Say 'hello' to that little Casey gal for me. We should be back late tonight!" He turned to clap a newly-embarrassed JD on the shoulder in parting, and then walked around to the driver side of the wagon and hauled himself up onto the high seat as Nathan smiled at JD and shook his hand, then touched his fingers to his hat at Mary.

"Hey JD!" It was Buck's voice, loud and cheerful and shattering the cold air like it was a skein of ice. Josiah's low laugh rumbled down from his perch on the wagon as he shook his head ruefully. Nathan paused with one foot up on the step to the freight wagon's seat and looked back just in time to see Buck wrap a long arm around JD's head and reel him in in a way that knocked the youth's bowler hat off and sent it tumbling across the ground. "Hey, JD!" he cried again, "Ya' wanna' go huntin' with us?!" JD shook himself loose and raced after his hat, pouncing on it and jamming it back down on his head with an angry expression.

"It so happens I got somethin' important to do, Buck!" he huffed.

"Ahhh!" Buck leaned in close to JD's face, bending lower to do so, and winked at Josiah sitting on top of the wagon. "Goin' sparkin' are ya'?"

Low chuckles were Vin and Chris walking up behind Buck, Chris's arms filled with a large parcel, and Vin leaned against one of the boardwalk posts and grinned at JD as the youth frowned at Buck.

"No," he said, "Mrs. Potter asked me to deliver somethin' out to Mrs. Wells', an'--"

"Ooooh." Buck's voice slid into a velvety register as his eyes took on a soft sparkle. "Good move, JD." He smacked the younger man lightly with the back of his hand to the other's forearm, and then straightened up.

"It's not like that at all. Really." JD was straightening his rumpled coat and hat, and smoothing his trousers and trying to generally untwist all the things that Buck had managed to wreck in one giant wrestling bear hug. Dang the man!

"Well, enjoy the ride," said Chris. He looked up at Nathan and Josiah. "Miz Ruby sent this over for you two, for your trip."

Nathan reached down for the enormous covered basket Chris was lifting up to him and chuckled when he realized how heavy it was. "Seems like a lotta' food for jus' a trip out to the reservation an' back!"

"You know Miz Ruby," smiled Chris.

"Probably three or four dozen pork chops in there," said Vin, enjoying the way Nathan ducked his head in embarrassment.

"Well, that woman _does_ make the best pork chops--"

"An' likely two whole pies," added Buck. He cocked his head at Nathan. "I gotta' remember to go with you the next time you run an errand like this. Now it's Josiah instead a' me who's gonna' make time with all that food Miz Ruby made special, just for you."

"And don't you forget it, Buck," crowed Josiah. "I won't." All the men laughed and stepped back away from the wagon.

"Give my best to Chanu and Kojay," said Chris.

"We will." The two men on the freight wagon smiled as Josiah picked up the heavy reins and pushed his foot against the long brake handle to release it.

"Tell 'em I'll bring 'em out some a' whatever game we get today," added Vin. "They can expect me tomorrow mornin', early."

"Will do." Josiah touched his hat brim to the men on the ground and then gave the reins several hard shakes as he called to the team of draft horses standing in the traces. The freight wagon began to roll away and the people left behind stood in the street for a long moment watching it.

"It was real nice a' folks to send those people the clothes an' tools an' food an' such, to help 'em through the winter," said Vin to Mary, in a soft voice. She looked at him in surprise and blushed lightly, then looked at Chris and lowered her gaze.

"It was the least we could do," she said. "After all that happened."

"Still right nice," said Vin. He settled his hat on his head suddenly and eyed Chris and Buck. "So we goin' before it's tomorrow or not?"

"Where are 'we' going?" It was Ezra's voice, and the four men still in the street exchanged amused looks.

"_I_ am off to make a delivery for Mrs. Potter," said JD. He pulled the reins of his little bay loose from the rail and mounted, then grinned despite himself at Buck and turned his horse to race up the street and out of town with a whoop that made the other men laugh.

"Why do I think I know where that delivery is being made?" reflected Ezra.

"The rest of us," said Chris, ignoring Ezra's comment, "are going hunting. Get your mouth set for a goose and all the fixin's." He pulled the reins of his black to him from the hitching post a little past where JD's horse had been, and smiled slyly at the gambler.

"Wait, wait." Ezra was blinking slowly as the three men were mounting up and looking at him with barely-concealed amusement. "Josiah and Nathan just left to take supplies out to the reservation."

"That's right," said Vin.

"And JD also just left," added Ezra.

"Right again." Buck was gathering his reins in his hands as he stretched his legs against the stirrup leathers.

"But if you three leave then . . . who's left to watch things here?"

"You are." Chris grinned ferally at the look of disgust and dismay that raced across the gambler's face at his words.

"I can hardly . . .that is, a man of my abilities and proclivities can _hardly_ be expected to--"

The three men where turning their horses away from the rail and into the street, all of them grinning delightedly at the hapless gambler. Chris drew his black close to Ezra and leaned down from the saddle to put his lips close to the gambler's ear.

"It's too late," he whispered, "to lie your way out of it. We know now." He sat up in the saddle again as Ezra paled.

"Yeah," snickered Buck. "You're a _responsible man_."

The three riders broke into laughter then and spurred their horses into a whirling burst of manes and hooves away from the edge of the buildings at the boardwalk and into the middle of the street. Mary stepped back from Ezra, laughing, as the gambler sputtered incoherently, raising one well-manicured hand to the three men as he stepped out into the street after them as though to prevent their leaving. Chris, Vin, and Buck merely touched their hats to the gambler and raced away, their laughter carrying back to him on the cold wind.

Silence descended on the street again, as Ezra stood watching them leave. Then he looked around to see Mary leaning against the wall of the building, her eyes dancing but her expression one of rueful sympathy.

"Well, I guess now we know it's really true," Ezra said to her at last, after several long minutes. "No good deed does go unpunished." He flashed a lopsided grin, touched his hat brim in a two-fingered salute, and then turned away to walk up the street.

He'd check the livery first, he thought, and then make sure things were all right down at the saloon and general store. And there was Wyatt to talk with, about what might be going on with messages . . .

And Ezra Standish started to whistle under his breath without even realizing that he did so.

The End