Shades of Grey

Part One

Chris Larabee was not best pleased; in fact, if he were totally and brutally honest with himself, he would have to say that he was thoroughly pissed!

Reining in his leg-weary mount, he glanced up at the darkening sky, calculating how much more riding time he would have before sundown. Not enough to get back to Four Corners tonight, he concluded ruefully.

Maybe he should have listened to Buck, after all. The ladies man had warned him it might be a fruitless trip but, as usual, Chris had waived his protests aside. Only Vin – with his quiet words and the sudden understanding in his eyes – had agreed that Chris should go. As he had pointed out to the gunslinger, he would do the same if he were in that situation.

It had all started with a chance remark from a drifter in the saloon almost a week ago now. A couple of the townsfolk were talking to the cowboy about some of the places he had ridden through, and Chris' keen ears had caught the name 'Gaines'. He had stalked up to the unsuspecting man, and almost brow-beaten every scrap of information he could from him, leaving the poor unfortunate feeling as though he had been staked out in the sun all day!

At that point the gunslinger had declared his intention to make the trip to Painted Butte, and check out the man's story for himself. Seeing Chris' wild, feral look, Buck had tried unsuccessfully to talk some sense into him, trying to convince him that it was a bad idea so soon after a serious injury, and the two friends – not for the first time – had almost come to blows. As Chris stormed out of the saloon, it was Vin who followed him, offering his help, and then wishing him good hunting and giving him advice about the best way to get to the town when his offer was declined.

Larabee sighed and chirruped softly, urging his black gelding forward. Buck's predictions had proven to be correct; by the time he had reached Painted Butte there was nothing and no-one to say that Ella Gaines had ever even been there. He had made the one hundred mile round trip, and spent several frustrating days asking unanswered questions, for nothing.

Suddenly, as he considered finding a place to camp, the smell of wood-smoke was carried to him on the breeze. Bringing his horse to a halt once more, Chris scanned the trail ahead and the area on either side until he saw the thin curl of grey smoke drifting lazily upwards beyond a stand of trees. Maybe whoever it was would allow him to share the fire for the night.

He sent the horse forward again, letting it pick its way carefully over the rough terrain as he cut through the trees towards the camp. As he drew nearer, he could hear the restless movements of a number of horses, and men's voices raised in talk and laughter. However, he kept his right hand close to the handgrip of his Colt as he studied the camp itself.

There were about a dozen wagons – flatbed and tarpaulin covered for hauling freight - ranged in a loose semi-circle at the edge of the clearing, and a large fire blazed in the centre. A handful of men sat around the campfire, while others moved amongst the wagons or tended the horses that were picketed by the first wagon. As Chris rode into the circle of light, a tall man dressed in fringed buckskins climbed to his feet and stepped forward.

“Howdy, friend,” he greeted. “Step down and rest your saddle.”

Chris was grateful for the invitation, and as he swung from the saddle he saw the two tough looking men standing guard, Winchester rifles cradled in the crooks of their arms.

“Thanks,” he replied, holding his hand out to the man who was obviously the boss of the freight outfit. “Name's Chris.”

The big man grinned, feeling the strength of the gunslinger's grip. “Jake Keller. Have you ridden far?” The question was the most information he could ask for, within the unwritten law of the West. It was up to Chris to say as much – or as little – as he wanted.

“Yeah. From Painted Butte, about forty miles back.” The gunslinger didn't say where he was headed, and Keller didn't ask.

“There's coffee on the go if you've a mind for some.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the horse-line. “You're welcome to put your mount up and share the fire tonight. It's getting a mite dark for travelling.”

“I'm obliged.”

Ten minutes later the black was unsaddled, and Chris walked back to the fire with his saddle in one hand and his bedroll and a small burlap sack in the other. Dropping his saddle and bedroll, he handed the sack to the grizzled, white-haired man who was tending to the cooking.

“There's a couple of rabbits and some pronghorn steaks there if you can make use of them,” he said, in answer to the man's enquiring look.

“Sure can, son. Help yourself to the coffee, and I'll see if I can rustle you up some grub.” The old-timer took a clean plate from the pile beside him and hooked a thick buffalo steak from the skillet and handed it to the gunslinger. “There you go. That'll put some meat on them bones of your'n.”

“Thanks.”

As Chris worked his way through the steak, and another cup of coffee, Jake Keller came to sit beside him, politely asking him what brought him this way. However, after a few minutes when it became clear that the gunslinger wasn't in the mood for small talk, the freight boss moved away under the pretext of checking the manifest for one of the wagons. Larabee felt a little guilty; the man had offered him the hospitality of his fire for the night, but he wasn't prepared to be any more sociable than rangeland etiquette demanded.

Setting his empty plate aside, Chris suddenly had the uncanny feeling that he was being watched. Glancing up, he saw two men staring at him from the opposite side of the fire, and the younger of the two was glaring at him furiously. Recognising the truculent look of a would-be hard man and troublemaker, he cautiously loosened the ties of his holster.

“You got a problem, mister?” he asked, hazel eyes narrowing as he carefully studied the younger of the two.

The young, buckskin-clad freighter wagged a finger at him. “I've seen you someplace,” he said at length, his voice loud as he tried hard to impress the man sitting next to him.

Chris shrugged. “It's likely,” he agreed. “I've been there once or twice.”

“Where?” the other asked before he could stop himself.

“Someplace,” Chris told him, wanting to see how far the other was prepared to push him. A thin smile touched his lips, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. The other men within earshot all laughed derisively, and the young freighter reddened beneath his tan.

“Maybe I saw your face on a poster somewhere,” he snarled, without thinking about the consequences. A sudden silence dropped over the camp as the implication of his comment sank in, and Chris' smile grew broader, but it was the smile of a wolf just before its teeth closed around the throat of its prey.

“You think there's a reward out on me?” The man in black spoke softly, but his words carried to every person around the fire. When the young freighter didn't reply, he continued. “Well, there ain't – and if there was you still wouldn't be man enough to collect it!” With that Chris looked away and started to reach for the coffee pot, effectively dismissing the freighter.

“Is that so?” The freighter scrambled to his feet. “How do we know you ain't lying?”

“Leave it lie, Frank,” Keller warned, dropping a hand on the young man's shoulder as he bristled angrily, but Frank eyed the freight boss coldly, and then shrugged off the restraining hand.

“'Cos I said so.” Chris was growing weary of the insinuations now, and he knew that the time for action was rapidly approaching.

“Well, I don't – “ The freighter never had the chance to finish his sentence. Without warning Chris suddenly flung the cold dregs of his coffee in the man's face and dropped the cup. Before Frank could do anything except react to the stinging liquid, he found himself staring down the barrel of Chris' revolver, which seemed to have appeared in his hand as if by magic.

“Now – what were you saying about lying?” The gunslinger's expression didn't alter, but there was a subtle change in the tone of his voice, and the freighter knew that he would die if he pushed the black-dressed man any further.

“Nothing,” Frank mumbled eventually, his hand moving away from the butt of his gun, and he stepped away from the fire, unwilling to pick up the gauntlet that Chris had flung down. The other man followed him, darting a nervous backward glance at the stranger seated at the fire. After a few tense moments, the buzz of conversation started up again.

“Sorry about that,” Keller apologised. “Frank Ross can be a bit aggressive at times. If he ain't careful his mouth's gonna get him killed one day.”

Chris raised one eyebrow. “Yeah. I've seen his kind before.”

“So've I,” Keller said with a sigh. “I wouldn't have taken him on 'cept he's got his own two wagons and drivers, and he works hard.”

“There'll be no trouble as long as he stays out of my way,” the gunslinger stated, tossing his coffee dregs into the fire and shaking out his bedroll. “Thanks again, but I'll be gone at first light.”

As Chris settled down for the night, he found himself silently agreeing with Keller's assessment of Frank Ross. The young freighter was a bully and a bit of a coward, but even bullies and cowards would fight back if they were pushed far enough, so he wasn't going to take any chances. As he pulled the blanket up around his shoulders, Chris slipped his Colt from its holster, tucking it under the skirt of his saddle as he rested his head on it. Satisfied that he was prepared for any eventuality, the gunslinger drifted off to sleep.

+ + + + + + +

“How long did Chris say he'd be gone?”

The question came from JD as Buck and Vin entered the Sheriff's office, and the ladies man shrugged dismissively.

“Who knows,” he said.

“He didn't say,” Vin told the young peacekeeper. “All he said was that he'd send a telegram if he was gonna be more'n a week.”

“He didn't tell me that!” Buck looked indignantly at the tracker, seeing the gleam of amusement in the blue eyes.

“Why should he? You were too busy arguing with him.”

JD laughed as Buck spluttered, and then ducked as the ladies man reached out to flip the hat from his head.

“Ain't you got nothing better to do?” he growled at the young man. “You should show more respect to your betters!”

“Oh, I do,” JD replied with a grin. “When I'm with them.”

“Buck!” Vin saw the wicked glint in the big man's eyes, and he laid a restraining hand on his forearm. The last bout of horseplay between Buck and the kid had ended up with JD being half-drowned in the nearest trough, and coming down with a chill that had kept him in bed for three days. He had no desire to explain another such occurrence to Chris when he returned from his trip. “We've just got enough time to make another round of the town before Inez starts serving lunch. Coming?”

The Texan didn't wait for a reply; he grabbed Buck's arm and hauled him out of the office, but not before the ladies man did something completely childish. Even JD blinked in surprise at the tongue that was poked out at him!

+ + + + + + +

Chris held the black gelding to a mile-eating lope as he headed towards his – as yet – unfinished homestead. The day had dawned bright and clear, but there was already a hint of rain in the air, so Chris had decided to make the detour to check on his property before returning to town.

Everything was as he'd left it; the small neat cabin was already finished, but the work-shed was still in need of a roof, and the large corral stood empty of horses at the moment, but who knew what the future might hold. Dismounting, he unfastened the throat strap of the gelding's bridle, and slipped the bit from its mouth. As the horse drank its fill from the half empty trough Chris looked around, seeing the pile of timber stacked to one side, and made a quick decision.

A few moments later the black was unsaddled and running loose in the corral, and the gunslinger had stripped off his jacket, hooked his gun-belt over a convenient fence-post, and was busily sawing through a length of timber.

The honest, constructive work had a calming effect, and Chris felt himself relaxing as he saw the wood taking on a new shape beneath his calloused hands. Picking up a lighter handsaw, he began to cut a dovetail into the timber, ready to slot it into one of the roof joints. Straightening up, trying to ease the kinks from his back, he noticed a tall figure in the distance, leading a badly limping horse towards his house. Ever cautious, he moved towards the corral, resting his hand on the top rail, a scant few inches away from his Colt as he studied the newcomer.

The man had the look of a cowhand about him; a black JB Stetson was perched on his head, and a tight-rolled scarlet bandana trailed long ends down over the front of his blue shirt. He held the split-end reins of his mount in his right hand, and the brown horse seemed to be in some distress as the man approached the corral and then stopped.

“Hey, mister,” he called, pushing his hat back to hang by the storm-strap. “This place is sure a sight for sore eyes!”

Chris frowned, then gestured the young man forward. “Come ahead and water your horse.” He stepped back a couple of paces as the cowboy brought the limping brown round to the trough. “What happened?” he asked, studying the horse carefully.

“Danged if I know!” The young man ran his hand down the horse's near foreleg, and Chris saw the animal quiver in pain. “He pulled up lame about half a mile back. I didn't know what I was gonna do.” The cowboy grinned at the gunslinger. “I'm glad I found this place.”

“Maybe it's just a sprain.” Chris stepped forward, his appreciation for good horseflesh just about over-riding his caution and, unless he missed his guess, the brown was a fine example of the Morgan breed. Reaching down, he ran his fingers through the horse's silky mane as it slaked its thirst. “I reckon it'll be a while before he can be ridden.”

“I wouldn't be so sure about that.”

The tone of the cowboy's voice made Chris look up sharply, but he was too late as the man slapped the Morgan smartly across the muzzle. The horse squealed in surprise, and shied away from the blow, cannoning into the gunslinger and knocking him off balance. As Chris made a grab at the fence to steady himself, he saw the cowboy duck under the horse's neck and turn in his direction. He hadn't looked away from the other for very long, but it had given the man sufficient time to launch an attack, and a tightly knotted right fist lashed out and impacted against his jaw.

Rock-hard knuckles brought tears of pain to the gunslinger's eyes, and his world exploded in flashing, brilliant lights as he went crashing to the ground.

He never felt the rough hands that turned him over and bound his wrists in front of him.

The shock of cold water on his face dragged Chris slowly back to dazed consciousness, and he spluttered and coughed as the liquid filled his mouth and nostrils.

Rolling onto his side, the gunslinger drew his knees up, and winced at the ache in his jaw. Cracking open one eye, he studied the dusty boots that filled his vision. As he raised his head to try and see who the footwear belonged to, a vicious blow ripped into his back just above his kidneys, and a strangled gasp was torn from his lips as his muscles went into spasms.

“Not so tough now, are we?” grated a voice he recognised from the previous night.

Frank Ross may have backed down under the steady gaze of the black-clad gunslinger, but that didn't mean that the matter was closed. Losing face and being laughed at wasn't something he tolerated lightly, and he was going to make certain the other paid for his humiliation. Chris thought he had left the camp that morning without disturbing anybody else, but he hadn't counted on the devious nature of the young freighter. Now he was about to find out just vindictive Ross could be.

Furious at the humiliation handed out to him at Chris' hands, Ross had spent some time planning his revenge. Luck had favoured him when his second driver had finally caught up with them shortly before midnight. The man on the Morgan was an unknown quantity, and could be used to throw the gunslinger off guard.

Following at a discreet distance, the cowboy trailed Larabee from the camp at sun-up, pulling back when Chris had headed towards his homestead several hours later. Watching carefully and waiting until Chris had removed his gun-belt, he had put the second part of Ross' plan into motion. Hating what he was doing, he had wedged a sharp stone into his horse's hoof against the frog, and led the animal around until it was limping badly. Then he had walked the Morgan down to Chris' cabin, and jumped the unsuspecting gunslinger.

Ross and his other driver had been following at a slower speed with the two wagons but, when they heard the single shot fired by the cowboy, they had urged the teams of horses onward, arriving at the cabin after the cowboy had removed the stone from his mount's foot. The gunslinger lay bound and unconscious almost underneath the corral fence.

Ross hauled his team to a stop, slipping on the brake and leaping down from the seat with a triumphant grin on his face.

“Well done, Danny,” he greeted, his eyes never leaving the still form of the gunslinger. “I wasn't sure you could pull it off.”

“It was easy,” Danny Parker told him, his tone indicating how distasteful he found the whole situation. “He was more interested in the Morgan than anything else.”

“I thought he might.” Ross may have been a number of things but, when it came down to judging men, he knew that seeing an animal of the calibre of the Morgan stud would be distraction enough for any horseman worth his salt. Staring down at his helpless victim, he scooped up the gunslinger's hat, dipped it in the trough, and dumped the water over the man's face.

As Chris came to, spluttering and gasping, and rolled onto his side, Ross drew his foot back and kicked out viciously, smiling in satisfaction at the pain he had caused. Wanting to inflict as much damage as possible, he stamped down on Chris' unprotected side, his booted heel crunching bruisingly against the gunslinger's ribs.

“Drag him to his feet!” he snapped, and his companions moved in to hold the dazed gunslinger upright. As Ross stepped forward, Chris roused himself and lashed out with his feet, catching the young freighter a painful blow across the shins.

“Damn you, Blackman! Hold him!”

Ross' expression was thunderous as he slammed his fist into Chris' face. The gunslinger's head snapped back, blood trickling from his nose and lip, and he sagged between the two men holding him. However, he was given no chance to recover as the freighter threw another vicious punch at his unprotected stomach. Held fast between the two men, and unable to move to absorb the blow, he hissed with pain as fire spread across his abdomen.

“You'll be sorry you ever laughed at me,” Ross sneered, conveniently forgetting that it was his companions on the freight train that had laughed at him, not Chris Larabee. “Hook him over that fence-post!”

As Parker and Blackman forced the peacekeeper over to the corral, and slipped his bound hands over the top of the corner post, Ross stepped back and unhooked the bullwhip from his belt. Shaking out the plaited Manila coils, he drew his arm back and smiled maliciously.

“Step back, fellas,” he warned. “Unless you want some of what he's gonna get.”

Chris' world was a mass of pain and hurt, but he tried desperately to keep his wits about him. As the two men dragged him up to the post he struggled, but his treacherous limbs refused to obey him. He could feel the blood trickling down his face, warm and sticky, and it only added to the rage that burned through his body. Ross was going to pay dearly for this transgression.

Suddenly he heard a loud 'pop' close to his ear, and for the briefest moment he wondered what it was. Then he felt the shock of the pain across his back, sharp and biting like the cut of a knife, as the tip of the lash sliced through his skin, and Chris couldn't prevent the cry that escaped him.

Ross' arm rose and fell again, the whip almost a living, writhing thing in the hand of a master. This time the lash curled around his chest, tearing through the black shirt and leaving a livid red weal across his ribs.

Time and again the whip flicked out, cutting across his back and burning down his ribs, until each blow seemed to coalesce into one constant mass of torment. As if from a distance, Chris could hear his own ragged breathing and the agonised gasps that fell from his lips, until finally his abused and battered body tipped him into the merciful oblivion of unconsciousness.

Danny Parker was sickened. At first, Frank Ross' plan had seemed quite straightforward; follow the black-dressed stranger and get the drop on him, then help Ross hand him a bit of a beating. He could understand the freighter's desire for revenge, but this went way beyond that.

As the gunslinger slumped against the corral fence, his shirt in tatters and his back a bloody mess, Parker caught a glimpse of Ross' face. It was almost unrecognisable in its rage, and the cowboy knew that the freighter would kill the gunslinger unless he was stopped, and stopped soon.

“That's enough, Frank,” he said suddenly, reaching out and grasping the man's wrist as it came down for another slashing blow. “You're gonna kill him if you keep on!”

For a heart-stopping moment he thought that Ross was going to turn on him, but then sanity returned to the freighter's eyes, and he lowered his arm, the blood-flecked tip of the bullwhip trailing in the dirt. He drew a deep breath, and began to coil the deadly weapon.

“Grab his horse,” he ordered, fastening the whip to his belt and snagging Chris' gun and holster from the fence where it hung. “We've got freight to haul, and goods to sell.”

Parker paused, glancing across at Blackman, and he could see the same hesitation in his eyes at Ross' words.

“Horse stealing's a hanging offence, Frank,” he pointed out in alarm, but he wasn't very surprised when the other shrugged.

“So who's gonna tell? You? Blackman?” Ross laughed. “You're in it as deep as me – and he won't be talking anytime soon, if ever.”

Parker knew he was right. He bitterly regretted the day that he had thrown his lot in with Frank Ross, but it was too late now. As he checked his horse, walking the Morgan up and down to see if it was sound, he saw Blackman drop a lasso over the black gelding's head, and lead it from the corral to tie it to the rear of Ross' wagon. Just another item to sell, he thought grimly, his gaze flickering to the injured gunslinger as he hung against the fence. Reaching down, he pulled out his knife and stepped forward to slice through the man's bonds, but Ross stopped him.

“Leave him,” he said coldly. “Maybe the weather or the wolves will finish him off.” He glanced up at the sky, seeing the dark clouds pushing in from the North. “Let's make tracks.”

As the trio left the small homestead, the first spots of rain began to fall, a prelude to the storm yet to come.

+ + + + + + +

Vin squinted up at the sky, seeing the ominous clouds that were massing in the distance. His instincts told him that there would be rain before the afternoon was out, but if he were lucky he might just catch Josiah before the ex-preacher joined Nathan at the clinic, and perhaps persuade him to make the final round with him before the Heaven's opened. For once his luck held; he raised his hand in greeting as the big, grey-haired man stepped from the saloon and started to cross the street.

“Vin.” Josiah greeted the tracker with a smile. “Did you want something?”

“Yeah. Just some company before supper.”

“My pleasure.” Josiah pulled out his fob watch and checked the time. “Nathan won't be back just yet anyway.”

Vin grinned. Josiah's company was always acceptable; the man seemed to have a knack of knowing when a person wanted to talk, and when he didn't. Right now, the tracker had a myriad thoughts tumbling through his brain, most of which centred on why Chris hadn't sent a message to say he would be delayed. Okay – so there could be any number of reasons for the silence, but Vin couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. The others would have laughed at him if he had told them, but Josiah wouldn't laugh – and he wouldn't ask, which suited the tracker fine. The peacekeepers were just on their way back towards Nathan's clinic when Frank Ross arrived in town.

The two wagons wouldn't normally have caused a stir – everyone was used to the various freight lines that brought their goods to Four Corners to sell – but Vin couldn't help admiring the fine brown Morgan horse that was being ridden by the third man with the group.

Josiah smiled when he saw the envious look that briefly crossed the Texan's face as they crossed the street between the two wagons. Then his smile faded as Vin stopped dead in his tracks – seemingly oblivious to the second wagon that was bearing down on him!

With a startled curse, the ex-preacher grabbed the younger man's arm, and physically hauled him out of the way.

“What's wrong?” he demanded, as Vin continued to stare at the first wagon – and at the black gelding trotting along behind it!

“That's Chris' horse,” he stated softly, shaking off Josiah's grip.

“Are you sure it's – “ Sanchez began, but Vin was gone, racing after the wagon as it stopped before the hardware store.

“Where'd you get that horse?”

Ross glanced down at the buckskin-clad tracker as he asked the question. He shot a quick look at the man on the Morgan as he drew rein beside the wagon, but Parker just shrugged his shoulders. Let Ross deal with it. Then the freighter made his first mistake.

“Why? You interested in buying it?”

Vin's eyes narrowed, and his voice became icy cold. “I asked you where you got it, mister.”

If he had been able, and willing, Chris Larabee could have warned them about the tornado that was about to run over them as Ross and Parker spoke together.

“We found it.”

“We bought it.”

There was a long silence as both men stared at Vin. The Texan's gaze went from one to the other, and a mocking, sardonic smile spread across his face, a false front to hide the turmoil he felt at seeing Chris' horse in such a situation. If these men had the gunslinger's mount, then his best friend was afoot and in bad trouble!

“Alright – which is it?” he asked, his voice deceptively mild. Ross' face darkened, and he scowled angrily at the tracker.

“We bought it,” the freighter said, his hand creeping down towards the bullwhip at his side. “And maybe I'll show you h – “ He suddenly stopped, feeling something cold and sharp touch his arm.

“Leave it lie, son,” Josiah told him, no warmth in the wide grin that he turned to Ross. “You'll have trouble using it with just a stump!”

The young freighter shuddered as he looked down. The wickedly sharp, ten-inch blade of the ex-preacher's knife rested against his wrist, giving him no chance to use the whip on the Texan. Seeing what was happening, Parker kneed his horse closer, and tried a different tactic.

“We didn't – “

It was obviously a day for being interrupted as a hard voice cut across the cowboy's attempt at an explanation.

“Hold it right there, mister, and unbuckle that gun belt – left-handed!”

Vin shot a quick glance over his shoulder as Buck came up behind him, and he saw JD, Ezra, and Nathan covering the driver of the second wagon. Seeing that it was futile to protest, Parker unbuckled his gun-belt and handed it down to the ladies man.

“I would suggest we continue this down at the Sheriff's office,” Josiah stated, slipping his knife back into its sheath.

“But that's Chris' horse!” Vin protested. Buck dropped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it.

“We heard,” he said quietly, then nodded at the crowd that was gathering outside the hardware store. “But let's take it someplace a little more private, eh?”

The tracker could see the sense in the suggestion but, as Ross stood up as though he were about to climb down from the wagon, he lashed out with his foot. His boot caught Josiah's shoulder, and flung the ex-preacher back to crash into Vin. As the two men were untangling themselves, he leapt astride the Morgan, swept Parker off into the dirt at Buck's feet, and set the horse in motion.

The crowd around the hardware store scattered as the animal plunged through, but it was that very press of people that saved Ross' life.

“Dammit!” Vin swore, lowering his sawn-off Winchester. He hadn't been able to get a clear shot at the fleeing man without endangering some of the townsfolk whose curiosity had brought them to congregate around the wagons. “He's getting away!”

“Leave him,” Buck told him. “I'd sooner find out what happened to Chris.”

Hauling Parker to his feet, and leaving JD and Ezra to watch the wagons, Buck and the others marched him and Blackman into the Sheriff's office and closed the door behind them. Once inside, Vin lunged at Parker, forcing the cowboy back against the wall, his forearm pressed across the other's throat.

“Now, tell me again where you got that horse!” he hissed savagely.

“Vin!“ Nathan's voice sounded in his ear, and the healer's strong hand reached out to grasp his arm, dragging it away from the cowboy's throat. “I don't think this is the right way to go about it.”

The tracker brushed the dark man aside angrily, and stalked away to lean against the opposite wall, his arms folded in front of him.

“Fine! Why don't you tell us the right way, then? They have Chris' horse!”

“Nathan, Vin – please!” Josiah's calming voice cut through the antagonism, and he waited until everyone was listening to him. “Now, first of all, are we absolutely certain that the black gelding tied to the wagon belongs to Chris?” He ignored the filthy look that the tracker threw at him, but Buck nodded.

“If Vin says it's Chris' horse then, sure as eggs are eggs, it's Chris' horse.”

“Hey!” The four men turned as Blackman shouted at them, and they looked at him as though they had forgotten who he was. “Who is this Chris fella anyway? We told you - we bought the horse. Some drifter wanted to – “ Just then the door was flung open, and Ezra walked in, holding out his right hand.

“Well, gentleman, I'll wager that you all recognise this,” he said, as they stared at the gun-belt dangling from his fingers.

“That's Chris'!” Buck growled. “He'd never give that up unless he was dead, or near enough! Where'd you find it?”

“In a box under the seat of the wagon,” the gambler replied.

The captives glanced at the peacekeepers nervously until Blackman began to splutter in indignation. “You had no right to search our property!” he yelled. “Besides, I don't know how it got there.”

The lie was so obvious that even Buck raised his eyes Heaven ward.

“That's it!” Vin exploded. “You' all can talk 'til you're blue in the face. I'm gonna get me some answers!” Unbuckling his gun-belt, he laid it, with the sawn-off Winchester, on the desk, but he retained his knife.

“What the Hell d'you think you're doing?” Buck demanded.

“I told you – getting some answers.” The tracker reached out and knotted his fist in the front of Blackman's shirt before anyone could stop him. “You'll do,” he said, dragging the man towards the cells at the rear of the building.

“Don't do this, Vin!” Nathan spoke first, but it was Buck who stepped around in front of the Texan, blocking his way to the door.

“Out of my way,” he growled at the ladies man – then dropped him a wink that nobody else saw, at the same time mouthing the words 'trust me'!

Buck reacted quickly. He stepped away from the tracker and his prisoner, knowing now that Vin wasn't acting out of anger. He had a plan, and maybe that plan would provide the clues as to what had happened to Chris. As the door slammed shut behind the Texan, he schooled his expression into one of worried fear.

“What's going on?” Parker demanded. “What's he gonna do to him?”

“Whatever he wants,” Buck stated, his gaze going to the other three members of the Seven who were present. “He always knows what he's doing!” He emphasised the last four words, and prayed that the others would follow his lead. Ezra, as usual, was quickest on the uptake.

“That's right. Our Mr.Tanner was raised by the Comanche's,” the gambler said, embellishing the truth a little as he warmed to the subject. “I shudder to think of the heathen practises he may have learned.”

Parker swallowed nervously, and then the young cowboy sneered.

“You're bluffing!” he declared, but there was a just the slightest hint of panic in his voice. “You wouldn't let – “ He stopped as a blood-curdling cry sounded from the cells, followed by the sound of something heavy falling. Moments later the door opened and Vin stepped through, wiping the blade of his knife on his bandana.

“Who's next?” he asked calmly of his stunned audience.

Later, when Buck related the tale to JD, he couldn't remember exactly what Parker had said. The terrified man babbled about everything, from the moment Chris had arrived at the freighters camp, to leaving him, unconscious and injured, at the small homestead. However, he avoided any mention of the bullwhip. The look of genuine fury now on the faces of the five peacekeepers was enough to keep him quiet about that.

“Bastards!” the tracker spat out with surprising anger, and stepped forward, but Josiah moved to block him, placing a hand on his chest to hold him back.

“Buck?” The ex-preacher inquired.

The ladies man could understand Vin's rage; it was written on all their faces. Horse stealing was almost the equivalent of murder but, as duly sworn peacekeepers, they were obliged to let the law deal with them, no matter how difficult that was. Right now, their first priority was to find Chris.

“Lock him up!” Buck ordered. “Then let's get ready to ride.”

As Ezra and Josiah escorted Parker through to the cells, they were amazed to see Blackman already locked in one. The bed was overturned, and his bandana was stuffed in his mouth, but otherwise the 'victim' appeared completely unharmed and, despite the gravity of the situation, Josiah couldn't help smiling at the stunned expressions on the prisoner's face.

“But I… we heard… “ Parker spluttered into silence, and Ezra tut-tutted, and shook his head.

“We don't abuse our prisoners!” he said, looking a little relieved himself. There had been a brief moment, back in the office, when even he had been seriously concerned about what the Texan might do. “Not even Mr.Tanner is that uncivilised. Besides, he does like his little dramatics!”

Locking Parker in the empty cell next to Blackman, Josiah and Ezra left, joining the other three as they went to collect JD.

+ + + + + + +

The rain was beginning to come down a little heavier as Chris groaned and stirred. For a moment, as he slowly forced his eyes to open, there was nothing, no feeling until he tried to stretch his stiffened muscles, and then the pain hit him like a hammer-blow.

The coppery tang of blood filled his mouth as he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, and his breath caught in his throat as his back pulsed with fire at every spot of rain that dripped on his lacerated skin. For long seconds he remained hanging where he was, breathing hard in an effort to clamp some semblance of control over the agony. Closing his eyes once the level had subsided to mere torture, he took a deep breath and pushed himself to his feet.

This time, no will in the world could halt the cry that was torn from him as cramped muscles in his arms and shoulders made their presence known in no uncertain terms. Grasping the fence-post tightly, he just managed to prevent himself collapsing back to his knees. Rain – or was it sweat? – trickled down his face and into his eyes, and he blinked furiously to clear his blurred, wavering vision. Shivering as the cold rain soaked his burning skin, Chris knew he had to move – move or die!

Slowly, moving his hands an inch at a time, he finally managed to slip them back over the post, and his knees buckled as the support was suddenly removed. As he hit the ground, the shock went up his spine, jarring already jangling nerve-endings, and he slumped weakly against the bottom rail of the corral, gasping as the bite of renewed feeling and the pull of abused muscles across his back brought sudden tears to his eyes. Blackness fluttered at the edge of his vision as consciousness threatened to flee once more, but he clawed his way back, gritty determination pushing the fog from his mind. Swallowing hard, he tilted his face up at the leaden sky, and realised he had no recollection of how long he had been unconscious. A quick glance at the corral confirmed that his gelding was gone, so whatever he did now, he would be doing it on foot.

Taking a deep breath, he hauled himself upright, steeling himself against the pain that he knew was going to come. Waiting until he was certain he could move without falling down, Chris Larabee slid one booted foot in front of the other, and trusted to his instincts. He had no idea where he was going – he only knew that he needed help.

+ + + + + + +

The storm had hit with a vengeance by the time the six peacekeepers approached Chris' homestead, and the murky gloom was making it difficult to see more than a few horse lengths ahead as they rode.

Thunder rumbled in the distance and lightning arced its way across the dark clouds, illuminating Vin as he rode a little way in front of the others, clearly visible in his bright yellow, waterproof fish, a beacon against the late afternoon sky. As they drew rein in front of the cabin the tracker leapt from his black, allowing the split end reins to hold the animal until Josiah reached down and grabbed them. Splashing across the porch he flung the door open and glanced inside, but there was no sign of Chris.

“Vin?” Buck called enquiringly, as he dismounted.

“He lied! He's not here.”

“No, he didn't.” Ezra slipped from his saddle and reached down beside the water-trough. He held up the familiar black Stetson for all to see. “He was here.”

“So where is he?” JD asked, twisting in his saddle and looking around.

“We'll find him.” Vin started to climb back on his horse, but Buck grabbed his arm, and pointed at the sky.

“Not tonight we won't,” he said softly. “The light's almost gone, and the rain'll have washed away any tracks he might have made.” He sighed, hating to admit defeat. “We'll stand a better chance in the morning.”

“But he might – “ Vin began, but Josiah silenced him with a shake of his head.

“Not even you can track him in the dark, son,” he said, and the Texan's shoulders slumped. He knew the ex-preacher spoke the truth, but it didn't mean to say he liked it.

“Josiah's right.” Nathan was already dragging the saddle from his mount, ready to turn the animal out into the corral. “We'll stay here for tonight and make a fresh start in the morning.”

Vin turned away in disgust, but he knew there was little else they could do. It would be impossible to follow anybody's tracks in the dark, and the rain was going to make it more difficult, even in the full light of day. Morosely, he removed the tack from his quarter horse, and turned it into the corral with the other five, before following his companions into the small cabin.

Ezra had found and lit the lamps that Chris kept around the place, and Nathan had got the stove going and put a pot of coffee on to boil. As Vin took off his wet slicker and shook the rain from it, he felt eyes watching him, and he turned to find Josiah studying him curiously.

“Do you know what I think? I think Chris has already made his way back to town,” JD suddenly piped up hopefully. He grinned and shrugged. “Hell, we probably missed him on the trail!”

“Maybe,” Buck admitted.

Or maybe not.

He didn't have to say it; it was in all of their minds.

Vin turned away and stared out of the window. He could barely see the corral now where the horses were milling nervously, startled by each flash of lightning, and he thought bitterly about Chris - injured and afoot – being out in this storm.

“Vin?”

Buck was at his shoulder, holding a cup of coffee out to him. The Texan took it silently, sipping at the scalding brew before he turned to his friend with a sigh.

“Damn! I feel so helpless!”

“We all do,” the ladies man replied softly, and Vin felt a sudden twinge of guilt. Wrapped in his own thoughts and sense of frustration, he had almost forgotten that the others – especially Buck – would be feeling the same way. The tracker gave him a wan smile.

“Yeah! Well at least we'll be able to do something about it as soon as it's light.”

Buck nodded, and dropped his hand briefly on the Texan's shoulder. “That's right. And once we've found Chris we'll go looking for that other hombre. Now, why don't you get some rest? It's gonna be a long day tomorrow.”

As Vin shook out his bedroll, placing it on the floor beside his saddle, he saw JD and Ezra doing the same. Stretching out, he turned on his side and closed his eyes. Buck's advice was sound, but he doubted whether he, or any of the others, would get any real sleep this night.

Part Two

The grey haired man, sitting on the driver's side of the buckboard's seat, kept a light but firm grip on the rain-slicked lines in his hands. The woman huddled next to him, sharing the protection of the waterproof cape about his shoulders, kept a watchful eye on the muddy trail, even though the stocky horse hauling the wagon was surefooted and steady.

Sam McKenzie bit his bottom lip as one of the rear wheels bounced in and out of a particularly deep rut, and he felt his wife's fingers tighten about his arm as the buckboard lurched. If he had had his way, they would have stopped and made camp a little while ago, but Libby had insisted on continuing home, despite the rain. Fortunately it had eased a little now, but even so they wouldn't reach the farm much before nightfall.

With a sigh he glanced at the woman beside him, seeing the grey that liberally sprinkled her auburn hair, and wondered yet again whether they had made the right decision in moving this far South. As he reached out to give her hand a reassuring pat, he felt her stiffen, and her nails dug painfully through the sleeve of his jacket.

“Sam – look!”

“Whoa!” As he pulled the wagon to a halt, he followed her pointing finger, seeing the dark shape sprawled at the edge of the trail about a dozen yards ahead. Slipping the brake on, he handed the reins to Libby and reached down for his rifle. “It looks like a body,” he said, as he climbed down from the seat. “Wait here while I go see.”

“Be careful,” she begged, sliding across as he walked forward. She watched as he approached the still form and squatted down, and then she saw his hand reach out and move across the body. Suddenly he was calling to her.

“Libby – bring the wagon up!”

She could hear the urgency in his voice as she pushed the brake lever forward and flicked the reins lightly against the horse's hindquarters. As she drew level with her husband, she brought the wagon to a halt, wrapped the reins around the brake handle, and climbed down.

“Dear Lord!” she breathed, as she got her first glimpse of the prone figure on the trail, his hands bound tightly in front of him with a length of rawhide. At first she thought the man was dead; his eyes were closed, and his face was bruised and bloody, but it was his back that caught and held her horrified gaze. His shirt looked as though it had been ripped and shredded by some wild animal, and not even the rain had washed away all the blood that plastered his skin.

“Is he alive?” she asked, placing her fingers against one bruised cheek, and finding his skin icy cold to the touch.

“Just about,” Sam replied, pulling out his pocket-knife and slicing through the rawhide bonds. The man's wrists were torn and lacerated, with more bruises showing where his hands had been tied so tightly. “But he's hurt pretty bad.”

“Well, we can't leave him here. Can you get him into the wagon?”

Her husband nodded but, as she made to walk away, he grasped her hand.

“Wait, Lib, there's something you should know first.” He lifted the unconscious man's right hand, and turned it palm upward, indicating the callous' on his thumb and forefinger. “He's some kind of gunfighter.”

McKenzie saw the shudder that rippled through his wife, and heard her sharp intake of breath, but then she looked up at him, and there was steely resolve in her green eyes.

“Maybe he is,” she said slowly. “But we just can't leave him like this. It wouldn't be right.”

McKenzie reached out and touched her cheek lightly. “I just wanted you to know,” he said. Stripping off his waterproof cape, he tucked it around the man's body, feeling the stranger twitch as the rough material touched his lacerated skin. Even unconscious, the pain was excruciating.

With Libby's help, he pulled the man up and slung him across his broad shoulder, staggering around to the back of the buckboard as his wife shifted some of their supplies to make room. Easing the stranger down, Sam stretched him out on his stomach, leaving the cape over him to keep off the drizzle that still fell. Libby folded a Hessian sack and slipped it under the man's head, before climbing back onto the seat beside her husband.

Gathering up the reins, Sam chirruped to the patiently standing horse, and urged it forward at a fast trot. They had been delayed long enough, and dusk was beginning to draw in.

It was almost full dark when they saw the lights in the window of the small farmhouse. As they clattered through the small stream, the front door was flung open, flooding the porch with a warm, inviting glow. A figure stepped forward, dark and featureless against the backdrop of the oil lamps, but the outline of a gun was clearly visible in his left hand.

“Pa? Is that you?” a voice called, but it was Libby who replied as the wagon drew up in front of the building.

“Todd, give your father a hand. We found an injured man out on the trail.” As she climbed down, the young man stepped forward. Todd McKenzie was as tall and almost as broad as his father, but he had his mother's auburn hair and green eyes. He propped the old Henry rifle against the doorframe and gave her a quick hug, before joining his father at the rear of the buckboard.

Libby left the men to see to the unloading of the injured stranger, and she went in and set a large pot of water on the range to heat up. Then she went through the door towards the right and rear of the room. It was her son's bedroom, but for now it would have to double as a sickroom. Under the circumstances Todd wouldn't mind making a bed up on the floor. Pulling back the sheet and blankets, she removed the pillows from the bed and placed them on the straight-backed chair in the corner. Then, as she went to the chest against the wall and took out several large towels and a clean linen sheet, she heard footsteps in the kitchen.

“Bring him through to Todd's room,” she called, stepping back to give them room. McKenzie and his son carried the stranger through and placed him on the bed, turning him over so he lay on his stomach. The woman pointed at the towels on the end of the bed.

“Get those wet things off him and dry him off before he catches a chill,” she said. “I'll fetch the water and bandages.”

Leaving the room, she pulled the door to. After checking the water, she began to tear the clean sheet into strips, rolling them neatly and placing them on the kitchen table. From a cupboard beside the sink she took out a bottle of liquid carbolic soap, and pulled a wry face. The man was going to find it painful, no matter how deeply unconscious he was, but at least it would clean the wounds and help prevent infection. Suddenly, she heard the sound of raised voices, and Todd came rushing from his bedroom.

“He's a gunslinger, Ma!” he almost spat. “A lousy, back-shooting, no – “

“Todd!” There was a sharp bite to his mother's voice that brought a halt to his angry tirade, and he glared at her. “That's enough. I know.”

The young man blinked at her in surprise. “You know? And you still brought him here?” He stared at her in disbelief. “But… I… Have you forgotten Carl so soon?”

Libby McKenzie's face went white, and Todd knew he had overstepped the mark, even before her hand came up and slapped him smartly across the cheek.

“How dare you?” Her voice throbbed with pain and fury. “Gunslinger or not, I wouldn't even leave an animal to fend for itself in that condition. Now, go and put the horse away.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Todd replied sullenly, his hand going to his reddened cheek as he left the cabin, anger and defiance evident in the set of his shoulders. Libby turned, and found her husband watching her from the doorway of the bedroom.

“Oh, Sam!” she cried, stepping forward into his outstretched arms. “Did we do the right thing bringing him back here?”

“What do you think?” he asked, resting his chin on the top of her head. He knew why she had asked him that question, and he knew why Todd had reacted so violently to the stranger's presence.

Just over a year ago their youngest son had died, shot down senselessly and deliberately, by a Kansas gunfighter who had gotten away with the killing. Carl had been barely twenty, five years younger than Todd, and the memory was still painfully fresh. They had almost lost Todd as well; in his need for vengeance, the young man had gone looking for the Kansan, only to find that someone else had beaten him to it, another gunfighter who cared little for his desire for revenge.

Since then, Todd's hatred of gunfighters had grown until it became an all-consuming passion and, terrified that their only remaining son would also end up dead, the McKenzie's had moved away from the area that held so many tragic reminders. Now, three months on, it looked as though the past was rearing its ugly head once again.

Libby glanced up at her husband. “I think if we'd left him to die, then we'd be no better than the man who killed Carl.” Her lips trembled as she said her son's name, and her eyes were bright with tears, but she knew she was right. Suddenly, a low moan sounded from the bedroom, and McKenzie put his hands on her shoulders.

“Get your bandages,” he said. “And I'll fetch the water and some wash cloths. Let's see what we can do for this fella.”

Libby scooped up the rolled bandages and the bottle of carbolic and headed into the bedroom. Obviously Sam and his son had succeeded in stripping the stranger's wet things from him before Todd found out what he was; a soft blanket covered him from the waist down, but his bare back and shoulders were dirty and raw, and still oozing blood. Putting the bandages and bottle on the bedside table, she dragged the chair forward, but as she sat down, the stranger stirred and moaned again.

“Sshh! It's alright,” she intoned softly, her own animosity and grief pushed aside for the moment as she brushed back the dark blond hair from his forehead. No matter what he was, the man was hurt and in pain, and that always brought out her maternal instinct. As her fingers touched his brow, his eyelids flickered and his lips moved, but she couldn't hear what he was saying. “Don't try to talk. You're safe now.”

The hazel eyes were half-open now, dark and clouded with pain, but he managed to whisper one word.

“C… Chris.”

“Chris? Is that your name?”

He nodded, and made an attempt to lift his head from the mattress, but the strain was too much and he closed his eyes and slumped down with a groan, exhausted even by that small effort.

“Libby? He awake?” McKenzie came in with a basin of water and some small cloths, and he had just caught her last comment.

“I think so,” she replied, looking carefully at the man's face. “His name's Chris.”

“Chris, eh?” He smiled at his wife. “Well, I guess that's better than 'hey you'!”

Libby frowned at Sam's remark, but she knew he was only being flippant because he felt uncomfortable having the gunslinger under his roof. As she poured some of the carbolic into the water, she saw her husband lean over and study the bloody furrows on Chris' back carefully.

“What's wrong?” she asked. McKenzie frowned and shook his head.

“I don't reckon an animal did this,” he remarked coldly, indicating the wounds. “Leastways, not the four-legged kind. If I didn't know better, I'd say someone's taken a whip to him!” He snapped his fingers in understanding. “That's why his hands were tied! Someone didn't want him to get away.”

Libby gasped, and paused with a wet cloth in her hand. “Dear God! What kind of person could do that to another human being?”

“I don't know, but if he makes it through the night maybe he'll be able to tell us.”

“… three… buckskins… “

The barely audible whisper came from the gunslinger's lips as his fingers clutched spasmodically at the sheet beneath him, and McKenzie leaned closer to hear what he was saying.

“What was that, son?” he asked, his gentle tone surprising Libby. “Three men?”

“B… Blackman… he… Ungh!“ Chris gave a rasping groan and suddenly went limp. Libby glanced at her husband fearfully as he held his hand in front of the gunslinger's lips, and he gave her a reassuring nod as he felt the faint breath tickle his fingers.

“He's just passed out,” he told her, and she sighed.

“What did he say?”

McKenzie scrubbed at his chin thoughtfully. “I think he was trying to tell me who did this,” he said slowly. “Three men in buckskins. One of them was a black man.” He shrugged. “It doesn't sound like anybody I've seen hereabouts.”

Libby regarded him for a moment, and then wrung the cloth out again. “Well, let's get him fixed up before he wakes again. This isn't going to be pleasant!”

Now wasn't the time to worry about who had done this to Chris, or why. The first thing they had to do was make sure he survived.

“Hold his shoulders, Sam,” she warned. “This is gonna hurt!”

+ + + + + + +

Vin was up and out of the cabin well before sun-up and, as he saddled his black ready for the days search, he saw Buck appear from behind the building.

“Couldn't sleep either?” the ladies man asked, and the Texan shook his head. Only JD and Ezra appeared to have spent a restful night, if their snoring was anything to go by.

“No. I just though I'd get ready for an early start.” He finished putting the tack on his mount, and then leaned his forearms on the top rail of the corral. “Where do you think he is?” He stared at Buck for a moment, his expression worried, and then he lowered his gaze. “You don't think they – “

“Naw!” Wilmington forced a grin to his lips as he interrupted him, knowing where the conversation was heading, and he punched the tracker lightly on the shoulder. “I wouldn't mind betting the kid's right. Chris is just ornery enough to try and make it back into town on foot, and we could have missed him any number of places!”

Judging by the look on his face, Buck believed his own statement about as much as Vin did, but before either man could say anything else the cabin door was opened, and the other four peacekeepers emerged.

As they saddled their mounts, they looked again to Vin for suggestions, as they usually did when Chris wasn't around.

“Alright,” he said, when they were all ready. “We'll split up into pairs. That way we can cover more ground. We'll use the cabin as a base to come back to. If Chris is hurt like they say, he can't have gone far. Okay?”

He was a little surprised when no one argued, and even more surprised when the pairs sorted themselves out. As expected, Buck and JD made one pair, but he raised an eyebrow in amazement when Ezra and Nathan rode out quite happily in a different direction.

“Looks like you're with me,” Vin told Josiah, and the ex-preacher gave him a big grin.

“I would say that was true,” he said, and the tone of his voice made Vin glance at him sharply, but Sanchez had turned away to mount his horse before the tracker could see his expression.

Heading eastwards, almost towards the rising sun, they rode in silence for a while, each of them carefully scanning the ground for clues, until eventually Vin caught Josiah watching him more and more. With an exasperated sigh, he urged his mount forward and across the path of Josiah's, forcing them to stop.

“What's wrong?” the ex-preacher asked, but Vin shook his head.

“I don't know. You tell me.”

“Me?”

“Yeah – you!” The tracker leaned forward, lounging in the saddle with his left arm resting on the saddle-horn. “You've been watching me like a hawk for the last mile or so. What's going on?”

Josiah sighed, and gave a sheepish grin. “Alright,” he said. “I'm a little worried about you. We all are.”

“Worried? About me?” The Texan almost couldn't believe his ears.

“That's right, son. This situation with Chris seems to have you all twisted up inside. You're angry and irritable, and that's not like you. What's wrong?”

For a moment Vin contemplated lying, telling him that nothing was wrong, but he knew Josiah would see right through it. Pushing back his hat, he ran his fingers through his unruly hair and chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully, a little awkward at sharing something the others might consider trivial..

“I… Chris… we had words,” he began slowly.

“Words? When?”

“A while back. At her place.” It wasn't necessary to say her name; Josiah knew who he meant. Every one of the Seven was acutely aware of what had happened at Ella Gaines' ranch. It had almost cost Chris Larabee his life. “Don't ask me what it was about – it doesn't matter. I just need to know that everything is alright between us again.”

“Isn't it?” Josiah knew the bond between Chris and Vin was strong – perhaps the strongest of all the bonds that tied the seven men together – and he could understand the young tracker's anxiety.

“No. Yes. I don't know.” Vin shook his head, and gave a wry grin, beginning to feel a touch foolish. “Come on. All this talking ain't gonna find him.”

Josiah smiled as he set heels to his horse and followed the Texan. At least the mystery of Vin's odd behaviour was solved, but he would not betray that trust to the others unless Vin wanted him to. That was probably the reason the tracker confided in him so readily.

“Hey, whose idea was it for you to ride with me anyway?” Vin suddenly called over his shoulder.

“Now that would be telling,” Josiah chuckled. He would not betray Nathan's trust, either.

It wasn't until a little while later that he noticed Vin had Chris' Stetson hanging from the horn of his saddle.

+ + + + + + +

It had been a long night, and Libby McKenzie couldn't remember falling asleep, but she must have, and someone had draped a blanket across her shoulders as she rested her arms on the edge of the bed. Raising her head, she yawned and stretched, before checking once again on her patient.

Chris lay quiet now, his dark blond head pillowed on his lightly bandaged wrists, and only the faint twitching of his mouth and the occasional whimper of pain showed that he was still alive. All the spare pillows and folded blankets were wedged on either side of his body, to prevent him rolling over and re-opening his wounds, but nothing covered his back; the touch of any kind of bandage had sent him into spasms of agony, so she had bathed and cleaned his injuries as best she could, and left them uncovered.

She shuddered again as she studied the livid stripes that marred his skin; Sam had tried to count them, but he eventually gave up. There were just too many, across his back and around by his ribs. A few had cut deeper than the others, almost to the bone, and even now they were still weeping, and another had bitten into a recently healed wound on his right side. Others had just left painful red welts, which were already beginning to darken into bruises.

The initial cleaning of his wounds had been an ordeal that she had no desire ever to repeat. It had taken the combined strength of both Sam and a reluctant Todd to hold the gunslinger down while she washed the mud, and grime, and blood from his body, and she could still see the tears of pain that spotted his cheeks and glistened on his lashes.

Sam had sat with Chris for a short while after that, clearing the blood from his face and bandaging his lacerated wrists, while Libby disposed of the filthy water and made a quick meal for them all. With supper over, Todd announced his intention of sleeping in the barn, and no amount of begging or cajoling could persuade him otherwise.

As the evening had pushed into the early hours of the morning, Chris' abused body had given in to the shock and the pain, and he became feverish and agitated. All Libby could do was bathe his face and neck with cool water as the delirium tightened its grip on him, and he cried out and stirred restlessly, re-opening several of the wounds on his back.

Sometimes he was almost lucid, but mostly he seemed to be caught in the grip of one particular nightmare, and the despair and anguish in his voice as he called for Sarah and Adam nearly broke Libby's heart.

It must have been during one of Chris' quieter periods, when all his energy had been burned away by the fever, that she had fallen asleep.

Now, as she reached out to lay her hand on the injured man's flushed forehead, feeling the clammy heat of his skin, it was easier to forget what he was and simply concentrate on who he was; just a man, sick and injured, and calling for lost loved ones. A few months ago – even yesterday – she would not have thought herself capable of such magnanimity.

Suddenly, as though her touch had disturbed him, the pattern of Chris' breathing changed, becoming quicker and more ragged as his eyelids flickered, but he remained unconscious.

“Sarah! Don't leave me!”

The pain-filled whimper was scarcely more than a whisper and lines creased his forehead as some half remembered memory tried to surface.

“Easy, Chris. Just sleep,” Libby murmured soothingly, as she stroked his fevered brow. Her voice and cool fingers seemed to have a calming effect, and he lapsed once more into silence, his breathing shallow as he sank deeper into unconsciousness. Just then the bedroom door opened, and McKenzie poked his head in.

“How's he doing?”

Putting a finger to her lips, Libby slipped from the room to join her husband and son for breakfast. Pausing at the doorway, she studied the still form on the bed and sighed.

There was a full days work that had to be done on the farm, and she couldn't afford to spend too many hours at the bedside of the injured gunslinger, no matter how sick he was.

+ + + + + + +

By early afternoon Vin wasn't the only one who was angry and irritable!

When the three pairs met back at the cabin, with still no trace of the missing peacekeeper, the consensus of opinion was that Parker had lied to them after all.

“Josiah – why don't you and Ezra head back to town and pick up some supplies,” Buck said, offering the suggestion when Vin became silent and moody. “And while you're there, swing by the jail and see if those two yahoos know more than they're letting on.”

“I'll go with them.”

It was the first time Vin had spoken since he and Josiah had been back, but one look at the Texan's face warned Buck that he was not the most suitable candidate to question the two freighters.

“Thanks for the offer,” he said carefully. “But I think you'll be more useful here.” He saw Josiah give a quick nod and clap the gambler on the back.

“Come along, Ezra,” began the ex-preacher. “Let's see what we can find out.”

“Do you really think they lied?” Nathan asked, when the other two had left. “Even after what Vin threatened to do?”

Buck shrugged, but his face was lined with worry. “How the Hell should I know?” he snapped, his temper hanging on a short fuse. “But if they didn't then maybe you can tell me where Chris is!”

“Sorry, Buck. I wish I could.”

For a long moment there was an awkward silence, and then Buck sighed. “No – I'm sorry, Nathan.” The ladies man turned away, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. “I shouldn't have yelled at you like that.”

“Hey!” Buck felt a light touch on his back, and he looked around to find JD standing there. “We're gonna find him!” the young peacekeeper told his friend earnestly. “We just haven't figured out the right place to look yet.”

Buck turned around and Stared at JD for a long minute, and then he startled the young peacekeeper by dropping his hands on his shoulders and shaking him, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“D'you know what, kid? Sometimes you're like a breath of fresh air!”

“Why? What did I say?” JD looked at Nathan, confusion on his face, and the healer shrugged helplessly. He had no idea either what Buck was talking about. But Vin did, and Buck could see the glimmer of realisation creep into the Texan's blue eyes.

“Places,” he began, and Wilmington nodded.

“That's right! Places.” He rubbed at his moustache as he considered the possibilities. “If we haven't found Chris – “

“It's because somebody else already has!” the tracker finished with a faint grin.

“So how many spreads are there around here?” Nathan asked, seeing the way their reasoning was going.

“Four – no, three,” Buck corrected, mentally ticking them off. “There's Joe Wilson's place about eight miles north of here, the Lazy B just the other side of Whitely Pass, and Corey Dixon's ranch – but that's more'n half a days ride away.”

Vin stepped forward, his face thoughtful. “But the folks at those places all know Chris. Wouldn't they have sent word to town if they'd found him?”

“Maybe,” Buck agreed. “But we won't know that until Josiah and Ezra get back.”

“In the meantime, if we split up and take the closest two, we can check 'em out before nightfall.” JD grinned at the three older men, and Buck nodded like a proud father.

“See? I always told you the boy had brains!”

At that precise moment neither Vin nor Nathan could think of a smart reply.

When Josiah and Ezra returned from Four Corners just before sundown, they found a very despondent JD sitting on the edge of the porch.

“JD – what's wrong, son?” Josiah asked, handing a bulky sack down to the young man. As he and Ezra unsaddled their horses and turned them into the corral, JD told them what Buck and Vin had thought about someone else finding Chris.

“But the folks at the Lazy B hadn't seen anything of him for at least two weeks.”

“Well, maybe Vin and Nathan'll have more luck,” Josiah commented, pushing JD before him into the cabin. Buck was standing at the stove, sipping a cup of coffee when they entered.

“Josiah, Ezra,” he greeted. “I presume JD's told you our latest idea?”

“That he has.” Ezra took the sack from JD and began to remove packages from it. There was flour, eggs, and salted pork, as well as a parcel wrapped in a red-check cloth. “If you'll allow me… ?” He indicated the stove. “I always find it's more beneficial to plan a strategy on a full stomach.”

”Be my guest,” Buck invited, handing a cup of strong coffee to Josiah. “So, how'd it go?”

The ex-preacher pulled a chair up to the table and sat down, his face grim.

“I called at the jail, as you suggested, but they stuck to their original story.” Josiah shook his head. “Hell, even they seemed surprised that he wasn't here!”

“Did you believe them?” JD asked.

“I did. Their reaction seemed genuine. Besides, they have nothing to gain by lying.”

“That's correct,” Ezra commented, over his shoulder. “I spoke with Mrs.Travis and she informed me that the Judge will be arriving in a few days. He'll not look kindly on the attempted murder of one his duly appointed officers.”

Just then they all heard they clatter of hooves outside, and JD rushed to the window.

“It's Vin and Nathan,” he said. He didn't need to add that they were alone.

Supper was a sombre affair, despite Ezra's efforts and the batch of fresh biscuits that Mary had supplied him with.

Nathan glanced around at the circle of morose faces and sighed.

“Well, at least we've got another place to try in the morning,” he said hopefully.

Buck gave him a withering look. “That's at least half a days ride away,” he pointed out, emphasising the word 'ride'. “Don't forget - Chris was afoot.”

“Yeah, but that don't mean that someone didn't find him while they were out riding,” JD argued.

As Buck opened his mouth to make another scathing comment, Vin leaned forward, cupping his chin on his hand as he regarded the ladies man intently.

“Didn't you say there were four places to look?” he asked.

“Yeah – well, no, not exactly. The Holman place has been empty for almost a year. Ever since Ma Holman died.”

“That ain't the place out beyond the flatlands, is it? Some folks from up north bought that a few months back.” Nathan's comment stopped them all in their tracks.

“Dammit!” Buck swore. “That ain't so far from here, either. I thought it was still empty!”

“Well, in the morning we'll check that as well,” Ezra said, holding out the coffee pot. “Now I suggest we finish our supper.”

+ + + + + + +

It was about two hours after first light, and Libby had just finishing milking one of the pair of cows that were kept in the small pen beside the house. As she stepped onto the porch with the pail of warm milk she paused and turned, hearing the sound of horses coming up the trail.

“Sam!” she called urgently. “Riders coming.”

McKenzie heard his wife's voice, heard the nervousness in her tone, and wondered who would be out and about at such an early hour. Placing his hat firmly on his head, he picked up the Henry rifle from beside the door, and stepped onto the porch. As he studied the three approaching riders his face grew hard, and he gestured for his wife to stay behind him.

“Sam – look!” she whispered over his shoulder, and her voice trembled.

“I know. Let's see what they want.” The three newcomers – a black man and two white men, one wearing buckskins - had ridden up to the stream and halted, even before McKenzie called out to them. “That's far enough, gents. Can I help you?”

The peacekeepers had split into two groups of three for what, they hoped, would be the last day of searching. Buck, Josiah, and Ezra had started the long trip to Corey Dixon's ranch, while Nathan led the others towards the old Holman place.

“I don't know why Buck didn't think about this yesterday,” JD said in exasperation.

“He thought the place was empty, JD,” Nathan told him. “There didn't seem much point. These folks keep themselves pretty much to themselves.” He thought back to the only time he had seen the new farmer and his wife in town. The healer had watched them from the balcony surrounding his clinic, and they had been totally unaware of his scrutiny.

He remembered them as a middle-aged couple, both in their late forties who barely spoke to anyone. Nathan had only found out who they were from Mary Travis, and it was she who had told him that some terrible tragedy had forced them to move from their previous farm.

“Let's take it easy,” he warned, as they approached the neat, stone-built house. “I don't think these folks take too kindly to strangers.”

“All I want to do is find Chris,” Vin said softly, studying the freshly painted white picket fence that surrounded the house, and the truck and flower gardens. “I ain't into scaring innocent folks.”

As they reached the small stream that formed the front boundary of the property, they saw a woman come out of a small corral and look in their direction. As she stepped onto the porch of the house, the Texan held up his hand and brought them to a halt.

“Wait up,” he said. “It ain't polite to go ahead uninvited.” As he spoke, a man came from the house holding a rifle, and stepped in front of the woman.

“That's far enough, gents. Can I help you?”

Nathan moved his horse forward a little, until its front feet were just in the water. “Maybe you can, sir,” he said. “We're looking for a friend of ours.”

“Is that so?” The man's voice was cold and unsympathetic, and the healer found his attitude confusing.

“Yes, sir. He may be hurt. We're not sure. We want - ”

McKenzie brought the rifle up to his shoulder, and drew back the hammer. “We haven't seen anybody,” he told them.

“Are you sure?” JD called.

“I'm sure. Besides, we don't help gunfighters!”

Vin and Nathan suddenly stared at each other when they heard the farmer's last word, but it was JD who voiced the thought that had leapt into all of their brains.

“How did he know Chris was a gunfighter?”

“Dammit! He knows what happened!” Vin was about to spur his black forward, when Nathan snatched at the bridle, holding the horse back.

“Wait, Vin! D'you wanna get yourself killed? Look!”

The Texan followed the direction of Nathan's gaze, and saw a young man standing just inside the door of the barn to their left, another rifle trained unerringly on them.

“So what do we do now?” he asked angrily. In front of them was a man who probably knew what had happened to the missing peacekeeper, and it looked as though he would rather shoot them than talk to them.

“Sir, we only want – “

A shot rang out, kicking up dirt just in front of JD's mount, and cutting off Nathan's plea.

“The next one won't miss!” McKenzie yelled. “Now get off my property.”

McKenzie watched them turn their horses, although the man in buckskins seemed reluctant to leave at first, and he let out a pent-up breath. He could feel his wife's hand on his back, could feel her quivering as the men disappeared back the way they had come.

“Do you think they were the men who attacked Chris?” she asked.

“They certainly fit the description he gave us.” McKenzie eased the hammer back on the rifle as Todd emerged from the shelter of the barn and came across to them.

“Who were they, Pa?” he asked, staring beyond the stream to make certain they had gone.

“I think they were the men who gave Chris the beating.”

“So why didn't you hand him over?”

Libby gasped at his heartless suggestion, but McKenzie countered his son's question with one of his own.

“Why did you help me stop them?”

“He… I… “ The young man shrugged. He had no answer. Todd had seen the wounds on the gunslinger's back, wounds that no God-fearing man would even think of inflicting on an animal, and despite himself, he had felt the vague stirrings of sympathy. He also knew that his mother had spent the last two nights sitting with him, as he hovered between life and death. He handed the rifle to his father. “I've got chores to do,” he remarked stiffly, and walked off.

“Sam?” Libby touched him on the arm, her face worried. “D'you think they'll be back?”

“I honestly don't know,” he replied.

The three peacekeepers may have retreated, but they hadn't gone very far. They had put no more than a mile between themselves and the farmhouse, before stopping to decide on the next course of action.

Dismounting and tying their horses in the shade of a large tree as the sun climbed higher in the sky, Vin tried to work out the best way to handle the situation. Judging by the farmer's words, he had some idea what had happened to Chris, but his actions were still puzzling. There was always going to be a little antagonism between farmers and cowhands, especially if one was new to the area, but the cold hostility shown to the three peacekeepers went beyond even that.

“I'm going back,” Vin declared finally.

“Are you crazy?” Even as he said it, Nathan realised he wasn't very surprised. If Vin hadn't made the suggestion, then he would have.

“Probably.” Vin grinned, and then turned to JD. “You've got the toughest job, kid,” he said apologetically. “I want you to ride back to the cabin and wait for the others.” He saw the disappointment on the young man's face, and knew he was about to refuse. “JD, it's real important. I need Nathan here in case Chris is hurt.” Without realising it, he had said the one thing that would stop JD's protests before they started.

“Alright,” he conceded. “But then what?”

“I guess you'd better bring 'em back here.”

“Okay. I'll be as quick as I can.”

When JD had ridden away, Nathan cocked his head on one side and regarded the tracker solemnly.

“So, what you figuring on doing?”

“Getting some answers.”

The healer snorted. “I've seen the way you get your answers,” he reminded the Texan. “These people are just poor farmers.”

“I know.” Vin rubbed his hand across his chin. “But they know something. I can't just let it go!”

“Alright – but you be careful. That man was scared and angry, and he's just liable to shoot you!”

+ + + + + + +

Sam McKenzie and his family went through the normal morning routine on the farm as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. It's possible that they may have been a little more wary than usual but, after a few hours, the incident with the three peacekeepers had been pushed to the backs of their minds, and the daily chores became more important. However, what they didn't know was that this morning there were two silent observers watching every move they made.

Vin and Nathan had left their horses securely tethered about half a mile back, and had crept up to the house on foot. They had remained concealed for nearly two hours, watching the actions of the people below. Finally, with the sun almost directly overhead, Vin decided to make his move.

They had seen the woman peg some washing on the line and then return to the house, and the older man had gone around behind the building carrying a hammer, and both men could hear the constant 'tap-tap-tap' of tool on nails. However, the younger man – the son, so they assumed – was proving to be a little more difficult to pin down. He was constantly on the move, usually out in the open, and gave Vin no chance to get any closer.

Now though, he had retired to the barn to mend part of the harness for the buckboard. Vin had seen him struggling with a section of the traces, and had seen him stumble backwards as some part of the leather gave way. It was the opportunity that the Texan had been waiting for.

“Keep your eyes open, Nathan,” he breathed, and then melted away into the undergrowth before the healer had a chance to reply. Minutes later the dark-skinned man saw a shadowy figure slip through the corral fence and up to the barn door.

Utilising all the skills he had learned whilst with the Comanche's, Vin drifted silently past the two horses in the corral without disturbing them, and made his way into the barn. Pausing for a moment so his eyes could adjust to the gloom, he drew his knife from its sheath as he watched the young farmer splice two pieces of leather together.

It was doubtful whether Todd McKenzie even heard his assailant approach; all he knew was that suddenly something cold, and sharp, and deadly was resting against his throat!

“Drop it!” hissed a voice in his ear. For a moment he hesitated, but then the point of the knife just pricked him under the chin, and he released the strap and the small bradawl he'd been using. A hand grasped the back of his collar, and forced him up off of the crate he'd been sitting on, dragging him towards the barn door.

“What do you want?” he asked, expecting to feel the bite of the blade at any moment.

“Answers,” replied the soft voice, as he was pushed out into the sunlight.

Vin took a deep steadying breath as he steered his prisoner towards the house. The young man was about his own age, but he was taller and broader, and when the tracker felt him tense in the barn, he had expected trouble. However, the large, clip-pointed knife was always a good deterrent, and the other was sensible enough not to fight it.

“Answers to what?” Todd snapped out, but his captor didn't reply.

Just as they reached the front porch, the door opened and Libby came out. Her eyes widened in shock, and she gave a sudden gasp of fear when she saw the two men.

“Step back inside, ma'am. Please?”

There was no animosity in the softly drawled words; it was just a polite request that she obeyed instantly, but she never took her eyes from the knife held against her son's throat. Vin followed her through and closed the door with his heel, standing in front of it as he kept a tight hold on Todd.

“Please – let him go. We have no money.” There was fear in Libby's eyes as she spoke, fear for her son's life, and it made Vin feel wretched, but his resolve never wavered.

“I'm sorry if I've scared you, ma'am,” he told her, his tone soft and remorseful. “And I don't want no money.”

Suddenly the door to the left of the kitchen was flung open, and Sam McKenzie stepped through, an ominous double 'click' sounding as he raised the shotgun in his hands and pointed it in Vin's direction!

“Then what do you want?” he demanded savagely. “And it'd better be good!”

It was a standoff, and both Vin and McKenzie knew it. For a long five seconds they stared at each other, and for one of the few times in his life, the Texan had no idea what to do next. McKenzie didn't know it, but he held all the aces; the tracker had no intention of harming the man's son, but he was certain the farmer would not hesitate to pull the trigger the minute Vin relaxed his guard.

“I only want to know about my friend,” he said carefully, feeling the sweat forming on his brow and trickling down his neck.

“We told you – we don't know anything!” Libby's voice trembled, and Vin shot her the briefest glance, but it was a look that spoke volumes.

“Ma'am, how did you know he was a gunfighter?”

There, in a nutshell, was the crux of this whole desperate situation, and McKenzie bitterly cursed that slip of his tongue. Now it only remained to resolve it without getting any of his family killed.

Then the problem was snatched from his grasp!

From the open door to the right, a weak voice called out – just one word, but it was enough to shift the balance of the standoff.

“Vin?”

“Chris?” the tracker gasped, and started to turn his head, and in that moment Todd made his move. When the injured gunslinger called from the bedroom, he had felt his captor start, and felt the knife move away from his throat slightly. As Vin spoke, the young farmer jerked back hard, smashing his head into the Texan's face, and he heard the other's choked off cry of pain as he staggered back against the door.

“Shoot, Pa!” Todd yelled, as he dived away from the dazed tracker.

In all fairness to him, McKenzie didn't really want to kill anyone either, but everything happened so quickly, and his son's actions and shout caught him by surprise.

Without thinking, he pulled the trigger.

Part Three

Chris was re-living a nightmare – a nightmare that he had no right to be in, because in reality he hadn't originally been there! He was standing outside his ranch, seeing the flames licking hungrily at the timber, and he could hear the screams of his wife and child inside. Hurling himself through the burning doorway, he saw them, outlined against an orange glow, but before he could get to them something fell across his back, white-hot and agonising, and he cried out in anger and despair.

The sound of his own voice startled him awake.

The gunslinger blinked several times, feeling a strange grittiness clogging his lashes, and as he raised a hand to rub at his eyes, the pain was there again, burning across his back as it had been in his nightmare. He gasped, and opened his eyes fully, discovering he was lying face down on a firm mattress, and the memories of the last few days came flooding back.

Shifting slightly, and holding back the cry as raw and healing wounds sent ripples of agony through his body, he could see the window, and the sunlight that streamed through it. He knew he was safe; he could vaguely recall a gentle, melodic voice telling him that several times, but he couldn't remember who the voice belonged to, nor how long he had been laying here.

Suddenly he heard the slamming of a door, and the sound of voices raised in anger. Then he realised that one of the voices was familiar, and he felt a surge of relief flood through his body.

Vin!

Lifting his head, he called the tracker's name.

Seconds later he heard the reply, followed by sounds of a scuffle and, unbelievably, the sharp report of a shotgun and a woman's terrified scream!

Desperately, Chris tried to push himself up, biting his lip and choking back the groan that bubbled to the surface as he felt recently scabbed-over gashes pull and tear. Ignoring the blood he could feel trickling down his back, only knowing that Vin was in trouble, he rolled onto his side and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, but the blanket was tangled around him and he couldn't move. Reaching out a trembling hand, appalled at how weak he was, he made a grab at the edge of the small bedside table, but misjudged the distance.

His groping fingers caught the pitcher of water, and sent it crashing to the floor, and he slumped against the table with his head resting on his outstretched arm, gasping and shaking with exhaustion

Vin recognised his danger as soon as Todd started moving away from him. Blinking back the tears of pain that blurred his vision, and heedless of the blood that was dripping from his nose, he hurled himself forward in a rolling dive under the barrels of the shotgun just as it went off. Later he would swear that the flash from one of the barrels scorched the back of his neck as he dropped!

Libby screamed as the shot echoed around the house, and Todd grabbed her and dragged her out of the way as the Texan came to his feet, his sawn-off Winchester in his hand. McKenzie cursed impotently, tossing aside the empty shotgun as he took a step forward.

“Hold it, mister!” Vin ordered, cocking the Winchester as he backed towards the open bedroom door. “I don't wanna shoot you unless you give me no choice.”

Scared as she was, Libby knew her husband's stubborn tenacity was likely to get him hurt; the grim faced Texan, his face smeared with blood, appeared equally determined, and it was going to take a woman's logic and persuasion to defuse the situation. Gently extricating herself from the protective circle of her son's arms, she stepped forward, placing herself between her husband and Vin.

“Libby! Get back!” McKenzie didn't know what to do, but his wife ignored him. She had seen the rifle waver as she stepped into the line of fire, and felt reasonably confident that the young man in buckskins wouldn't shoot.

“Please - listen to me,” she begged. “How do I know you're his friend?” She watched his face carefully, seeing the conflicting emotions on it at her bravery. “You might be one of the men who attacked him.”

“I am his friend, ma'am. Just ask Chris.” Vin paused and made a calculated decision, knowing that someone had to break the deadlock. Clicking the safety back on his Winchester, he held it out, butt forward, to the woman. “Here, if I wasn't his friend I wouldn't do this.”

Just as Libby took the offered weapon, a sudden crash and the sound of something breaking came from the bedroom, and Vin barely made it through the door ahead of the woman, leaving McKenzie and his son to stare after them in stunned silence. They were still finding it hard to understand what had just happened when an anxious voice called from close outside the house.

“Vin? Is everything alright?”

The tracker paused in the bedroom doorway, putting a hand out to steady Libby as she crashed into him.

“Yeah, Nathan. Come on in.” As he spoke, he glanced at the woman, and she nodded, letting him know that it would be safe for his friend to enter. Without waiting for the healer, Vin carried on into the bedroom, feeling bits of broken pottery crunching beneath his feet, but he was oblivious to that. His only concern was for the man that he and the others had spent two days searching for.

“Chris!”

There was no disguising the delight in the tracker's voice when he saw his friend. The gunslinger was slumped over a small table, but he glanced up and found a quick smile for the Texan.

“Hey, partner,” he whispered, and closed his eyes. Vin was just quick enough to catch him before he slid to the floor unconscious.

“Chris!” There was a hint of panic in his voice as he clutched the gunslinger to his chest, and he felt a hand touch his shoulder lightly.

“I'm sorry I doubted you,” Libby said softly, as Vin pushed Chris back onto the bed. She couldn't help noticing how much younger the Texan looked now that the strain and worry over his friend had been replaced by relief at finding him alive, and she realised just how lucky her husband and son were to have escaped injury at his hands. “No,” she said, stopping him as he started to lay the gunslinger flat. “Turn him on his stomach.”

The tracker raised one eyebrow in confusion, but he followed her instructions. It was only as he rolled Chris over that he saw why she had told him that.

“Oh my God!” he breathed, and his face turned pale beneath its tan as he stared at the criss-cross tracing of wounds that marked the gunslinger's back.

“Stay with him a minute,” Libby ordered, seeing the fresh blood on his skin, and taking charge as she straightened the blanket across Chris' lower body. “I'll be right back.”

Vin nodded mutely, barely hearing her words or the low voices coming from the kitchen as he stared in fascinated horror at Chris. Libby stopped, and gave him a puzzled look.

“I'm sorry – I don't know what to call you.”

“Vin, ma'am. Vin Tanner. This is Chris Larabee, but you already know that, don't you?”

She shook her head, and rested her hand briefly against the gunslinger's forehead. “Not exactly. We just know him as Chris. That's about all he's managed to tell us.” Whilst that was not strictly true, Libby couldn't see the point at the moment of telling this young man why her husband had reacted the way he did earlier in the morning. There would be time for that later. Stepping back, she glanced down at the broken jug on the floor. “I'll get Sam to clear up this mess while I'll fetch some water. He's opened some of those wounds again.”

After she had gone, Vin perched himself carefully on the edge of the bed and studied the gunslinger. He could see the bruises on his face, marks consistent with the beating that the freighters had admitted to, but the raw, angry cuts across his back were something else. Then Vin remembered the bullwhip that Ross had had coiled at his side, and his readiness to use it on the tracker in town before Josiah stopped him. Obviously there had been no-one to stop him using it on Chris.

“Dammit, Chris. They're gonna pay for this,” he whispered, even though he knew the other couldn't hear him. He sniffed and winced as his nose began to ache. He had almost forgotten about the young farmer's attack, but now he could feel the painful throbbing, and when he reached up to rub at his chin, the back of his hand came away sticky and reddened with blood.

Heavy footsteps sounded, and the door was pushed back as Nathan came in, his medical bag in his hand as he looked around warily. Sam McKenzie was on his heels.

“Vin? What happened? You okay? I heard a shot - ”

“A misunderstanding,” the tracker replied with another painful sniff. “I'm fine. But Chris isn't.” He indicated the bed, and heard the healer gasp in shock.

“Dear Lord,” he breathed, as he placed his bag on the table. Bending over the unconscious gunslinger, he examined the wounds closely.

“I reckon someone's taken a whip to him,” McKenzie said over Nathan's shoulder, his voice indicating just what he thought of that barbarism.

“They have.” There was a catch in the healer's voice, and Vin laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Nathan?”

“I'm okay. It's just that I … “ He paused and took a deep breath, and then went on. “I haven't seen it in a long time.” He didn't elaborate any further; he didn't want to tell Vin that he knew how much Chris was suffering – that he, himself, had been on the receiving end of such brutality. Pulling the chair up to the side of the bed, he took his stethoscope from his bag and placed it against Chris' side, listening carefully to his laboured breathing.

Vin stood silently watching, his face unreadable, until McKenzie spoke to him.

“I reckon I owe you an apology, young fella,” he said, holding out his hand. “The name's Sam McKenzie. You know my wife Libby and my son, Todd.” He grimaced as he said the last name, seeing the Texan's bloody face.

Vin shook the offered hand. “Yeah – we met!” he said, but there was no malice in his words. “Vin Tanner. This is Nathan Jackson, and Chris… “ His voice trailed off, and there was a haunted look in his eyes.

McKenzie coughed. “Yes… well… Todd's gone to fetch your horses. He'll turn them into the corral and see they're fed.”

“Thanks. I'm grateful.”

“Oh, Libby insisted!” he said, then stepped aside as his wife came back in, carrying a bowl of water, which she placed on the table.

“Did you tend to his back, ma'am?” Nathan asked, looking up at her.

“Yes.” Libby regarded the dark-skinned man curiously, making a note of his calm manner as he examined his friend, and the medical instruments he had to hand. “I've tried to keep them as clean as possible.”

“I can see that, ma'am. You've done real good.” He delved into his bag and pulled out a small pouch. “It can't have been easy.”

“It wasn't,” she admitted, with a faint shudder. “I had nothing to give him for the pain.”

“I have,” he assured her, sprinkling some of the powdered herbs from the pouch into the basin of water. “This'll help to dry the wounds and take some of the sting out of them,” he explained, seeing her puzzled expression. “Would you mind - just bathe his back like you've been doing, while I take a look at Vin?”

“Alright, er… Nathan, is it?” Libby hesitated, and the healer gave her a disarming smile.

“Yes, ma'am. Nathan Jackson.”

As the woman nodded and dipped a cloth in the bowl, Nathan turned to the tracker, who was standing back by the window silently watching. McKenzie had already gone – he had cleared the broken pottery from the floor, but there were still chores that needed doing around the farm.

“Aw, Nathan! I'm okay,” Vin protested, as the healer wetted another cloth and advanced on him.

“Yeah? Well, you don't look it.” Nathan could see the pain in the blue eyes, and he wasn't fooled one bit. “Now, sit down and let's get you cleaned up.”

Knowing it was futile to protest, the tracker obeyed, wincing as Nathan gripped his chin and tilted his face up towards the light.

“That sure was some 'misunderstanding' you had,” he commented, wiping the blood from the Texan's nose and chin. He could tell from Vin's expression how much it was hurting him, and when he gently touched his fingers to the bridge of his nose the tracker almost leapt out of the chair.

“Ow! Nathan!” he yelped. “That hurts!”

“It would,” the healer told him apologetically. “I think it's broken.” He folded the cloth lengthways and laid it carefully across Vin's nose. “Hold that there for a few minutes until the bleeding's stopped – and keep your head back!”

The Texan nodded, and Nathan clapped him on the shoulder as he turned back to the bed. Libby was still sitting on the edge, and she had cleaned the blood from Chris' back where he had torn some of the wounds open again in his ill-advised attempt to try and help Vin. The healer placed his hand on his forehead, feeling the warmth of fever still on his skin, and he nodded grimly.

“Can you tell us what happened, ma'am? How did he get here?”

Libby paused, rinsing the cloth in the bowl again. “We found him out on the trail, the day before yesterday,” she said. “His hands were tied, and he looked as though he'd come as far as he could.”

Nathan heard Vin's muffled growl, but ignored it. He had seen the bandages around Larabee's wrists, and the bruises on his face, and he knew that Ross and his friends had had a lucky escape at the hands of the Texan.

“Ma'am, you have no idea how glad we are that you found him. We've been searching for him for two days now.”

Libby could hear the wealth of emotion in the dark man's voice, and she studied the unconscious gunslinger with a fresh eye.

“Who is he, Nathan? Where are you from?”

“As Vin told your husband – he's Chris Larabee. Judge Travis appointed us peacekeepers for Four Corners.”

“Four Corners? But – “ She stopped, not wanting to tell him about some of the rumours she had heard about 'the law' in that town. She was beginning to think that that was all they were - rumours.

“There's gonna be a lot of folks there mighty glad to know Chris has been found,” he informed her, not noticing her hesitation.

“Is he gonna be okay, Nathan?” Vin asked, his tone anxious, and the healer nodded.

“I think so,” he assured him. “Miz' McKenzie's done a fine job looking after him, but it'll be a while before he can be moved.” He glanced at Libby. “Is that gonna be a problem for you, ma'am? We can pay for his keep.”

“No - that's alright,” she said quickly. “And we don't need any handouts!” There was pride in her voice, and Nathan smiled.

“Trust me, ma'am - it's not a handout,” he replied, with a deep laugh. “Consider it room and board. You're gonna have one or two of the boys hanging around here until he's back on his feet! Vin, for one, I shouldn't wonder,” he finished, nodding in the tracker's direction.

Libby sighed. “We'll talk about it later,” she said. “Right now I'm going to fix some lunch. Are you hungry?”

“Thank you, ma'am. If you're sure it's no trouble?”

“It's no trouble, and please – stop calling me 'ma'am'! The name's Libby.”

“Alright, ma'am – Libby. We'll be out in a little while. I just want to make sure he's comfortable first.”

When the woman had closed the door behind her, Nathan pulled the blanket back from Chris, checking him for any other injuries that she may have missed. Satisfied that all the wounds were confined to his upper body, the healer covered him back up, drawing the blanket as high as he could without touching any of the open gashes.

“Nathan – I think the bleeding's stopped.”

Vin was sitting forward, staring at the bloody cloth in his hand as the healer swung around to face him.

“You sure? Let me see.” Nathan dropped a hand on the Texan's shoulder and pushed him back, keeping a firm grip. “Hold your head up,” he ordered. “And close your eyes.”

The tracker leaned back and closed his eyes obediently, totally unprepared for what the healer did next. Nathan reached out and grasped the bridge of Vin's nose, giving it a quick twist to snap the cartilage back in place. The Texan gave a startled cry and swiped the healer away, dropping his face into his trembling hands with a groan.

“Dammit, Nathan!” he gasped, his eyes tearing with the sudden pain.

“Sorry, my friend, but at least it'll heal straight now.” Nathan squeezed his shoulder in sympathy, feeling his quivering die away as the pain subsided. “How's the head?”

Vin looked up in surprise, wiping away the dampness on his lashes. Amazingly, the pain that had throbbed through his nose was almost gone, but he could still feel the nagging pressure of a headache building up across his forehead and around by his eyes.

“Still hurts a bit,” he admitted.

“It will – and you'll probably have a lovely black eye by tomorrow as well!” He tilted the tracker's head up and studied him critically. Then he grinned. “At least you haven't ruined all them good looks. Can't let Buck have all the fun with the ladies, now can we?”

Vin threw him a contemptuous glare and opened his mouth, but Nathan never did find out what the scathing reply was going to be because Libby called out to them at that exact moment.

Hauling the tracker to his feet, Nathan pushed him out of the door ahead of him. If he hadn't, Vin would probably have remained where he was, sitting beside the unconscious gunslinger until he awoke.

+ + + + + + +

By late evening the McKenzie's small house was crowded.

Just after supper, another meal that Vin and Nathan had shared with the family, JD had arrived back with the other three members of the group, and there was a huge outpouring of relief when they found out that Chris was safe.

When they had seen to their horses, and turned them into the corral with the others, they descended on the cabin, where Libby had prepared a fresh pot of coffee. She had been warned by Nathan to expect them, but she was unprepared for the warmth of their response on hearing how she and her husband had found Chris! They had all insisted on seeing Chris for themselves, and had trooped through to the small bedroom, but Libby had ordered them all out when the gunslinger grew restless and fretful, disturbed by the commotion their visit was causing.

“Ma'am, he ain't worth much, but we've kinda got used to having him around,” Buck told her, as he grabbed one of the few spare chairs when they had finally settled down.

Sitting at the head of the table, with Sam next to her, Libby felt a little confused by the man's off-hand comment, until she saw the twinkle in his eye.

“What he is so oafishly trying to say – in his own vulgar manner – is that we are eternally grateful for the tender, loving care which you have so lavishly bestowed upon our leader.”

If Libby was confused by Buck, then she was totally in awe, and more than a little charmed, by Ezra! Apart from Sam, no man had made her blush the way he had when he entered the cabin, and kissed her hand as though she were a queen.

“I only did what any decent person would have done,” she insisted, lowering her eyes and sipping at her coffee.

“No, ma'am. Under the circumstances, you did more.” The comment came from Josiah. She had seen him quietly talking to her husband, and had seen him rest a large hand on Sam's shoulder, sympathy and understanding in his eyes. “We know how difficult it was for you to accept what Chris is, but you helped him just the same,” the ex-preacher continued. “As Ezra so rightly said, we are indebted to you both.”

“You wouldn't be so grateful if – “ McKenzie stopped, uncertain how to go on.

“If what?” Buck prompted.

Sam glanced at his wife, and she laid her hand on his forearm. “Well, when we first brought Chris back here, he was rambling about his attackers. Three men in buckskins, one of them a black man – sorry, Nathan.” McKenzie paused. “Least, that's what we thought.”

For a moment the six peacekeepers stared at him in amazement, then JD spoke up.

“So that's why you run us off this morning! You thought we were after him.”

McKenzie shrugged. “His description fitted so well.”

“Yeah, I reckon it did,” Buck said. “But we've got two of the men who did this to Chris.”

“Two?” Libby frowned in confusion. “Then how many were there?”

“As far as we can tell it was three freighters – two in buckskins, and one named Blackman.”

“So what happened to the third?” McKenzie asked.

“He got away.” There was a bitter edge to Buck's voice, and McKenzie doubted whether these tough capable men would rest until that man had been brought to justice.

“Blackman!” Libby breathed suddenly. “His name was Blackman!”

“The error is easy to understand,” Ezra pointed out.

“Yeah, and you would've protected him, too,” Vin said thickly and yawned, causing the others to glance at him curiously. His nose was swollen now, making his head feel as though it were clogged with straw, and bruises were beginning to darken the skin under both eyes. He took another swallow of his coffee, then yawned again and winced, shaking his head in confusion.

“You okay, partner?” Buck inquired.

“I'm fine. Just a little tired.” Actually, he was finding it more and more difficult to keep his eyes open. The cabin was warm and his limbs felt heavy, and concentrating on the conversation around him was getting harder by the minute.

“Why don't you finish your coffee, then get some rest?” Nathan suggested, and something in his tone made the Texan look at his cup suspiciously.

“Aw, Nathan – you didn't!” Vin's despairing comment was punctuated by another huge yawn, and the healer nodded, his expression serious.

“I know you – you'll not rest until Chris is back on his feet. Well, now you've got no choice. That was a nasty bang you took, and you need to get some sleep!” Nathan pushed his chair back and stood up, hauling the weakly protesting tracker to his feet. Vin staggered, and was grateful for the firm grip on his elbow. “Buck, can you spread his bedroll on the bedroom floor?”

“No… outside,” the Texan mumbled as the healer steered him towards the open door.

“No – in the bedroom,” Nathan repeated, following Buck through. “That way I can keep an eye on you, too.”

Vin was almost asleep before Nathan and Buck lowered him onto his bedroll, and the ladies man chuckled as the healer tucked a blanket around him.

“I swear that boy's been taking lessons in stubbornness from Chris!” he said, and Nathan nodded in agreement.

“Yeah – and he's a fast learner, too.” Then he grinned. “But I'm more sneaky!”

Nathan had seen the tracker flagging as the afternoon had worn on, and watched him rubbing at his forehead when he thought the healer wasn't looking. Knowing the headache wasn't going to go away without a good nights sleep, he had persuaded Libby to slip a sleeping draught into the Texan's coffee after JD and the others had arrived. The plan had worked beautifully, and without arousing Vin's suspicions.

Nathan made another quick check on Chris, feeling the warmth of his sweat-damp forehead, before following Buck out of the bedroom. There were decisions that needed to be made.

The house was quiet and calm now, and Nathan kept the lamp turned low in deference to the two sleeping men in the room with him.

Outside, the moon was full and bright, with no trace of the rain clouds that had threatened during the day, and Nathan heard the mournful howl of a coyote in the distance. He glanced down at Vin as the tracker suddenly stirred and murmured in his sleep, the moonlight on his face making him looked washed out apart from the dark bruises around his eyes and across his nose. A faint grin curved the healer's lips as he contemplated the young Texan; he would probably sleep until well into the morning, but he was not going to be very happy when he did wake up, and he realised how he had been deceived.

Sitting up straighter in the chair, Nathan stretched until his bones cracked, and rubbed his hand wearily across his face.

“Nathan?”

The word was barely more than a hoarse whisper, and the healer looked down to find Chris Larabee staring up at him.

“Hey, Chris – how do you feel?” Nathan asked softly, and a relieved grin lit up his face.

“Like I've been dragged through a briar patch,” the gunslinger admitted truthfully, his voice weak and rasping. He coughed, and winced as the sudden sharp movement tugged at his torn skin.

“Easy,” Nathan warned unnecessarily, as he dropped his hand on the other's shoulder. He could feel Chris trembling as he tried to push himself up onto one elbow, and he reached out to pour some water into a glass. “Here,” he said as the gunslinger managed to get his left arm under him.

“Thanks.”

Chris allowed the healer to hold the glass to his lips as he took several small sips. The cool water quenched his thirst somewhat, and he dropped back down with a sigh, sweat beading his forehead at the exertion.

“How long you been here?” he asked, gritting his teeth as Nathan checked the wounds on his back.

“Since about midday yesterday,” the black man replied absently, as he applied a pungent salve to the cuts caused by the whip. “Me 'n Vin were – “ He stopped as he felt Chris tense beneath his sensitive fingers. “What?”

“I heard him. I heard a shotgun...” There was an edge to the gunslinger's voice as his words trailed off, and he gave a yelp of pain as he tried to turn over. Nathan grabbed his shoulders, and held him down.

“Take it easy, Chris.”

“But Vin – I heard - “

“He's okay,” Nathan assured him. “Look – he's asleep right here.”

“Asleep?” Chris shifted in the bed, straining to see where Vin was. “Is he alright?”

Nathan sighed. There was no point in trying to keep anything from the gunslinger; Chris had the uncanny knack of knowing when something was wrong, although it had never stopped him from getting into trouble.

“Yeah, he's okay. He's got a busted nose and a headache, but he'll be fine once he sleeps it off. Okay?”

“Okay.” That one whispered word was filled with relief, and Nathan wondered what Chris would do if Vin were ever really in trouble. The gunslinger seemed to take the idea of 'cut one, they all bleed!' to the extreme.

“How's the back feel now?” Nathan wiped his greasy fingers on a towel and pulled the sheet back up.

“Better,” Chris replied, his eyelids drooping. His fever might have almost passed, but he was still very weak, and he could barely keep his eyes open.

“Good! Now just you get some rest.” The healer watched until Chris fell asleep again, his breathing deep and even, and he leaned back in the chair, his expression thoughtful.

There were only a few hours now until sunrise, and then some of the group would head back to Four Corners. Mary, Judge Travis, and the other town's folk would want to know that Chris had been found, and there was still the little matter of finding the third man responsible for the attack on the gunslinger. There was also Parker and Blackman locked up in the jail. With the best will in the World, it was unlikely that the two men would receive a fair trial in Four Corners; it was a testament to Chris Larabee's courage and honour, and the impact his presence had made on the town, that the residents would find the freighters guilty without waiting to hear any evidence.

Stretching out his legs, Nathan folded his arms, closed his eyes and dozed until the sun came up.

Chris opened his eyes again as the sun streamed through the window, the warmth a welcome balm across his back. If he tried to move, he could feel the painful pull of slowly healing wounds, so he relaxed and drowsed in the golden rays of the autumn sunshine.

Suddenly a slight noise from beneath the window caught his attention, and he snapped fully awake, craning his neck to try and discover what had disturbed him, and an unexpected smile touched the gunslinger's lips as he found the source.

Vin had stirred, tossing restlessly until he lay curled on his side, with the blanket a messy tangle around him. Even from where he lay, Chris could see the dark bruises that marked the tracker's face, and he recalled Nathan's comment about a broken nose, but that didn't explain the gunshot he had heard.

“Vin,” he called softly, but surprisingly the Texan remained fast asleep. Chris frowned; normally the tracker was the lightest of sleepers, awake instantly at the slightest sound, so his continued slumber worried the gunslinger. He was just contemplating trying to get out of bed to investigate when the bedroom door opened, and Nathan entered.

“So, you're awake at last,” the healer commented with a grin, as he perched on the edge of the bed and placed his hand on Larabee's forehead, checking his temperature. “How d'you feel now?”

Chris was quiet for a while, and he took several quick breaths as he searched for the right answer.

“Sore. Tired,” he said, at length.

Those two words told the healer all he needed to know. Chris was stoic beyond belief at most times, but Nathan had learned from experience that the gunslinger was surprisingly honest when he was really hurting.

“No wonder, after what they did to you. You're lucky to be alive!”

“I remember… being at my cabin,” Chris began hesitantly. “And a Morgan.” He paused, frowning at a sudden thought. “They took my horse!” His tone was indignant, and Nathan chuckled.

“Yeah, we know. That's what set Vin off. You should have seen their faces when he'd finished.”

“You've got them?” The gunslinger sounded incredulous.

“Not exactly.” Nathan paused, seeing the play of emotions on Larabee's face. “They came into Four Corners and tried to sell your black to Vin! Not the smartest thing to do. But we only got two of them. The other guy high-tailed it out of town before we could stop him.”

The healer's hands moved to Chris' wrists and began unwrapping the bandages. The cuts were healing well, although the skin was still tender and badly bruised, and Nathan decided to leave the strapping off. As he started to massage a little of the salve into the damaged flesh, Chris struggled out of his grasp and pushed himself up onto his elbows.

“Nathan, is Vin really okay?” He studied the black man earnestly. “Why won't he wake up?”

Nathan pursed his lips, and glanced briefly at the sleeping tracker before he answered. “You know Vin,” he replied at length. “He wasn't about to rest while you were hurt, so – “ He stopped, wondering what the unusual noise was, then he realized it was Chris Larabee's muffled laughter.

“You slipped him one of your sleeping draughts!” The gunslinger was thoroughly amused. “He's gonna kill you!”

Larabee's crooked grin was infectious, and Nathan couldn't help smiling back at him. “Maybe. But I'll worry about that when he wakes up. Now – let's see about getting you more comfortable before the others come a-visiting.”

Chris was awake once again when the Texan finally stirred and groggily opened his eyes.

The time was creeping on towards midday, and only he, Nathan, and Vin were still at the McKenzie's farm. Buck and the others had left just after breakfast to begin the search for Ross, once they had checked on Chris again and satisfied themselves that he really was on the mend. That fact had been confirmed to them when the gunslinger had told them – in no uncertain terms – exactly what he thought about them leaving Four Corners without adequate protection!

“Vin?”

The gunslinger was propped on his side, blankets and pillows piled behind him to prevent him leaning back on his wounds. He watched as the Texan stretched and sat up slowly, blinking in confusion at the daylight outside the window.

“Vin,” Chris repeated.

The Texan knuckled sleep from his eyes, wincing as he inadvertently rubbed his nose, and then turned at the sound of the gunslinger's voice.

“Chris?” He flung the blanket off and scrambled to his feet, staggering slightly. Shaking his head to clear the fuzziness, he dropped into the chair Nathan had been using. “How're you doing, partner?”

“Better. How's your head?”

Vin waved his hand, dismissing his injury. “S'okay. It's nothing.”

The gunslinger studied his friend carefully, seeing the bruises around his eyes. “Yeah? Well, you look like a raccoon! What happened?”

“It was a misunderstanding,” a pleasant voice said, and both men looked around as Libby McKenzie entered the room, a cloth-covered tray in her hands.

“Ma'am,” Vin began, climbing to his feet.

“Sit down,” the woman ordered, setting the tray on the table. As the Texan obeyed, she turned to the gunslinger. “Hello, Chris,” she said, giving him a quick smile.

“Ma'am.” Chris knew who she was; Nathan had filled in most of the gaps during the night, including the McKenzie's tragic loss at the hands of a Kansan gunfighter, and it made him feel a little awkward. “I… I want to… “ He paused, and decided that the simple approach was the best. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” she acknowledged, but she seemed a little distracted. Her smile appeared a little forced and there were lines of strain about her eyes as she looked at the two men, part of her mind on the events of earlier this morning. Libby didn't know quite what had started the argument between Todd and Buck, but a lesser person than the ladies man would have laid the young farmer out for some of the things he had said. In the end Sam had been forced to intervene, and Todd had ridden off soon after on their old saddle horse. So far he hadn't come back, but she kept all that from Chris and Vin. “Now, Nathan thought you might both be hungry, seeing as you missed breakfast.”

“Missed breakfast?” Vin sounded puzzled. “How late is it?”

“Almost midday,” Libby told him, uncovering the tray and handing him one of the plates of scrambled egg. “Now eat!”

“Yes. Ma'am.”

Vin realised that he was hungry, and he had finished his plateful long before Chris, with a lot of help and cajoling from Libby, had even eaten a third of his.

“There's more in the kitchen,” she told the tracker. “And coffee on the stove. Help yourself.”

“I will. Thank you, ma'am.”

He stood up, and then hesitated.

“Chris?”

The gunslinger glanced up at him, and gave him a quick nod. “I'm okay. Go.”

Vin went.

+ + + + + + +

“Well, good riddance, that's what I say!”

The heartfelt comment came from JD, as he and the others arrived back in Four Corners just in time to see the prison wagon leaving, with Parker and Blackman safely locked inside, and its two-man escort alert and ready for any trouble

Judge Orin Travis stood on the sidewalk outside the Sheriff's office, his lined face serious as he turned to the four men who dismounted at the hitching rail right in front of him.

“Gentlemen. I hope you have good news?”

Buck stepped forward and shook Travis by the hand, his face lighting up with a grin.

“Sure do, Judge,” the ladies man enthused. “We've found Chris!”

“Alive?” Travis had to ask, although he could see by their faces that it was a ridiculous question.

“Yep, but he's hurt pretty bad. We left Nathan and Vin with him while we – “

“Buck, Josiah.”

All five men turned at the sound of Mary Travis' voice as she hurried along the sidewalk towards them. She stopped beside the Judge, leaning against him as he slipped his arm around her shoulders.

“It's alright, Mary,” Travis told her. “They've found him. He's going to be okay.”

For the briefest moment the blonde woman closed her eyes in relief, then she regarded the peacekeepers solemnly.

“I – the townspeople will be very glad to hear that,” she said, glancing up at the Judge. “I know you have things to discuss, but I'll have supper ready in about an hour, so when you've finished you are all invited to join me and Billy.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” Ezra replied, for all of them. “We'd be honoured.”

The Judge patted the hand that was gripping his arm tightly, and he smiled at her. “Thank you, my dear. We'll be along shortly.” He watched her go, bittersweet memories softening his expression. It seemed like only yesterday that she had thought about his son in the way that he knew she thought about Chris Larabee now. Well, Stephen was dead, and he couldn't begrudge the woman his son had loved with such passion the chance at a little future happiness - if only Larabee could see what was right in front of him!

“So what's gonna happen to those two yahoos now?” Buck asked, shaking the older man out of his reverie.

“We'll discuss this inside, gentlemen.”

Once they were within the confines of the office, the Judge outlined his plans. Parker and Blackman were on their way to Eagle Bend, where they would stand trial for the attempted murder of Chris Larabee. Ross would follow, once he had been caught.

“But why Eagle Bend?” JD asked.

“We can't try them here, son,” Travis explained. “I doubt if they would get a fair trial.”

“Well, they don't deserve one, not after what they did to Chris!” the young peacekeeper stated vehemently.

“JD!” Buck growled warningly.

“The Judge is right, my young friend.” Ezra nodded in understanding. “Too many people here would feel the same as you. Eagle Bend is the logical choice.”

“Thank you for your wisdom, Mr. Standish.” There was a hint of sarcasm in the Judge's words, but the sting was taken out of them by his grin. “However, nothing can be done until Chris is fit enough to travel. He is the main witness against them after all.”

“That might not be for some time,” Josiah pointed out. “Nathan thinks it'll be at least another four or five days before Chris is even up on his feet.”

The Judge smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Well then, I guess Mr. Parker and his friend will be spending some time in incarceration.” He stood up, his gaze sweeping the room. “Gentlemen, I believe supper awaits us! Let us not keep the lovely lady waiting any longer than we need to.”

Part Four

Another full day had passed, and Chris Larabee was beginning to get extremely frustrated.

Nathan had left earlier that morning; now that he was satisfied that Chris was in capable hands and on the mend, he was eager to get back to town, where he knew other people were waiting for his services. Vin, as expected, had stayed and was making himself useful with the chores around the farm to help pay for his keep. He was busy mending fences and replacing other damaged sections before the onset of winter.

McKenzie was grateful for the help; Todd still hadn't returned and, apart from the obvious anxiety he and Libby felt at his prolonged absence, his work around the farm would have suffered if it hadn't been for the young Texan.

Chris was still confined to bed but, despite his weakness and a further touch of fever, he was desperate to be up and about. Libby had already scolded him for trying to get out of bed, and he had drifted off to sleep again after breakfast. Now he was wide-awake, and his clean and mended pants were hanging enticingly over the back of the chair, a carrot he couldn't ignore.

Even as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, he heard footsteps, and he had barely pulled the blanket back around him before Vin came in.

“Where d'you think you're going?” the tracker demanded, his eyes narrowing when he saw Chris perched on the edge of the bed.

“I'm not laying here any longer.” The gunslinger was sweating and he sounded a little breathless, but his expression was determined. Vin saw the pants hanging over the back of the chair and snatched them up, stepping back out of Chris' reach. “Give me my pants, Vin.” It wasn't a request from the gunslinger, but the Texan held on to the clothing.

“Nathan said you were to stay in bed until he got back,” he reminded him, ignoring the dark look Larabee threw in his direction.

“I'm warning you, Vin. I'll walk out of here naked if I have to!” Chris' tone was irritable, and the tracker knew he was prepared to carry out his threat – if he could.

“Walk?” The Texan snorted in derision. He could see the older man's hands trembling with the effort, and he knew he was as weak as a newborn baby. “All you're gonna do is fall flat on your face.”

The gunslinger shrugged. “My choice.” His voice was hard, and the tracker knew he was fighting a losing battle.

“Fine!” Vin suddenly flung the pants at his friend, seeing Chris wince as he reached out to catch them. “But I'm not gonna hang around and watch you make a fool of yourself.”

“Why? You gonna ride out and leave me again?”

The reference to Vin's actions at Ella Gaines' ranch was out before Chris even thought about it, and he instantly regretted his rash words. The tracker's expression didn't change, but his face went white and a haunted, guilty look crept into his eyes. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed out, not even noticing Libby as she sidestepped him in the doorway.

“Vin – wait. Dammit to Hell!” Chris swore, and then looked up in chagrin at the woman as she placed a pitcher and cup on the table. “Sorry, ma'am,” he apologised.

“That's alright.” She gave him a wan smile and lowered her voice, as though she were about to let him into a secret. “I've heard Sam say worse when he thought I wasn't in earshot.” Pointedly ignoring the fact that he was sitting on the edge of the bed, she briefly laid her hand against his forehead. “Hmm, it feels as though the fever's come back. Nathan thought it might.” Picking up the pitcher, she poured some of the contents into the cup and held it out to him. “Drink this, and then we'll get you settled down again. No sense in rushing things, is there?”

Chris glanced at her suspiciously, wondering just how much of the exchange between himself and Vin she had heard and understood. He was thoughtful as he took the cup and sipped at it. The milk was creamy and still slightly warm, and he surprised himself by drinking the whole cupful.

“Are you more comfortable on your side or your front?” Libby asked him, as he placed the empty cup on the table.

“My side,” he replied, clutching the blanket tightly around him as the woman reached out and re-positioned the pillows behind his back. Lifting his feet from the floor he sank back, thankful to be lying down again. As usual, Vin had been right; he wouldn't even have made it to the door in his condition.

Silently Libby picked up Chris' pants from where he had dropped them on the floor, and pulled the blanket straight across him. “How's that?”

“Fine. Ma'am – Libby, wait. Please. I want to talk to you.”

She stopped, and regarded him carefully. “What about?” she asked, sitting on the chair.

Chris was silent for a moment, and then he gazed up at her, his hazel eyes earnest. “What's wrong?”

“What do you mean?” Libby held his gaze for a moment, and then she lowered her eyes.

“Well, Nathan was very quiet this morning before he left, and Vin – “ He stopped; there was definitely something wrong there. “Has something happened?” The woman sighed and her eyes suddenly filled with tears. Chris saw the glimmer of dampness on her lashes, and he wasn't sure how to continue. “I'm sorry,” he said hesitantly. “I didn't mean to pry.”

“It's okay. You're not.” The woman was desperate to talk to someone – Sam seemed pre-occupied with the workings of the ranch – and she went on without thinking. “It's just that everything's changed since you've been here. All the old memories have come back, and Todd's gone, and… Oh!” She stopped suddenly, realising who she was talking to.

Chris was silent for a long moment, and when he finally spoke his voice was soft and low. “Do you hate all gunfighters? I know your husband only tolerates me, and your son just plain dislikes me, but what do you really think? Nathan told me about your younger boy – “ He paused when he saw the expression on her face, feeling a little guilty at bringing up the past. “I'm real sorry, ma'am – I didn't mean to upset you.”

Libby gave him a faint smile. “That's okay. Sometimes it's good to be reminded about those we loved. It helps to keep them fresh in our memories. But you know all about that, don't you?”

“I do?”

She nodded. “Sarah and Adam. Who were they?”

The gunslinger closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “My wife and son,” he whispered at length. “They were murdered… just over three years ago.”

“What happened?” Libby's voice was shocked, her tone sympathetic as she dropped her hand on Chris' forearm, and he glanced up at her.

“They burned to death in our home! Adam was just six years old.” His voice was rough, and his eyes were full of pain at the image that sentence conjured up, an image that would torture him for the rest of his life. “I wasn't even there to help them!” He closed his eyes and shuddered, silently cursing himself for his weakness. He couldn't understand why he had opened up to Libby McKenzie; perhaps it was the shock of his injuries or the renewed bout of fever that coursed through his body or, more likely, it was grief calling to grief, the understanding of loss a catalyst for them both.

“I'm so sorry.” Libby could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. “The person who did it? Were they ever caught?”

“In a way. But only the man who set the fire - not the person who paid him!” Chris' voice grew hard. “I will get her, though.”

“Her?” Libby gasped, in disbelief. “A woman killed your family?”

Chris sighed wearily. “Josiah would say that the world isn't purely black and white. Sometimes good and evil don't always come from the obvious places - it's just that we don't always see the shades of grey.”

“You can't judge people by the actions of one,” Libby stated softly. “I'm beginning to see that now. Last week I wouldn't have.” She reached out and squeezed Chris' hand. “Thank you,” she said.

“What for?” he asked, startled.

“For opening my eyes. For making me look beyond my own little world.” She stood up and a pale smile touched her lips. “I can see now why people were so anxious to find you,” she said as she paused in the doorway. “And I can see why Vin puts up with you as well! But you need to try a little give, instead of just take.”

Before Chris could reply to that cryptic comment, Libby was gone. The gunslinger yawned; he felt light-headed and tired beyond belief, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he had failed once again. As he drifted off to sleep – all notions of getting out of bed swept from his mind – his thoughts turned to Vin Tanner. Somehow he felt he had wronged the Texan, but he wasn't sure how, nor if he could put it right.

+ + + + + + +

Todd McKenzie pushed the flea-bitten grey gelding hard. He knew he was being unfair to the animal; the old saddle horse wasn't used to being taken from the corral before the sun was up, but the young man felt an almost overwhelming need to get away.

He could have accepted – had accepted – the presence of the gunslinger in the house, but the situation had gone beyond that. The man had been whipped to within an inch of his life, and that went against every shred of decency in his body, and nobody would have left him to die on the trail, under the circumstances, but despite knowing what he was, his parents had welcomed the man's friends into their home, and that was something he couldn't stomach.

Todd wasn't riding blind; he knew exactly where he was going. About fifteen miles north of the farm lay the small mining town of Rockford. He had visited it once before with his father, when they had gone to buy supplies, and it wasn't the kind of place that Libby McKenzie would approve of. It was wild and woolly, with very little law – a haven for miners and freighters, and a fair proportion of others who made their living by more dubious methods.

It was late afternoon when the young farmer rode into town. Actually, 'town' was almost too grand a word for the place; with its one short main street, bordered on either side by a hardware store, a bank, and a saloon, and a rambling assortment of other businesses, Rockford was little different from a hundred others in the Territory. Nobody paid Todd any attention as he drew rein outside the Silver Lode saloon, and fastened his horse to the hitching rail. The sound of a jangling piano drifted out as he paused by the batwing doors, fingering the coins in his pocket. Enough to buy a drink or two while he decided what he was going to do.

As he stepped into the smoky, noisy saloon, busy despite the fact that it was only afternoon, a few heads turned in his direction, more out of curiosity than anything else as he strode up to the bar.

“What'll it be, friend?” The big, ruddy-faced barkeep eyed the young man quizzically.

“A beer, please.”

Todd handed over a few coins, surprised that the drink was so reasonably priced. He remembered that it was the extortionate prices at the hardware store that had forced his father to use Four Corners for supplies, despite the rumours about the town being run by gunfighters.

As he sipped at the beer, the young farmer cast a quick glance at his fellow drinkers along the bar. A couple looked to be miners, while the man closest to him, dressed in grimy buckskins, was probably a freighter or buffalo hunter, and he relaxed a little. At least there were no gunslingers.

Todd finished his second beer almost as quickly as the first and, not having eaten since he left the farm, the alcohol was going straight to his head. When he ordered the third, the barkeep, wise to the ways of drunks and fools, hesitated for a moment, trying to work out whether the young man would prove to be a danger once he was inebriated. However, seeing no sign of any weapon, he decided that it would be okay.

“Hey, hurry up with my beer,” Todd demanded loudly, and the barkeep grinned at him placatingly.

“Take it easy, friend. She ain't worth getting so excited over.”

“She?” Todd frowned, wondering what the man was talking about.

“Yeah!” The barkeep placed the glass in front of the young farmer. “”I figger most men drink 'cos they got women trouble.”

“Well, you're wrong there.” Todd took a gulp of the beer, wiping froth from his mouth with the back of his hand. “My trouble's with a no-good, back-shooting gunslinger!” As the beer began to cloud his judgement, Todd was starting to confuse Chris Larabee with the man who had killed his brother, but it didn't make any difference to him. “Damn him and his friends – and damn the town as well!”

“Is that so?” The barkeep wasn't really interested, but he had discovered from experience that if customers were encouraged to talk, then they were more likely to keep buying drinks.

“Yeah. I just wish I'd been the one to take a whip to him!” He downed his drink in two swift gulps and slammed the glass down on the counter. “Gimme another,” he demanded.

“Let me.”

Todd glanced around and frowned as the man in buckskins slid along the bar and smiled disarmingly at him.

“Why?” he asked suspiciously.

“Because I think you and me have the same problem.”

“We do?” The young farmer's suspicions dissolved at that, and he gratefully accepted the glass that the man in buckskins pushed towards him.

“Yep! The man I'm looking for is a gunslinger as well. Name of Chris Larabee.”

“Larabee?” Todd almost choked on his beer.

“A real desperate killer.” The man in buckskins nodded seriously, and then shrugged his shoulders with a convincing sigh. “But I guess I'm never gonna find him now.”

“But… but… I know where he is!”

“You do? Bartender – a whisky for my friend.”

Ever since his narrow escape from the clutches of the law in Four Corners, Frank Ross had been consumed by a burning desire - the desire to avenge himself against Chris Larabee, the man he held responsible for his current trouble.

The first thing he had done on racing from town had been to turn the Morgan in the direction of the cabin where he and the others had attacked the man in black, and he had been astounded to find the gunslinger gone. He had made a thorough search for him, but the rain had washed out any trace of tracks, so the freighter had ridden on, finally stopping in Rockford.

This was his second day in the small mining town, and he had been considering moving on when fate played into his hands. He had been one of those who had looked up when the young farmer had entered the bar and, like most of the others, he had dismissed him as an insignificant nobody.

Until now.

For one brief moment Ross thought his ears were playing tricks on him when he heard the newcomer mention a gunfighter and a whip. It seemed highly unlikely that there would be two men who had been attacked in the same manner, within such a small area, but to make certain he decided to mention Chris' name, and see what the young farmer's reaction was.

His idea had proven to be a success, although it had cost him. The young man had downed several whiskies without telling him much more, and now he was almost falling down drunk. The bartender refused to serve him anymore, so Ross guided the barely coherent, un-protesting young man out onto the sidewalk.

“M'horse.”

Todd lurched in the direction of the patiently standing grey, and Ross patted him on the shoulder as he held him upright.

“It's okay, my friend. I've got it.”

Clutching the grey's reins in one hand, Ross steered the young farmer towards the Livery Stable. . Todd was almost out on his feet, and the freighter pushed him onto a pile of straw to sleep off the drink, as he led the grey into a stall next to the Morgan. Handing over a number of coins to the Livery owner, he threw a quick glance at the softly snoring youngster, before he headed back to the saloon to plan his strategy for the next day.

+ + + + + + +

Chris sat on the narrow porch of the farmhouse, dozing in the late September sunshine.

His earlier fight with Vin – if you could call the brief exchange of words a fight – had been pushed to the back of his mind. The tracker and Sam McKenzie were out on the far ranges now, checking on the sheep that were grazing there and ensuring that all fences were sound and secure, so when Libby suggested that he might like to get up after he had eaten some of the broth she had prepared for lunch, he had grasped the chance with both hands.

However, much to his dismay, he realised that Vin had been right; he was amazed at how weak he was, and once he had gotten his pants and a shirt on, he had had to lean on the woman as she guided him out onto the porch. Chris had sunk gratefully into the chair, trembling with the exertion as Libby had tucked a soft wool blanket behind his back and another around his knees.

He had watched for a few minutes as she hurried about, feeding the chickens, hanging washing out to dry, and picking vegetables from the truck garden, until the warmth of the sun made him drowsy. Chris fought against the desire to sleep for a long while, but when Libby came to check on him some time later, his eyes were closed and his head was resting back against the wall of the house.

“Hey – Larabee!”

The sudden shout jolted Chris from his slumber, and he glanced around, wondering who had called his name. He heard the house door open, and Libby stepped out onto the porch, pausing beside his chair.

“Who is it?” she asked, wiping her hands on a cloth, but Chris shook his head.

“I don't know. I didn't hear any horses, so – “

“How's the back, tough guy? I see you survived your whipping.”

This time Chris was able to pinpoint the position of the speaker – and he also knew who it was. Turning his head towards the barn, he tried to catch sight of the speaker, but the man was well concealed.

“What do you want, Ross?”

“What do you think I want? I want you.” A harsh laugh floated out from the half-open barn door. “You're gonna pay for what happened to me.”

Beside the gunslinger, Libby gasped.

“Ross? Isn't he the one who - “

Chris nodded and bowed his head, hoping the freighter would see it as a gesture of defeat, but his voice was strong and confident as he cut Libby off in mid-sentence and started to push himself to his feet.

“Can you fetch my gun – but don't make any sudden moves.”

“But, Chris, you can't face him like this.” Libby dropped a hand on the man's tense shoulder. “All he wants is to finish what he started.”

Before the gunslinger could say anything, Ross called out again.

“What's taking you so long, Larabee? You yeller? Or maybe you need some encouragement… How about the farmer's boy? His life for yours.”

Chris' heart sank at Ross' words, and he heard the anguish in Libby's whispered 'Todd!' as the young man was thrust a little way out of the barn, a bandana tied across his mouth and his hands fastened behind his back. A gun was pressed against the young farmer's head, and Chris felt the fierce grip of the woman's fingers as they tightened on his shoulder, digging painfully into newly healing flesh, and he could almost taste her fear.

“I got no choice now, Libby.” The gunslinger reached up and grasped her hand, squeezing it gently as he removed it from his shoulder.

“But… “

“There are no 'buts'. Who would you rather have standing here – me or your son?” He turned and regarded the woman frankly, seeing the dismay and truth in her eyes. “I know what I'd choose.”

“But he'll kill you,” Libby whispered in despair, her eyes firmly fixed on the bound figure of her son.

“Better men than him have tried.”

Brave words from Chris Larabee, but he was beginning to wonder whether he had the strength to carry them through. Even just standing was an effort, but now he had to cross the space between the house and the barn, and hope that his legs didn't betray his weakness. He thought quickly – maybe there was a way to bring Ross nearer to him.

“Alright, Ross,” he called. “But are you gonna hide behind a boy or face me like a man?”

The scorn that Chris injected into his comment made even Libby glance at him sharply, and he hoped that it would sting the freighter into action.

In answer to the gunslinger's words, Todd was shoved further out of the barn, but the gun barrel never wavered.

“I ain't that stupid, Larabee. You're gonna have to meet me halfway.”

That was exactly what Chris wanted. If he could get Todd to safety then he would take his chances with the man in the barn.

“Go back inside, Libby. It'll be okay.”

“I can't just – “

“Just go,” Chris snapped, hoping that the woman would follow his orders; he didn't want to have to worry about her as well. He didn't look round, listening to her footsteps as she backed away, and he stepped off the porch, forcing one foot in front of the other.

“Don't try anything,” Ross called, as he urged Todd forward. “I can still kill him.”

Chris got halfway across the open space before the freighter showed himself, a shadow at the edge of the barn. The young farmer stepped slowly forward, and the gunslinger could see the fear in Todd's eyes as he walked; it was the fear of a man who expected a bullet in the back at any moment.

“Don't stop – just keep walking!” Chris hissed, pausing briefly as their paths met and crossed. “Get your mother inside the house – just in case.”

Todd acknowledged the gunslinger's words with a quick nod, but there was misery and confusion in his gaze, and Chris gave him a wry smile as he carried on walking. Let the boy puzzle over why he was doing this. Maybe in time he would understand.

“That's far enough.”

Chris stopped, his arms hanging loosely at his side as Ross approached, the gun trained unerringly on him now. He clenched his hands into fists, trying to stop the trembling, and cursing the weakness of his body. His head was swimming, and his vision was already starting to blur as Ross stood in front of him, his face a gloating mask.

“Not so brave now, are we?”

Ross lashed out, his open hand catching Chris a stinging blow across the cheek, and he thumbed back the trigger of his revolver.

On the porch, Libby hugged her son to her, but she watched over his shoulder, seeing the gunslinger stagger as the man struck out at him. Seconds later a shot rang out, and Chris dropped in a crumpled heap, and she couldn't stop the scream that was torn from her lips.

+ + + + + + +

Todd McKenzie had never been more scared in his life, as he stood just outside the barn door with Ross' revolver pointing at his head. His fear wasn't for himself; he was prepared to face the consequences of his foolish actions, but he did not want his mother to be caught up in them. He could see her as she stood beside the gunslinger on the porch, shock and anguish written on her face, and guilt stabbed at him like a knife.

He couldn't remember exactly what he had told the freighter, who had seemed so friendly towards him the previous day, but he knew that he had placed his family in jeopardy, in a sense of misplaced vengeance against a man he barely knew.

At first it seemed that he and Ross were of the same mind; the freighter had filled his head with countless lies about Chris Larabee, hoping to win his trust. Then, once he had revealed the gunslinger's whereabouts, Ross had changed. After they arrived back at the homestead, and he eventually overpowered and bound the young farmer, Todd knew he had made a serious error in judgement.

“Larabee'll never give himself up for my sake,” Todd had told Ross, as they waited in concealment within the barn. “He's just a no-good gunfighter! All he cares about is himself.”

“Well, you'd better pray he's had a change of heart, after all your Ma's loving care,” Ross had replied, as he slipped the gag over the young man's mouth. “'Cos if he don't come willing, I may just kill anyone who gets in my way.”

But now Todd was thoroughly confused. To his complete and utter disbelief, it appeared that the gunslinger was not only willing to exchange himself for the young farmer, but he was also trying to protect his mother!

As he walked across the farmyard, he could see what an effort it was for Larabee; the gunslinger's expression was pained, and his steps were unsteady and faltering, and his guilt went up another notch. When he drew level with Chris, the gunslinger threw him a quick glance, his hazel eyes unreadable.

“Don't stop – just keep walking! Get your mother inside the house – just in case,” he hissed, and Todd nodded in reply.

He looked back over his shoulder once as Ross came out of the barn, and he heard his mocking comment to the gunslinger, and then he was on the porch and his mother was clinging to him. Before she could remove the gag from his mouth, a shot rang out, and Libby screamed. Todd spun round in time to see the gunslinger crumple to the ground. He froze in shock; Ross had carried out his threat after all, and now he expected the freighter to come after him and his mother, but then he realised that something was wrong.

The man in buckskins was still standing over the supine form of Chris Larabee, but his arms hung limply at his side, and he was staring down at the rapidly spreading crimson stain on his chest. Suddenly, his gun slipped from nerveless fingers, and he toppled sideways to sprawl in the dirt beside the fallen gunslinger.

Vin wasn't quite sure what it was that made him leave Sam McKenzie, and ride back towards the farm. Josiah would have called it a premonition, but the tracker wasn't certain. All he knew was that it was the same gut feeling that had drawn him back to Ella Gaines' ranch that fateful morning not so many weeks back.

As he approached the house, the hairs on the nape of his neck were standing on end, and he reined his gelding to a halt. Amongst the trees to his left he spotted a furtive movement, and he dropped from the black, leaving it ground-hitched at the side of the road as he made his way cautiously towards the disturbance. He recognised both horses almost immediately; the Morgan would have stood out anywhere, and the second was the old saddle horse that Todd McKenzie had ridden off on early the previous day.

Vin's mind was racing; if the Morgan was here then it meant that Ross was around somewhere, and that could only mean trouble for Chris. There was also the added concern that Todd was with him, but he couldn't afford to worry whether the pairing was voluntary or not. Right now he had to find out what was going on.

Creeping forward the remaining hundred or so yards, the Texan found himself a good vantage point just the wrong side of the little stream that fronted the McKenzie's property, and he saw Chris as he stepped off the porch. His gaze followed the gunslinger as he made his slow, hesitant way across the farmyard, but when he saw Ross emerge from the barn his sawn off Winchester was out, and he was ready to take a hand if it was needed.

From his position, Vin couldn't hear what was being said, but he saw the bound and gagged figure of Todd, and realised that Ross was using him as a pawn to get to Chris. Even as he watched, Todd began walking towards the farmhouse, pausing only for a fraction of a second as Chris spoke to him. The Texan was instantly alert when Ross stepped forward, his gun trained on the gunslinger, and he thumbed back the hammer of his Winchester as the freighter slapped Chris around the face. Having a good idea of how his friend would react to the insulting blow, Vin took no chances. Taking careful aim, he fired.

To his total amazement Chris suddenly collapsed, and for one horrified second he thought he'd missed and hit his friend instead, but then Ross staggered and dropped beside the gunslinger. Fear clutched at Vin as he holstered his Winchester and darted from cover. As he raced across the farmyard, with Libby's scream echoing in his ears, he was certain that the freighter had shot Chris before he could stop him and, as he dropped to his knees beside the unmoving form, he felt a strong sense of déjà vu, but this time there was no Nathan to help him.

“Dammit, Chris!” Vin breathed, reaching out to touch Larabee's shoulder. He glanced up as he heard footsteps, and he saw Libby and Todd hurrying towards him. The gag was pulled down from the young farmer's mouth, but his hands were still tied behind his back. Pulling his knife from its sheath, the tracker handed it to Libby. “Here,” he said, indicating the rope around her son's wrists. He was going to need the young man's help – whether he liked it or not – to get Chris back into the house.

As Libby sliced through Todd's bonds, Vin felt the gunslinger stirring beneath his hand, and he gripped his shoulder firmly.

“Easy, Cowboy,” he murmured, and to his surprise, Chris opened his eyes.

“Don't fuss!” the gunslinger growled. “I'm alright.”

“You are?” Vin eyed his friend suspiciously, slipping an arm around his shoulder as he struggled into a sitting position, and he studied him carefully. Despite his misgivings, there didn't appear to be any sign of a wound. “But I thought… “ The tracker stopped, not really sure what he thought.

“I… tripped,” Chris told him tersely, almost reading his mind. He wasn't prepared to admit that he had passed out from the effort. “Now, help me up.”

+ + + + + + +

Five days after the death of Frank Ross, Nathan decided that Chris was fit enough to make the return journey to Four Corners.

The healer had already been back once – just twenty-four hours after the dramatic conclusion to Todd's ill-advised quest for revenge – and he had brought some unexpected visitors with him. Judge Travis had insisted on driving out to see the gunslinger for himself, and Mary had borrowed a friend's four-wheeled gig and had accompanied him, along with her son Billy, who idolised Chris and would not be left behind.

The McKenzie's were almost overwhelmed by their guests, especially someone of the Judge's importance, but they were soon put at their ease. Orin Travis seemed to have a wealth of knowledge about a great many things, and before long he and Sam were deep in discussion about crop rotation.

For Libby, the visit was a rare treat; she hadn't realised how starved she had been of female company until Mary came, and by the time the two women had finished preparing the midday meal – using some of the extra provisions that the newspaper woman had brought with her - they were firm friends. Mary had even extracted a promise from Libby that she would make something for the next bring-and-buy sale, to be held in town in a few weeks time.

Like everybody else, Billy was pleased to see Chris, bouncing across the bed before Mary could stop him, much to the amusement of everyone else. To his mother's dismay, he showed a morbid fascination with the healing wounds on Chris' back, and wanted to know if they really hurt! Now, as Nathan checked the gunslinger's injuries, the boy was being ably distracted by Vin and the barn cat's kittens.

In all honesty, the tracker felt in need of some distraction himself; he was still angry over Todd's reaction to Chris after Ross had died.

Once Libby had cut through her son's bonds, the young farmer had simply walked away, leaving Vin and the woman to get the exhausted gunslinger back into the house. Todd had remained silent and distant for the rest of the day, until Vin had finally cornered him in the barn.

“What's your problem?” the Texan had demanded.

“What d'you mean?” was the sullen reply.

“He saved your life, dammit! Is it so hard to say 'thank you'?”

At that point Todd had turned on Vin, his gaze contemptuous, and he almost spat the angry words out.

“None of this would have happened if he hadn't been here in the first place!”

There had been nothing Vin could say to that comment that wouldn't have caused a fight, so he simply walked away, cursing the pig-headed stubbornness of farmers. He could guess at the reason for the young man's hostility and anger; he had hated gunslingers for so long that now one had proven to be different from the rest, he didn't know how to deal with it. He also owed that same gunslinger his life – and possibly that of his mother, too – and that debt made him resentful. Vin knew that Todd's attitude had hurt his mother, but that was a family matter, and he wasn't prepared to intrude upon that. The McKenzie's would have to work it out for themselves.

For his part he was just glad that Chris was going to be okay, and now, as he walked back towards the farmhouse with Billy skipping ahead of him, a harder task lay before him.

How was he going to persuade Mary that the tiny black and white kitten cradled in her son's arms would be beneficial to the smooth running of 'The Clarion'?

FINIS